Survival

In a small shelter
Not of earth
But of my own flesh

Huddled in the corner
Of my psyche
I shiver
And shake
And bleed.

Survival means
Holding my breath
Until sleep comes,

Or until you reach for me
And I hold out a trembling finger
For you to touch.

Udasi

Dripping
Stretching
Like a Salvador Dali painting
I'm pulling apart.

I don't even know what to do. Where to go.

Maybe I'm taking myself too seriously.
But I can't breathe.
My wooden lungs don't expand anymore.

Mein tum se pyaar karti hoon, Zi.
I don't know how to be anymore.
Without you.

Scalpel

There's nothing more sad than changing your Facebook status from 'in a relationship' to 'it's complicated.'

But then,

I deleted my FB cover photo of our hands intertwined.

And then,

even worse

I changed my blog description from "a mama writer swirls in her fascination with India while balancing five jobs and a long-distance, inter-racial relationship" (which identified and described me so perfectly) to ....  "a Pacific Northwest writer mama swirls in her fascination with India while balancing five jobs."

Deleting "long-distance, inter-racial relationship" felt like throwing away Rob's toothbrush when he died.

A whole half of me is gone.

We dated for a year and a half. Now who am I?

FWB: Day One

I disconnected the Skype call and my face crumpled.
It wasn't really that I was hiding it from Zi. He knew. And I'd been crying during our call anyway. He just doesn't like to end the call when I'm crying. He waits until I've recovered. So I waited, hung up, and cried again.

I put on his sweater and sprayed it down with his cologne. And cried.

It was cold in the house, so I went outside and chopped up a little bit of kindling (a mean feat while crying), called a girlfriend to cry to, started a fire, hugged my dog, tried to do some work, listened to Urdu/Hindi music, made popcorn, texted with Zi for a little bit, and watched a Bollywood movie.

Friends With Benefits

It took 1 hour. 53 minutes and 13 seconds to change everything.
That's how long the Skype conversation took.

Here's to looking up at the little bit of sun
shining through, and
 to making our way through
the forest.

We don't know if we'll like it. We don't know if it'll work. We don't know if we're wrong.

But we do know that it'll hurt.

What do you do best?

In filling out a questionnaire for an online class I was taking, I ran across:
What do you do best? What makes you the most money?
 

Zi says I give good head.

I tend to agree, but, fortunately 

(or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) 

he doesn't pay me to do it. So I can't make any money for that.

I'll have to think of something else.

a letter to others like me

Dear Friend-That's-Also-in-a-Long-Distance-Relationship,

I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. I am, too. I have good days and bad days.

Bad Days are where I can’t imagine staying in this relationship because I’m purposefully living without touch, without companionship, without daily help – emotionally, mentally, and physically, and without “gymnastics in the bedroom” during my sexual prime. And that just sounds stupid. Who the fuck would do that to themselves on purpose?

I must be insane.

Good Days are the ones where I feel a part of something bigger. Where I feel taken care of. Strong. Loved. Held. On those days I feel like I could last forever. Especially when I get to visit with him often. To smell him. Touch his skin. Brush our teeth together.

Mostly I try to distract myself.

I haven’t decided if that is a healthy thing to do, or not.

Sometimes it just makes sense to do it. How else could I make it a year without him?

But lots of time I wonder if in the process of trying to distract myself, I’m hiding from the pain. Not processing it. Lying to myself about what I want.

I know I should look at that. To make sure. To at least acknowledge the things I’m avoiding – if I am avoiding them. But not right now. Right now my son is playing video games with noise in them, while he commentates everything he sees, does, or builds. Thoughts too. “Whoa! I forgot that was there. Oh look, a cow. Oh look, a creeper. Explode. Haha. Cow udder cup. Shift. (humming) My shift failed me again. Luckily it wasn’t so I would die. Now let’s fix this. I know for a fact…., Oh look, my little stack of pumpkins.”  It’s exhausting. And not conducive to soul searching.

Over and out.

Until next time.

Zin