I’m really not that snobby, but from my few visits to the Getty Museum (mostly for dates in which I pretended to know a lot more than I actually did) the style of paintings that have always captivated me the most are the impressionisms. I love the idea that when you are far away, it looks like an amazingly perfect painting, and the closer you get, the more you realize it just a bunch of paint strokes. But the real marvel for me comes when you realize that each one of those strokes had to be perfectly orchestrated along with the others ones in order to create the impression that there is a picture there at all.

There is a good reason I get so hypnotized by these pieces of art in particular. They are a metaphor for what I feel like. In all of my relationships, the further I got away from the person I loved, the more real it became. I could only ever see the full picture as soon as it was so far away that I could never be a part of the strokes any longer. That is the only time I was able to see that it was the strokes, not the picture the strokes created was what I was in love with.

The truth is that I really don’t know the truth, as we’ve already established. I am at a point in my life right now where nothing makes sense, and I realize I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.

I’m not sure who I love or don’t love. Or that if I feel anything at all, ever. Or if any of my past relationships or loves ever mattered. I’m not sure I believe in love or if I even believe in the idea of sex.

All I know is that every once in a while I do feel something. Something so strong that I can’t deny it. And every time I get so badly damaged from it that it makes me not want to feel it again, and then I start to not believe again.

But in that moment, when I wake up for just a moment, I know that is the truth. And when I speak my truth, no matter how vulnerable it makes me. No matter how stupid or clingy or whiny I sound, I am at peace with the fact that I’ve spoken my truth.

In the case of my yoga teacher, I told him my truth. Shortly after my last conversation with him in which he destroyed me, I told him how I felt and that’s it. Without needing or wanting anything back. And then I let go.

In the studio after this, I felt relieved. I may have just cut myself open, wounded and lying on the floor, but I spoke my truth. He, on the other hand, never spoke his truth, and this became painfully obvious in the next couple of weeks.

I started going to yoga during his teaching off hours so that I wouldn’t have to suffer the torture of him touching me. Unfortunately, I was still there while he was in his own practice. But I could stay at my end and he could stay at his. From across the other side of the studio, it was easy to pretend he wasn’t even there. And then one day shortly after my truth, he became to come closer.

The distance between us became shorter and shorter until he was practicing next to me one day. I tried my hardest to not even make eye contact with him, and on that day I almost cried.

So then I took my Savasana, and then a thought hit me. I was at peace with my truth. He was still being tortured by his truth, trapped deep inside him. He was holding onto it so tightly, trying not to let it go. I had set mine free and he was being haunted by his.

In my corpse pose, resting next to him while he continued his rigorous practice, I smiled.

As you may already know, I slept with the yoga teacher in my studio. Last week, he killed any hopes of us sleeping together ever again and I have been devastated ever since. I am very hurt, of course, but the other part of it is that I am confused and angry on top of it. He did not tell me this statement lightly so as to spare my feelings. Instead, he was condescending and mean. He said he didn’t want to continue to confuse me. All I wanted were answers and he gave me elusive bullshit that confused me even more. He could no longer see me because he was I was a student.

Acceptable answer, fine. But then he continued that he was not interested in me either. This did not need to be said. Why insult me on top of it when I know that you are clearly interested in me since we already slept together? If you really wanted to break free from me, why throw in something like that?

Before I could even answer, he throws another one on the fire. “Besides, my heart is still in Africa”. Okay, now I’m just extra confused. Why did that need to be said? I wasn’t even protesting the last couple of comments yet.

So of course I had to call him out on that. ‘What exactly does that mean? You’re in love with someone in Africa then, right?”

“Well yes, something like that. She is my Simone de Beauvior”. I am speechless, I don’t even know how to begin to comprehend this statement. I’m sorry but…

#1. What the fuck does that even mean?
#2. How do I keep end up getting myself caught up with guys like this. There must be a certain je nais se quoi I have that attracts the most fucked up weirdos. Or maybe I choose them… I’ll ponder that another time.
#3. What could I possibly say to that? And why is he telling me this?

I tell him something about how holding an ideal of someone that doesn’t exist while denying something real never gets you anywhere. His response? Take a wild guess.

“I know that, which is why I am dating casually.”

Now I’m confused as fuck and without even a good response to this.

All I can think of is that he’s dating casually, but not me. But yet he slept with me. Is sex dating casually and then in that case does that mean he casually dated me also…and then if that’s so then dating casually also means only once. See my point? It’s okay, neither do I. And that’s exactly the point.

Instead of taking out my frustration on him, I spent the rest of the night crying to my best friend and then crying myself to sleep. Out of frustration and hurt, mostly.

The lingering questions I was left with were: if he didn’t want to confuse me anymore, why did he even go into detail about anything. And most importantly, why did he not tell me this immediately after our one night, the first time I tried to reach out to him. Why did he continue to lead me on and then continue to flirt with me at and during yoga. I’m sorry, but that just does not add up to someone who is not interested.

*****************************************************************************************************

Part 2. 

This story has been left unpublished for too long, and I think it’s unfair to go into any other story before putting this one out there. However, since I originally wrote this post, things have shifted in my life and I come back to this post with a somewhat clearer perspective. Looking back, I realize I am slightly ranting and definitely rambling.

But understandably, I am frustrated and hurt…and confused. Now I understand that he is as confused as I am and when that happens, nothing ever makes sense or is explainable. I still don’t know what the “truth” is…but now I am asking myself: do I even know what the truth is? Maybe not. I thought he was the one. Clearly he is not. I thought I was in love with him. Well, I was, but now I feel like I was not. Am I now? I don’t know. And now I have become just as confused as he is.

This does not mean I have forgiven him or forgotten the past. I am still refusing to go to yoga when he is teaching, but that comes from a perspective of self-protection – there is only so much I am physically capable of handling. Him touching my sweaty body during intense, vulnerable physical poses after I was emotionally vulnerable to him is just too much. But in due time, I am sure this too will pass. And if it doesn’t I will be looking for a new yoga studio very soon…

Fidel Garcia “Phoenix Bird”

Coming off the tail end of way too many heartbreaks in the last two years, last night I pushed through the last one I had left to crush me. It was inevitable, I was just prolonging the pain and so I dove in. Now I am numb, but at least it’s… actually I don’t know what it is, I am just numb now. But I know it’s something.

I spoke many times before about my yoga teacher. We hooked up once, one magical night, and then both avoided the entire thing for months. I think we just pretended like it never happened, pushing the memory away every time it popped up. I’m not as good about pushing things away as men are, although I am pretty damn good at it for a girl. And so it went on for months, me denying my feelings and memories…and longings.

Last week I ran across photos of my ex, the one that matters the most in all of this love mess, and his new girlfriend. I had a complete train wreck meltdown for days…and then one day it just was. And if I was already this low, I may as well get through the mess of the yoga teacher, the one that exists right now in my life. No matter how painful it may be.

So I did and I confronted him. And he shut down and turned me down. And it hurt like hell and I went numb. I surrendered into the nothingness. I have nothing else to cling on to. My exes broke my heart, cracked it into a million, tiny pieces, and he shattered it last night. Now my heart is nothing but a million tiny pieces on the ground, but somehow I am okay with it. Maybe it’s because I feel numb and nothing right now, or maybe it’s because I know at least I reached the bottom. There is nothing else in the realm of love and relationships that could shatter me any further. The deed is done and now there is nothing.

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a “playful drunken mood”
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

~ Hafiz ~

This is a lesson in writing when I’m so hurt I don’t know how to write. I’m not really sure where to begin. Other times when I cover my hurt up with anger or sarcastic wit, I am able to pull some kind of funny shit out of my ass. That is only after the hurt settles in and only when it’s not…huge.

Last year I went through a time period of what I like to call, Meet the Girl That Replaced Me. Otherwise known as, Meet the Upgrade and Meet the Girl Who Won. I continuously got punched in the stomach over and over when I was forced to meet girls who are now dating my exes. How fate could be cruel enough to allow me to meet 4 of them in a period of 3 months is beyond fair. The dust finally started to settle from that sequence of Chinese torture and then I am subjected to the biggest one of all.

Through the glorious wonders of Facebook, I was able to discover through a mutual friend a treasure chest of pictures plastered all over some tramp’s page. These pictures were couple shots of my one and only soul mate and her. The “one” that I have written about a million times on my blog. Any time I write about anything deeply emotional and heartfelt, he is the  one I am talking about. And he is the one in the pictures with some girl that is a comparable version of myself. My look is definitely his type, and he just found someone like me…that’s not me.

When I came across these pictures the other night, I went into shock. I was paralyzed, staring at them like an accident on the side of the freeway. When I finally came out of paralysis, I began to frantically click through all their couple vacation photos, as if the more I looked through them, the more answers I would obtain of why her and not me.

Before I realized it, I had spent 4 hours of my night staring at their pictures, and had to come to terms with the fact that I had found myself in the middle of a crazy girl obsession. I have never, ever, in all of my years been “that” crazy girl. I have laughed about her, and how she couldn’t control herself. I never understood how she could become that possessed  by love for some dumb boy that would earn her the title of crazy girl. And now I was her.

I contacted all of my girlfriends for support, I made them tell me how much prettier I was than her, to point out all of her flaws and tell me how unhappy he looked in the pictures. As if I could rewrite the entire story of their relationship and therefore know that I would still have a chance with him. That they were not the happiest couple on the face of the earth and destined to get married and have beautiful children.

That night, when I finally was able to calm down enough to pass out, I had dreams about their picture perfect wedding, and meeting their perfect, beautiful children. I couldn’t even escape by going to sleep. She was haunting me consciously and unconsciously. The next day at work I would suddenly be snapped out of my life when a flash of one of their pictures would come back to me. And her name, such a horrible sounding name, would play on repeat in my head. That afternoon I dreamed of stalking them. I wonder what they do in the evenings. Where do they eat, what grocery store do they go to? I knew where he lived, if I just came up with excuses to hang around that neighborhood maybe I would end up running into them.

And then I could ask him the burning question: Why her and not me?

I’m not sure what kept me from actually doing this, but I didn’t. 3 days ago this happened and I still have not given up the struggle with my inner crazy girl. She wants to come out really bad, and all I’d have to do at this point is just open the door and let her in.

So I’m left wondering, going into this next week, is if she will make an appearance. And how do I keep her from making an appearance? Do I really want to be that crazy girl that gives up everything to make a fool of herself? The better part of me says no. But the part of me that exists when I look at those pictures says absolutely. And that’s how the birth of the “crazy girl” is born within a girl historically so “sane” and chill no one would have ever suspected a crazy girl even existed inside.

Let’s hope this story is not to be continued but I have a feeling I haven’t seen the last of my crazy girl, knocking just on the other side of the door.

The time has come for me to divulge. I have avoided, beaten around the bush and flat out denied the existence of my misery. Now I just don’t have the strength to hide from it anymore and so I embrace it. 

Once upon a time…I went on a journey into deeper discovery of my sexuality…which led me to a deeper understanding of my self in relationships….which led me to a deeper understanding of my self. At the end of this journey, as if perfectly planned out in the plot line of a Hollywood film, a man walked into my life that changed everything. Unlike a Hollywood film, there of course, was no happy ending which leads me to my present day agony. I expected a fairy tale ending because I sacrificed myself, learned from it, and then everything in the stars lined up so perfectly. But it was only a tease. It was all another lesson instead of a dream come true.

As I’ve mentioned in many previous blogs, I’ve had a not so slight crush (aka obsession) with my yoga instructor. After my six months of abstinence experiment ended, I immediately got back on the horse…and -bad pun alert- rode it. I couldn’t help it. I was too sexually frustrated from all the physical contact from my yoga instructor, and he was off limits.

A week after I got my feet whet with the whole sex thing again, I was feeling on top of my game, ready to get myself back out there and dating. And then…the stars lined up. In the most bizarre sequence of events, my yoga instructor and I had one mind-blowing, universe-splitting night together. I came home the next day shaking and literally high. I couldn’t eat, drink, think, or catch up on much needed sleep. My world was spinning out of control. It was a feeling I have never, ever experienced in all of my many sexual experiences. I’ve had good sex before. This was not good sex, this was something beyond that. And my world was turned upside down from it.

But he was still off-limits. This night was the exception. It wasn’t going to happen again and I had to somehow continue on afterwards. The good news: I discovered this fairy tale connection existed. The bad news: nothing else compared to it. How could I ever find pleasure in any other connection again.

Almost two months later and the answer is: I can’t. I’ve spent every day since the beginning of last month in absolute misery. I find no joy in anything else. Those words said to a doctor would elicit a prescription for an anti-depressant. But it’s different than that. I am still a functional human being. I do the same things as I did before. But now I know there is something more. Now I believe. For one night, I woke up and saw the world in color and now I realize the world is, and always has been black and white. I know there is color out there and so I spend every day looking for it, waiting for it.

He still is my yoga instructor, but I don’t see the color around him any longer. I am too shut down. I am terrified of him and the fact that I only saw the color with him that one night. I am scared he is the only path to see the color again and so I shut down to even the color around him.

I can’t even think about having sex with anyone else, or dating, or even flirting. No one else can compare and that thought terrifies me. I shut down to love and continue on without that part of me functioning. It is all I can do to survive right now.

If this was a fairy tale or a sappy Hollywood love story, we would bump into eachother in a book store and in an instant realize how much we needed eachother and then live happily ever after. But it’s not, it’s real life and real life sucks. There are no reasons in real life, it just happens and then it ends. If you’re lucky, you see color once in your life, almost like that elusive moment you spot a unicorn, and then the next moment it’s over. You go on living your boring life but never forget the moment when, just for a moment, you saw the world in color.

The last time I blogged I said something like, “I will continue to blog through my pain, no matter how difficult”, in which I truly believed myself at the time. That night I logged off. And I never logged back on during that pain. I sheepishly logged back in today…and was slammed in the face with this harsh reality.

The last time I said something like that was last year. I said it to the love of my life while I was finally pouring out my heart to him…a year after we were no longer together. The distance made me able to finally see how much I was in love with him…and exactly how much I fucked it all up. I confessed everything to him and vowed I would make him a part of my life, even if it was just to occasionally catch up as friends. The thought of him not being a part of my life in some way, now that I had completely accepted my love was no longer an option. I had broken open and I wanted to stay this way.

During this time, we had many conversations in which I poured my heart out, and he did not reciprocate the feelings and words. At the time, I did not care because I was finally letting out what I needed to say. He bluntly told me he did not want a relationship beyond friendship with me anymore, once, and then twice. The second time stung a little. But I was still okay, like I said, I wanted him in my life no matter what. I told him this time…I wouldn’t let go…

And then one day he finally told me. I should have known but I ignored all the signs and continued to pretend he was still mine. However, he was different than when he was mine. He was emotionally shut down for a reason, and that reason was a girlfriend.

Suddenly, the pain was too great to bear and I shut down and pushed away. Just like when I logged off my computer that night and never came back.

And so I sit with the harsh reality of my failure. And the cross I bear of shutting down when the pain is too great. They say the first step to recovery is admitting your problem, well I guess this is my first step.

Back to the point. It was the first honest, non-scumbag message I had received in awhile, and so we talked back and forth longer than any of the others and I ended up finally giving him my phone number. Something that had not happened in my online escapades in a long time.

The first message he sent me was a picture of him and beautiful dog that looked just like the dog I had with my ex. Ironically…or synchronistically, I had been missing her like crazy for the past several weeks and couldn’t get her out of my head. He wanted to meet for coffee the next day, and so I went. For the first time in a year, I went out on a trek to meet an online date. I was terrified again, I had forgot how it all worked and how every other time had ended in disaster. But I still went, holding onto the image of him with my dog.

I was late, as I usually am when I’m terrified. When I finally arrived, he was standing outside waiting for me and I let out a big sigh of relief as I walked up to him. He was definitely my type, beautifully Brazilian, and looked just like one of my exes from long ago that I never was able to get closure on.

We talked for hours in that coffee shop, and made plans to see eachother again the next day. It was a whirlwind happy weekend, and I was in la la land. I decided I did really like him, and that I should move forward with him.

He was perfect… For awhile. He texted me 3 times a day, asked how my day was, and responded promptly to all of my messages. He opened all the doors for me, payed for everything, and was interested in my life and who I was, and treated me like he respected me. And then, it was that dreaded day: February 14. I thought for sure I had a date with him lined up, and then all of the sudden he was gone.

He told me he had to leave last minute for a trip up north. Not a family emergency type of trip. It was a ‘my friend wanted me to visit’ type of trip. After this, the weirdness progressed. He then started asking me if I had a date for the next night (which was Valentines) and who my Valentine was. I was horribly confused. He was concerned enough to ask me about my plans for VDay, but not concerned enough to take me out. Or to even stay in town for that matter.

But he never gave up on contacting me 3+ times a day, even while he was gone. So I was just confused. And then he kept postponing his departure date. He was supposed to be back before the weekend, and then I found myself alone all weekend.

That Sunday I finally lost my cool. I took a date with another online guy that had been harassing me for a date…and I had sex with him that night. And then I left 5 minutes later. I was freaking out a little, because I realized the old me was back. No matter how hard I tried, even abstinence for 6 months, I couldn’t kick the old addiction. My first sex in 6 months was a Wham Bam Thank You Maam with a stranger. Flipping fantastic.

The next day, the Brazilian came back and he wanted to see me. I reluctantly went out with him, but I could barely force myself to even make out with him. I felt angry, hurt and guilty at the same time. I kept seeing him that week, forcing myself to feel something again, trying to convince myself I wasn’t just a sex addict that had my fill for the week.

Later in that week, I went out with friends and went home with another one stand. And again, I saw the Brazilian the next day. I understood I should have been having sex with him, but I couldn’t make myself do it even with all the time and effort he was putting in. I was over him, and I was acting out sexually.

The next time I saw him we got in a huge fight and then we stopped talking for a few days. Within those days, I regained control of myself and my dignity, followed my heart and fell back in love again with the One that mattered. My yoga instructor. And once I cleared the Brazilian out of my path, I walked right into my instructor’s arms.

Remember those old Superbowl commercials talking to the players on the winning team:

Announcer: You just won the SuperBowl, what are you going to do now?

Winner: I’m going to Disneyland!

Well, this is what happened to me, although Disneyland was not the first thing on my agenda.

Announcer: You just completed 6 months of abstinence, what are you going to do now?

Me: I’m going to go F*** someone!

It’s true. As I mentioned before, at about 4 months, I was golden. Nothing could get me off track now, I was tempted by not even the hottest shirtless guy. Not even when I was out drinking with friends. I replaced my late night booty call with late night pizza. Everything was going perfectly. Until he came along. My yoga instructor threw me a curve ball. Sure, he had the most perfect body in the world. Sure, I was attracted to him and tempted by him. But no more than I should have been by anyone else at my studio. There are plenty of men to choose from at my studio. But not one of them phased me the entire 6 months until him. He came into my studio one day, back from his trip, grabbed my heart out of my chest and put it in his pocket. And never gave it back. I wanted him so bad, and that feeling turned into an extraordinary sexual desire I couldn’t ignore.

But, as the weeks went on, I realized I couldn’t have him. It would eff up my 2 year practice, which is the only thing that kept me sane during my abstinence period. I owed it to my practice not to abandon it for a night in the sack after everything it gave to me. So I practiced extra hard for a month and a half after I met him there. I drained my body of everything so as to dampen the sexual urges it was experiencing. Until one day I got sick and had a minor surgery. It was not a huge deal, except for the fact that I wasn’t allowed to practice any more. Cold turkey. My body ached and I lost my mind. My sexual urges surfaced, enough with a gaping wound that was trying to heal. I didn’t give a crap anymore, my primal sexual urges were back in control and wanted to jump anyone that was in my immediate vicinity. I had to restrain myself, and I only did this with disgust and shame about an open wound. I made sure not to go out and drink because I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself. So I went into miserable, agonizing hiding….like a drug addict in recovery. Again, making me realize once again how much of an addiction I actually had and the shocking discovery that I had replaced this addiction with another, albeit healthier, but addiction just the same: yoga.

The week before my 6 months, my wound healed and the bandage came off. The first thing I did was go back to yoga, and was pleased to see my love there waiting for me. But a few days of yoga and then seeing him again didn’t pacify my yearning. I took a date with a guy I had given my number to back when I didn’t care about sex. He had been consistently checking up with me every week since then, and was desperate to see me. I was not attracted to him at all, but it didn’t really matter. I went over to his house and let my urges take over. I almost didn’t make it to 6 months.

Right about the time when he decided it was a good idea to put on a condom, I woke up. What was I doing? I was out of control, I didn’t even like this guy and I was about to waste all of my work on him. To all the guys reading this: I am so sorry for being “one of those girls”, but that kind of thinking has led me to sleep with way too many guys I wasn’t even attracted to. No connection sex was my specialty, and I didn’t want to continue this way any more. So, I left him blue balled and ran out.

The next week I hit my 6 months and the day after someone new walked into my life.

…to be continued…

This blog is so very long overdue. I had every intention to post the updates on my 6 month long abstinence experiment last month because well, February 8 was my 6 months. Congratulations to me, I did it. For the first time in my life…since I was 15…I went for a half a year without sex. By about the fourth month I didn’t even feel that excited. I was beyond even wanting to have sex. And then…it happened. As I wrote in one of my previous posts, I fell in love with my yoga instructor. Yep, crazy, madly head over heels. Something that has not happened to me, to this extent, for, again, all of my life. So this has been a crazy past few months of new feelings and experiences, beginnings and endings. And I found it all too overwhelming to even write about. Imagine that.

But here I am again, pouring my heart out on here because I don’t know what else to do. Let me start from the beginning…and I’ll try to make it funny. Who wants to hear a sappy love story without some sarcastic wit? I don’t of course because that’s how I cope with it all. Okay enough, here it goes.