There are people, good friends, who are willing to show up with a shovel and bury the body should I go overboard. I have no plans to go overboard. In fact, I have no plans to do anything at all, really. Other than write here, right now.
I am angry. I am bitter. I am terribly sad.
September 18 marked the ten year anniversary of the day that I walked into what is now Lulu Carpenter's Coffeehouse and met David for the very first time. That date that was supposed to be just a chat in a cafe ended up lasting until nearly four a.m. the following morning. The only reason we didn't actually have sex that evening is because we both thought that would be "crazy."
Ironically, it would also mark the 20 year anniversary of my life in Santa Cruz. A life full of amazing shared adventures and a rich history of very very dear friends. I treasure all those magical moments that made me, well, me. I would not be Nakedjen if it were not for my posse in Santa Cruz. I may have arrived there as an adult, but I promise you, I grew up there. I discovered me. I embraced me. I loved me.
It isn't that I don't love me, now. I do. Certainly the past few weeks have been an eye-opening lesson in exactly how much more I love myself now than I did even a year ago when I made the decision to leave Santa Cruz. However, I am angry and bitter and terribly saddened that I had to make a decision to leave Santa Cruz.
When life imploded last year I received an email from a very old friend who cautioned me to not make any rash decisions and to definitely not move away. He told me that leaving would only cause me additional pain and that I would find myself needing my own community in the months to come.
As with a lot of things in those first few months, I completely ignored this advice. My life, as I knew it, stopped. I was having trouble just remembering to breathe. I was incapable of making rational decisions. Making sure that Buddha and Stella received minimal care was about the extent of my capabilities.
How I ended up in Utah, in one piece, with most of my belongings is still rather mysterious to me. I know I made the decision to move here. I know I sat in that yurt and said, "I'll get a job at Sundance" and I did exactly that. I know it all just snowballed into an crashing avalanche that found me wandering the streets of Salt Lake half-naked on New Year's eve.
I know this and I know I was complicit in all the events that got me here.
Still, I am angry. I am bitter. I am terribly sad.
I still feel as if I didn't get to truly participate in the ending of my marriage. That I truly was not allowed to be a part of the conversation. That I was just told that it was over. That it was done. That we were done. That he was done. David's story had reached THE END.
Last week, because I am missing my friends, my people, my community in ways that are truly palpable, I tried to purchase a plane ticket to Santa Cruz. My thought was I'd visit for a few days and soak up the love I so desperately crave. But as I was making the purchase, I literally started to vomit. Not wanting to bang my head, I abandoned the tickets.
Vomit.
I want to go home, again. To soothe my lonely and saddened soul, I need to reclaim my little hamlet by the sea. I must walk on the beach and smell the sea air and taste the oxygen on my tongue. I need a hug. I need a lot of hugs. I need many many many hugs. Hugs that are waiting for me in Santa Cruz.
If only David wasn't there, as well.
I am angry. I am bitter. I am terribly sad.
