The Return

You can't erase your past when there are pieces of it scattered inside other people.

My problems aren't invalid. Not to me. Just because they aren't life altering, life-threatening, doesn't mean they don't make me feel bad. I wake up with them every morning, carry them around all day like a lead backpack, and I fall asleep with them at night. They're real, and they're mine. I know I'm lucky. I know that. But it doesn't change how I feel.

But friendships are mercurial. They're shape-shifters. I've learned to allow them to fluctuate and take new forms. I love my friends; that's all that matters.

There are many reasons why bad things happen to young women, and at the same time, no reason at all.

If men aren't teased, their egos get too big. We did society a favor.

Honestly, I don't care what the future looks like, however wonderful or mediocre or disastrous. I just want it.

I don't even remember who brought it up. It might have been Julie. Sometimes when we're all together, I get confused about who is who. Where one of us stops and the others start. We overlap, bleed together. I love it.

He introduced me to want, the gateway drug. He introduced me to my body. Made me unafraid of it. I fell in love with him, with mornings making coffee in his small Chelsea apartment, days in plush bathrobes talking books and philosophy, going out to dinner at the best hole-in-the-wall spots (he knew them all) and taking long walks over the Brooklyn Bridge at night, eating truck ice cream on the waterfront. Kissing with rainbow sprinkles in our teeth.

That's what intimacy is, I think. That's love. Knowing the smell of someone else's head.

It was her coping mechanism - tying ribbons over open wounds.

Believe it or not, I'm good on my own." "I believe it." "If I come home to dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. I watch TV, it's whatever I want. I go wherever I want, do whatever I want. I've got a lot going on. I'm not some sad lonely sad sack out there. I've got a good life.

I want to spread this moment on a cracker and eat it.

Hello?" I ask the lions, with immediate regret. What if they answer me?

It starts, and we’re quiet for a while. Engrossed. Julie and I first watched this movie our freshman year, drunk after a bad party at a frat house. We huddled on the couch in our common room under layers of blankets. We shared a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. We stayed up until five a.m., talking about what a good movie it was and whether or not we’d ever date a widower. We theorized about the true weight of baggage in relationships we weren’t mature enough to have or experienced enough to understand. As I watch the movie again with her now, there’s a phantom taste of mint in my mouth.

I cried but not because of him. I cried for what I had sacrificed and for how long and because if I had to do it over again, I would make the same choice, even though it was the wrong one. That scared me. I cried for the worry that I would never love anyone like that again or, if I did, what I would do for that love. What I would be willing to give up.

Dark. Why does my brain always do that? Consider the worst, most ridiculous scenario?

It was my mind’s way of reminding me of my dread, of locking me inside it. I couldn’t be happy or free or excited about anything. I was in constant discomfort.

The trees stood around like sullen overlords, dense and dark and ancient.

Acadia.” They had planned to go there together someday; that was why she picked it. She thought if she told him she was going alone to a place they were supposed to go to together, he’d get the hint that something was off. But he didn’t. “You need gear?” he asked. That was when she realized what she really wanted was for him to stop her from going. To say, “No, stay. Hang out with me. Be with me.” She was lonely. Her mother was dead; her sister was a crackpot. Her three best friends were scattered across the country. None of them was married. None of them would understand. Molly judged her for getting married in the first place. Didn’t approve. Mae was too nice, too afraid to step on anyone’s toes. It was impossible to get a genuine response from her. The one person who could give her honest advice was embroiled in an epically stupid affair. She had no advice to give. She was in the position only to receive.

She loved Tristan. He was gorgeous and made her laugh and was good to her. Checked all the boxes. He was the polar opposite of her in so many ways, it was fascinating. Initially. She couldn’t tell if she loved him but wasn’t in love with him or was in love with him but didn’t love him. She knew something was missing. Something had gone wrong. And her getting so worked up about the wrappers was just a symptom of a deeper problem.

The more you love someone, the more you make yourself vulnerable to them, and it’s easier for them to hurt you. Because you care so much, and because their love will inevitably fall short of your love. Your love is too big. And then, when it doesn’t measure up, you’re hurt. And that hurt turns to hate. To love someone is to hate them, a little bit. We hate everyone we really love.

My problems aren’t invalid. Not to me. Just because they aren’t life altering, life-threatening, doesn’t mean they don’t make me feel bad. I wake up with them every morning, carry them around all day like a lead backpack, and I fall asleep with them at night.

It’s funny, the selective memory we have when it comes to the people we love. I

You can’t erase your past when there are pieces of it scattered inside other people.

If I come home to dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. I watch TV, it's whatever I want. I go wherever I want, do whatever I want. I've got a lot going on. I'm not some sad lonely sad sack out there. I've got a good life.

Sometimes when we’re all together, I get confused about who is who. Where one of us stops and the others start. We overlap, bleed together. I love

I want to spread this moment on a cracker and eat it’s