Updated: May 30, 2020
All I can think about is HER. My head is not filled with fear of contracting a deadly virus, the death count or whether this is a fated historical moment that a pandemic changes the landscape of our world forever. It's instead reeling like film frames back and forth trying to piece together how 4 years of 'ride or die' love translates to 4 days broken-up and now 4 months of proclaimed 'new found love'. HE will remind me, if not harshly, that I DID THIS.
I left him. Had it not been for spending every waking moment together writing and producing a rock-opera while keeping the life raft afloat, perhaps I'd have felt a bit more secure when he said he couldn't make it to the small Greek island where I was held up last summer. Maybe had our desert nest not been ripped out from under us, or we'd vowed to turn a proposal into a white wedding, save for the lost diamond, or kept the van and retrofitted it for instagram sponsorships, guitars in hand and never looked back, full-speed ahead, tally ho, throw caution to the wind kinda thing, we'd have had a happily ever after. But something inside me knew, that acute moment he said he was headed north to a remote 'farm' to go make money, that everything was at once, crumbling.
Here's the truth, I still loved him.
Perhaps I wasn't even conscious to how much at the time. Blinded by my own free will as an empowered 30-something conscious pop-princess; I deserve better - that was my mantra. So I marched into my new life with the markings of a warrior queen who had a whole new handle on the world. Equipped with full song journals, cameras, and a renewed outlook on 'digital marketing' thanks to the ever evolving 'on-line course' I started hopping planes and embracing the New Age as a nomad. HE all the while, on a far away 'farm' north doing, what exactly I didn't know. Between friendly texts and even FaceTime calls I could never have predicted there was a HER.
Then Mexico happened.
Trips with your Mother to the Caribbean should be filled with benediction, but a storm cloud brewed in our hearts, and we were not alone. First, news came that my Mom's brother had passed, and if sobbing in a small vegan cafe over an acai bowl in Tulum wasn't enough, Corona officially 'hit' the states in what seemed like the same hour. I started to feel the spiral of panic taking us in, even after countless practice spent in mediation, yoga on the beach and even with a prophetic Mayan calendar intuitive, we were slipping. It was time to get back, though the Cenote waters called to my inner siren in blaring stereo, Montezuma's revenge took a fist hold on my gut, adding insult to injury when news came that day at the bus station in Playa. He was back in the desert, I was on my way there, too, could we meet? All those conversations over the phone, how I cried when I told him I started to see someone else, was he seeing anyone? To this he dodged topic proclaiming, 'opportunities' were a foot. I played the fool. It hadn't worked out with this guy in LA, he was NOTHING like MY BABY, he couldn't be replaced, couldn't we meet? We must! It had been over 6 months, I missed him more than words, his skin, his strong hands, his presence, THAT feeling, US.
Then he said the words ... 'I'd like to, but I'm not alone'
It's that initial shock when the floodgates open and you come to terms with being helpless without a exit plan, water sucking you in. It's the knife of betrayal at the door to your own home. It's when a heart is shattered and glistening in 10,000 pieces so much so that it appears as magic and your momentarily fixated on it's hypnotic, sick beauty. Then the bus comes to take you to the airport, and it runs you over (so to speak) and you open a beer at your seat because your mom brought it and Aladdin is on in Spanish and FUCK he looks like HIM, and MY LOVE is with HER! A new Jasmine! With long hair that was REAL! It wasn't just the truth that gutted me or Montezumas revenge, it was the secret, keeping capital C
(for cunt of course) a secret that whole time, over countless exchanges he'd had the chance and now it was that classic 'slap in the face how quickly I was replaced' moment - (Thanks Alanis) that consumed my entire reality.
NOT Covid 19. What the hell was that anyways.
It was March 13'th, a Friday, and the last meal my mother and I had out was a table side guacamole and chips with two cold beers that literally cost 50 US dollars. Cancun was going down the shitter, and little did we know it was soon to become cleansed and ghosted as one by one, the world shut down it's major cities and tourist destinations in the name of 'being safe'. Worser things HAVE happened you know, like waking up to the fact that you still love your X, specially now that END TIMES was in full swing, you wanted him back deep deep down and now there's a HER! Yea. That's worse. That's hell in a handbag, that's a living nightmare where your pulling a girl out of your bed by the hair and breaking her face because it's HER, and yet, he had every excuse as to why it was my fault, I DID THIS. I broke his heart, and this is how he dealt with the grief - rural Tinder hit-up, bitch is like what?! Proceeds to bag it up because he's a bloody mess and she can fix it and besides, she'll coddle and mother him to his hearts content and never ever push him to be a better man, right? I know, that was mean. I'm sorry.
I'm so sick my face is turning green, haven't eaten a thing in two days, landed if not 'safely' in a picturesque desert home miles from town with no car, alone on the edge of a shut down, on the brink of a meltdown, solitude at it's finest hour, dancing to Lana Del Rey in the rain, with braid extensions down to my ass that are soon to be fallen to the sand, and by all means, the easy way. I try to drink wine while texting with him furiously, toilet paper is top currency at the moment, and not because quarantines been announced yet ...
for well, other reasons.
He won't see me. I scream and lash out and call HER names, I may even tell him to DIE, all the while I know it's not HER that did this, but if she had any woman's intuition, shouldn't she know he will always have my heart and me, his? So, I write and sing about that, and it's a momentary fix. We're literally 10 minutes from each-other, no dice. That Trump guy announces they're shutting the borders, I pray with all my heart they don't get back across, I think of worst things than that, I meditate to defend my terrible feelings - My heart has been slaughtered, but I'm OK.
I shave me head.
I write, I try, lord I try to eat, still nothings coming out solid quite yet. He says some things I like such as 'you look like pretty, in a Mad Max sort of way'. He now holds the keys to the kingdom, but mostly he's says the worst like 'I can't trust my heart with you' (fair, I did take more than one Greek lover) and I cry harder than ever before, as a good friend said, til the pipes run dry, and in that moment it's almost sacred, I'm sobbing, but no tears fall, Tigers Teeth plays - Walk the Moon, 'give in, give in I want you back'. I press rewind.
I wasn't supposed to want him back, I was supposed to forget about him completely, but that's not what happened. What unfolded as the lock down settled in was one of this life's most tortured experiences and one I'll not soon forget, one I alone perpetuated. But HE played the game too, from HER northern exposure. Every night I'd wake up, head cold, slightly hungover, glazed eyes gazing at the stars and write some wordy explanation to him as to why this was downright cruel. Then I'd look for old sex tapes of us and favorite pictures and stalk his instagram. He'd look at my stories, he'd heart things. We'd talk, and at times it was everything I could desire, at others, a shit storm that ended in a un-ambiguous:
IT'S OVER. But we just couldn't let that happen. This was still love. I moved homes and got resolved into a friends Airbnb with Me, Myself and I, a generous slice of my best sequined wardrobe pieces, my portable studio set-up and a some wigs. I had projects, I had motivation, I had Mamma Mia and a huge kitchen to play in, the time of Corona was looking UP. #stayinspired #staysafe #stayathome. But I still didn't have HIM. It's a wild feeling when you realize, no, you can't go to a bar and pick up a boy, and no, you shouldn't go on Tinder either, tho I admit online dating was never a thing for me.
Yet HE had found HER in one click. FUCK that!
What ensued over the next two months was a careful battle played tactfully by both sides. He didn't want to be pressured, but he 'saw a future' - I wanted firm answers and 'saw a plan' a vision if I'm being real, but that's just me. There were days that seemed they never end.
I'd force myself to rehearse or record a song, to finish my novel, set up self-shoots, have small dinner parties with the quarantine quad, but secretly, the whole way through I listened, I listened for that ping of a bell dinging in my ear that notified only one thing, HIM. I started to sort of live for that like morphine, and I hoped in some small way, he felt the same. Finally, he left HER place and returned to 'the farm' - still, that came with no promises. So I wrote a song about that, too. To me, the goal was clear: Give us another (fucking) chance and make it soon.
It's funny how life mimics art and art life. The songs that began to take form spoke to us as a people too, how could we find a way to be 'together again' how could I 'Shout' from behind a mask, how could we tell THE TRUTH. But you know, like something I read on IG recently quoted by St. Augustine 'The truth is like a lion, you do not have to defend it, let it loose, it will defend itself. Maybe I'd had the right cigarette at the right time, but I began to realize somewhere in late April that OUR LOVE was that lion. It became strikingly clear I needed not to defend and place condition on the idea of this new love and rather, set it free and HIM to 'do the right thing' to make his own choice, as a man should. I started to let go, slowly, and ask spirits forgiveness to the bitter feelings I held towards HER. The antidote as it turned out to this poison was self-love. And what better way to celebrate self love and wellness than with your closest friends, a stimulus check and some well-earned unemployment, the tables were indeed turned! No one had died, at least within my orbit, and yet, the world rotated day in and out with new cases, and deaths, it was a devastating, utterly confusing time. I was reporting to my LA friends who were monitoring my 'situation' like hawks, protecting me and the idea of love a-new with HIM that things were on the mend. Tho he hadn't made a firm commitment to return, the intention was there, the lion was making a move, or in HIS case more, the tiger. I loved him more than ever. So I booked a casita in Mexico for the summer, and started counting the days, unfolding like an advent calendar, hoping for dark chocolate, dreaming of Mezcal and sleepy summer sunsets. If this were everything it felt like, if that ping in the ear came attached with him bearing those loving words I wanted to hear, and maybe a picture or two, if I could ignore my Italian love interests, and focus not on HER but on US, than maybe, just maybe, we could have another chance, to be together again, to be THE CURE, but still, no promises.
And so continues, The Never Ending story, as June looms on the horizon, shrouded by thunder clouds and painted in faint rays of gleaming hope, my family and friends roll their eyes and smile when I bring it up, because, these times are changing like the weather, but still somewhere deep in my heart I know, we'll be together. I have what he once anointed to me as The Cure ... FAITH.