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The Only Hard Part

Before I get into what happened three days ago, I guess I should explain something about me. I am NOT a morning person. From the age of three, my mother has called me "Bear". I now answer to this name without even noticing her use it. In fact, I can say with full certainty that my mother hasn't addressed me as "Anna" in about ten years. Side note: I changed my name from Anna to Annabelle when I was 16, due to a sudden desire to have more than 9 letters on my driver's license. Back to my point, I earned the nickname Bear because of my outrageously bad mood upon waking up each morning. Most people wake up and smile, cherishing the gift of another day of life. I have never known that joy. Instead, I wake up wanting to kill all disturbances with an automatic weapon. Over the years I have found remedies for this through a particular routine. I wake up alone, put the coffee in the french press, turn on Desert Dwellers, stretch for 30 minutes, and make some version of eggs and vegetables for breakfast. In the last 3 months, I have had ZERO opportunities to follow this routine. Instead, I wake up squished to the side of the van, peel my hair off my sweat-covered face, try to roll over only to find an Australian taking up 75% of the room, and begin blowing my nose (which is always clogged now due to resonating playa dust that is caked in the car). Additionally, depending on if we drank the night before, this all might be accompanied by a delicious hangover and a stomach so empty it pulsates.

Any man that has dated me for a significant amount of time has learned to wake me up, and run. The problem is, this current lifestyle doesn't give Zac anywhere to go. There is no kitchen, there is no porch, there is usually not even a bathroom for him to escape this reign of terror. For this, I am eternally regretful, and will spend the remaining 2 months trying to change this horrid habit of mine. Until then, let me tell you what this attitude has done to slowly ruin my life.

Zac woke me up three days ago and put a note next to my face. It read something like "I am going to Refuge to work. I'll come back around 1 pm to pick you up. Enjoy your morning. Love, Zac." This was completely normal, and perfectly kind. However, my morning self did not see it this way. I sprung out of bed enraged that he wanted to leave me alone at my aunt's house. I threw my clothes on and pronounced that I was coming with him because I too wanted to work. He timidly agreed and we went out to the car where a 10 minute drive turned into my own personal rant about something so stupid, I literally cant even remember what I was bitching about. I had told him that I needed to find an art store to buy paint so I could work on the mural all day while he did renovations. He asked if I could drop him off and go find the store afterwards, which made more sense, and of course I immediately shot it down. When he pulled off the road and put his face in his hands. At that moment, the real me returned, confused and ashamed at what I had just done. Here was a beautiful morning, and I was single-handedly making it as difficult as possible. Now, you might wonder why I did this. I wondered too, and after several hours of meditation through painting, I realized the answer.

There is a date in the not-so-distant future that I think about constantly. November 30, 2012 . . . the day Zac leaves. I cannot tell the future, but in regards to this day, there are a few certainties I cannot avoid. First, I know it's coming. Second, I know it's out of my control. Third, I know it will be one of the hardest goodbyes I've ever had to say. Zac is such a part of my daily life right now that he doesn't even feel like a separate person. He feels like an extension of myself. He's my constant company, my reason to make better choices, my motivation to run more often, eat better food, and be a kinder person. The thought of waking up and knowing he is halfway across the world puts a lump in my throat that I can't even swallow while writing about it. So, thanks to 4 years of clinical psychology classes and 22 years of therapeutic writing, I have concluded that instead of dealing with the heartbreak of November 30, I have begun a slow and painful self sabotage. I know, its a pretty stupid plan. I didn't think it up consciously, but in retrospect, this is why I have spent the last couple weeks being ridiculously hard to get along with. I'm terrified to get closer and more involved with something that has an eminent end. I should have been more prepared for this.

When he lifted his face up, he announced that he needed to go home. "This isn't working. I don't see us making it to the end of this trip, and I don't want to be here anymore. I'm not excited about anything. I'm not happy, you're not happy. I don't feel the same way about you..." The list went on and I watched all of my fear start to come to fruition. Good job Anna, you pushed him so hard that he actually wants to leave. I listened to him for about ten minutes, where I am sure I engaged in some kind of conversation, but I can't remember anything except the thoughts streaming through my mind...
...this can't be really happening
...10 days ago everything was clear, and perfect
...apologize Annabelle
...beg if you must
...you'll hate yourself forever if you choose pride right now
...tell him how you feel.

I did tell him, and through the tears and the (I'm sure) horrified look on my face, he knew I meant what I was saying. But it didn't make any difference. I had pushed him too far, and now he was in a place where comfort and peace meant getting far away from me. He left me in the car and went inside Refuge. I cried harder than I've cried in 5 years. I pushed out every ounce of sadness and regret and frustration with myself. I wanted all the poison out, because if I was going to go through this day, I needed to do it without falling apart at work. We spent the morning working in separate rooms. I kept thinking that I would cut off a limb to re-do the last week.

About an hour into my painting, a young guy named Joe came up to me and took a photograph while I was painting. He asked me where I was from, and when I told him he pulled his shirt off to reveal a tattoo of Kalalau Valley. To me, this was a sign. A sign that something was going to be okay. For a moment I thought back on the last time I was this sad. It was one of those days where you feel like nothing will ever make you laugh again. I was comforted knowing that each of those days has come and gone without killing me, and I held onto that all morning. Joe put his iPhone behind me to play me a song; "Black as Night" by Nahko Bear. That song is so beautiful, you can't help but be filled with love. It's like a tickle that makes you smile when you're pissed beyond belief. If you haven't heard it, look it up right now. When it had finished, I walked over to Zac and asked him if he wanted to go get some lunch. By then, a few hours had passed and even thought I had no idea what had been on his mind, I knew we needed to talk about this.

A lot was said over that meal. I'm not going to get into the details of it, but by the end, he wanted to stay. Still scared out of my wits, it took me a day to bounce back from what had happened. Or, almost happened, I should say. I'm writing this blog to remind myself of why it's important to act out of love, even in those first minutes every morning. I'm writing it to take responsibility for the downward spiral of last week. I'm writing it so that I realize November 30th isn't something to be scared of, because he could have left that day, and I wouldn't have blamed him.

Anyways, the sun if coming up now. I guess that's my que to sleep. xXx

Posted by Further 05:39 Archived in USA Tagged communication responsibility appreciation moodswings apologies

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Love love love <3

by Ninni

Reminds me of a quote

“... if you're someone who knows the worst thing can happen at any time, aren't you also someone who knows the best thing can happen at any time too?”
― Jandy Nelson

love you

by Danielle

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