All falls down

Passengers aboard flight 042109, this is your apologetic captain speaking. I am sorry for two points—one being my lack of word vomit for about a week (that's for all of you), and the second apology being to myself, as the past semana saw one of the greatest transpirings of my vente cinco anos, being present for the opening of the new Yankee Stadium in New York, to the one of the lowest moments of mi vida as well, where I found myself literally standing in the rain late last night, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, watching my textbook and most of the tiempo picture perfecto divorce crash down around me. The self sorry is because pouring myself out in this way, albeit public and profane at times, is my therapy of sorts, and not letting myself declutter the past days mental and emotional buildup within me, while not the sole reason behind yesterday's insanity, was definitely a contributing factor. Sigh, last noche…

 

Everyone who knows me on some decent level, knows that my divorce has been one of the most unusual que paso'ings in all of marital dissolutions all over the mundo, as the ex and I still occasionally do lunch, lived together on and off almost ocho months after we filed, and even shared genuine laughter and playful banter when we had our taxes done recently. And as all of this has gone on, it has put me emotionally on-hold, unable to completely process on really any level that we are not an us anymore, on any real terms, despite the new bubble that we have tried to exist in since our first one burst on the sidewalk last fall. I have been embracing the mantra of spoiled brats everywhere, that of having my cake and eating it too, as on paper and in whatever I choose to do on a daily basis I am single, but still quick to want to have him in my life when I feel like seeing or talking to him, on my terms, no matter how not together we are. Despite the comfort level that has existed between us since" 'til well, I know this was supposed to be until death, but actually, one of us is going to end up killing the other instead of natural causes, so let's just part now," as I stood outside our former house in the wee horas of yesterday morning, soaked to the bone in rain, with a face soaked in my own bodily fluids and the droplets coming from the sky, I realized that not only was the cake that I have been so gluttonously consuming lately all gone, but how terribly disgusting the cake was in the first place. And in that half an hour or so that I stood glued to the driveway, unable to move unless staring off into space, head tilted toward the heavens, a revelation descended upon me like a ton of bricks. This had not, and would not be a game to be played. If our divorce had been any kind of game, it was the one at the carnival in which I sat on the seat of a dunking booth, daring anybody who passed to try and knock me into the water with an accurate throw of a baseball, middle finger to the world who couldn't wrap their minds around how our break-up wasn't more painful, more real. "You just don't understand, it's different with us," I have told a million people who are curious or concerned or actually care about me. And yet, it was me who hasn't understood the dynamics of it, and when I finally got dropped into the tank of water below me last night, having been served up a 101 mile an hora fastball from the ex, it clicked. But the most startling element of all of this wasn't just how cold the agua that I was so unexpectedly dunked into, but how deep. Because if I'm being honest, and I feel I do a hell of a job of that on here, I'm drowning.

 

Our explosion was the result of some information being divulged to me ayer, from an anonymous source as to just what Red has been up to in the past month or so. It was a bit more graphic than I would have liked to have stomached over enchiladas, as regardless of what I'm doing in my own life, or just how comfortable I think I am with the truth, no one wants to hear about their former happily ever after fucking some random girl three times in one night or his new 24 year old, thick, Mormon new fling. Holy shit. And so, I laughed it all off at the moment, while internally seething and ordering my first of a number of cervezas that would follow the newsflash. And again, in all somewhat bitter honesty, the rage that began to spread through my cuerpa had very little to nada to do with the fact that he's dating/screwing/liking anybody else, because Dios knows that I'm doing ok in all those respects, but with the conversations he and I have had over the past few months, in which in a tone unbeknownst to him (or so he says), I have been made to feel guilty for my looks, for my charm, hearing such barbs over any meal or moment that we've shared such as "C'mon, you're good looking, you know you're not hurting for guys," and "I know you've been doing xyz with Tom, Dick, and Harry." And anytime I would turn the questions and commentary back on him following his judgmental verbal spears, with "You're going to be fine yourself," he would reply "All I've been doing is working, and I'm not ready to be with anybody at all" further making me feel like a caustic bitch for moving on in any way, shape, or form. And as I let it sink in seconds at a time, that I had been made to feel a fool by someone doing the exact same shit, something didn't quite sit well with me from there, and when stirring in botella after botella of liquid cope, well, the end result isn't always the picture that you see in the recipe book when it comes caliente and steaming out of the oven.

 

Later in the evening, at my first opportunity, I lashed out at him in the biggest pelear we have ever had (and that's saying a LOT), slowly dropping the news bombs on him that I had learned sandwiched in between hysterics, profanities, and back and forth bullshit. I could see the fear in his ojos as he heard his secret life being laid out in front of him, the realization that he, just like me, had played his cards all wrong. And yet, after being swept away from the drama by mi hermano and taken to guys poker noche at his buddy's place, despite hours of sobering up and cracking jokes through puffy eyes, regardless of the fact I had him drop me back off at his house to apologize for the flareup earlier, the real A-bomb had yet to be dropped. As I opened the garage door to try and salvage what I could of what we are, what we will ever be, and at least verbally attempt to right my portion of our wrongs, I was met with him hastily running outside to keep me from coming in, because, blow of all blows, SHE WAS IN THERE. Little miss I just met him on Thursday was his attempt at consolation, reconciliation. I don't exactly know the checklist of what a nervous breakdown looks like, what the warning signs are, but I am certain I have never been more symptomatic of one than in that time. I would later, somewhat quickly, although it felt like a near eternity, be scooped up again by una de mis mejores amigas, Diggy, and had to be put into otro clothes and dried off and tucked into bed like a zombie child.

 

I woke today, and even worked, trying my best at feigning happiness, hee-hee'ing through the motions, a robot of what is expected of me, and yet, I didn't fool anybody. Everyone knows I'm floundering, and the scariest part of all, is that I've always been weak. Without some help I wonder how many more tiempos I can come up for air and actually fill my lungs before I crack, just like the Titanic, grandiose and stately and containing ridiculous amounts of potential for greatness, and yet broken by what is turning out to be my iceberg, this divorce, coming apart in two and gurgling all the way down, down to the ocean's floor, a mere skeleton of who I once was, who I could have been. Perhaps a lifeboat will find me, perhaps I just need to start praying again and actually meaning it, not simply mindlessly uttering words to a gracious God who has done nothing but keep me from disaster, and help me pick up the pieces of me I have strewn here and there. Perhaps…

 

I'm exhausted. Xoxo to all, and to all a good night.