Summer 1987

The family was to gather at our house on a Sunday afternoon. Grandma, grandpa, a couple of uncles, and of course, mom, dad, me and sis. I wondered what the big occasion was? It wasn’t Christmas or anyone’s birthday. It was summertime. We weren’t barbecuing or hosting a pig roast, which were our summer family traditions. It wasn’t the Fourth of July, and there wasn’t a keg of beer in the backyard. There wasn’t a fight on cable later.

I was eight years old and shy unless I was comfortable around someone or my family. And even then, if I had emotions or questions, I’d bottle them up in fear of embarrassment.

“Mom, what are we doing?” I asked, curious as my mom smashed the avocados with the backside of a fork; Sade was playing in the background. She always cooked to Sade.

“Taste this.” She handed me a tortilla chip with her guacamole on it. It was always perfect, but I preferred more heat, more chiles.

“More chile,” I replied.

She added more roasted green chiles that she’d thawed from the freezer. Baggies of roasted green chiles were a staple in our and my grandma’s freezer. We ate them on everything.

“But mom, why are grandma and grandpa and everyone coming over?” I took a drink of my Squirt straight out of the can.

The guacamole was on the table. My mouth watered.

“We’re watching La Bamba! Ritchie Valens! Your grandma and grandpa used to listen to him in the 50s! You know, like you’re studying in school!” I thought the movie was still in theaters, but my family always found a way to get what we needed.

My mom’s excitement for our get-together was increasing. She poured herself a pale pink wine cooler with ice into a tall wine glass.

I observed our house. Spotless, as usual. Freshly cut lilacs from our yard toppled over in a glass vase. Fluffy and various shades of lavender, their aroma diffused throughout the house. Lilacs symbolized the buoyancy of summertime and long days of riding bikes and how time paused if only for those few months a year. I grew giddy for the weeks ahead — school was but a faint memory.

The white couches in the front living room had been cleaned and rearranged for our gathering; the walls painted a shade of peach, trendy for the time. The front and backyards freshly mowed, and my mom had put in extra work to the flower pots this summer. The large tree in the front yard was in full bloom, shading the yard and accentuating the freshly cut bright green grass.

My dad was arranging chairs in our TV room, often referred to as the ‘backroom,’ as he nursed a Miller Lite. The large red, woven carpet from the 70s was now the location of a makeshift movie theater. Our brown couches in the backroom were on the perimeter of the room. A sarape blanket hung on the sidewall, folded into the shape of a two-sided fan. My dad didn’t share the same enthusiasm with my mom that day. His cigarette was nearly extinguished in the ashtray by the window. Our house always smelled like garlic and the faint odor of cigarette smoke.

My grandparents walked in the door; they never knocked — grandma’s copper-brown Monte Carlo parked at the edge of the driveway. My grandma’s hair was newly highlighted and worn short and full. The beige tone complimented the hazel flecks in her brown eyes. She wore a loose-fitting sweater, unusual for the summertime heat. Still, she was always in baggy clothing, even after the trend had passed. The scent of my grandpa’s cologne permeated the house. His hair was dyed black, as was his mustache. Not a hair was ever out of place. They were both short in stature but mighty in individual personalities.

“Your uncles are on their way. Anthony woke up late again. God damn it.” My grandma Lorraine said with impatience, handing me the tortilla warmer full of her homemade tortillas. Patience wasn’t her strength, and it only weakened when my uncle Anthony had what I’d later learn was a hangover. These were frequent for him. He’d likely arrive in an Army fatigue jacket and dark sunglasses and open a beer straight away, cigarette in his mouth.

“Hi, grandma! Hi, grandpa!” I loved my grandparents. I loved my grandma Lorraine more than anything. For as long as I could remember, we’d always had a special bond. I’d stay at her house, often nearly begging to, so that she could make me homemade french fries. Raiding her closet was a treat I’d cherish for a lifetime. Sometimes in the morning, she’d let me have a tiny bit of coffee with her special creamer and two Sweet ‘N Lows. She swiped Sweet ‘N Low packets from restaurants. “We pay for them, anyways,” she’d say.

I lingered around the enchiladas and guacamole as two of my three uncles arrived. I was sad my other uncle and his family wouldn’t make it. I was close to my cousins on that side of the family. Their family always had something going on. I couldn’t quite compute the details, but there was an air of worry and tension. My mom and grandma often spoke about it.

“Okay, everybody sit down!” My mom instructed as she grabbed her plate of food. The rest of the family was deep into their plates of enchiladas, tortillas, and beer. She and my grandma were always the last to eat. We took our places on our selected couch or chair; my dad put the finishing touches on the speaker to stream the sound from the television. I was wearing my hair half up and half down and a new short and top set that my other grandma had recently given me. It was peach, like our walls. I was excited that the family was together. Still, I sat quietly on the corner of one of the couches that butted up against the wood paneling wall.

“Eas, another one? God damn it.” My grandma shot a look at my grandpa from across the room. He chose to be oblivious to it as he poured the remainder of a bottle of red wine into his glass. He opened another bottle, a cigarette between his wine-stained lips. An opened beer sat next to his plate. She was always bothered or upset about something and would let you know about it. My grandpa’s drinking was an endless trigger for her.

I was excited about whatever it was we were going to watch. Anything that had to do with my grandparents in the 50s was of interest to me. We were studying the decade in school, and my grandma and grandpa made a point to tell me stories of them going dancing and of their struggles during that time. They grew up in the projects and used milk crates to sit and eat upon until they could afford furniture.

When my grandma Lorraine talked about her youth, she’d mention her penny loafers and how she had to watch her brothers and sisters. She was the paternal child of the family, the oldest of six. “Times were hard then,” she’d say, staring off into memory. She rarely finished the stories of her upbringing. Both of her parents struggled with alcohol, and trauma and survival were embedded deep into her DNA. Marrying my grandpa at the age of fifteen was a temporary escape until she had their children. “Don’t get married. Work, travel, enjoy life.” she’d always tell me — that era defined by struggle, racial tension, poverty, and having children too young. I’d later understand why my grandparents, specifically my grandma, related so intimately to La Bamba.

The movie started, and I was enthralled. The music and characters were captivating.

“She’s like you, ma!” My mom joked with my grandma as the feisty and fiery mom of Ritchie and Bob appeared. “We’ll start calling you Connie.” everyone laughed a little bit except for me. That comment hurt my feelings, but I didn’t let it be known. I was protective of my grandma Lorraine. I was too young to understand why my grandma was a fighter; I just knew that she was.

“That’s how we lived. Poor.” my grandma pointed out during the opening scenes of the movie. My grandparents didn’t seem to be struggling now, but they often told me of their “hard times in the old days.”

As the movie played on, our family made jokes about how Bob looked like our uncle Tony but acted like our uncle Anthony. The sun started to set, and the television screen illuminated the backroom, a red tinge from the woven carpet warmed up the space. I sat still, attention on the movie and the songs. My dad appeared to be enjoying himself despite spending his Sunday off with his in-laws. Our family was getting along, watching a movie together. This was rare.

It became my favorite family memory.

Me, my parents, grandma, and grandpa. My uncles. All were genuinely enjoying ourselves and the commentary my grandparents would deliver — a movie of a story that my grandparents experienced. I didn’t want this evening to end. I loved it when we were all together, and everyone was happy.

“Oh, I remember this.” my grandpa commented as the song Donna played. He took a long drag from his cigarette. His gaze fixed on the movie yet going back in time in his mind.

The movie played on, and the commentary from my grandparents faded; I noted the silence of my family. I surveyed the room and observed the focus of my mom, dad, grandparents, uncles. Their harmonious stares never left the screen. The smell of the lilacs in the other room traveled and delivered their faint aroma to my senses. The sun was setting, casting a drab tone. Then darkness. Something told me that this specific moment would hold significance. I preserved it.

My attention wandered back to the movie. Ritchie and the other rock stars were about to board the plane. There was an invisible tightness felt in my grandparents as the scene played. I studied them from my corner of the couch.

As I gazed back at the television to the scene of Connie, (Ritchie and Bob’s mom), hanging her laundry outside. She had a new home; she was no longer poor. Ritchie had bought a house for her. The clothesline was much like the clothesline my grandma hung sheets from in her backyard. They were no longer poor. “This is how we did it in the old days,” grandma would say.

The scene continued with Connie tending to her laundry. The sound of the radio filling the air along with the chirping birds. The color of the grass was vibrant; the sheets swayed on the clothesline, and her blue cardigan sweater appeared soft.

The scene cuts to Bob working on his car, the sound of the radio in the background. The deejay was delivering the news of the plane crash, killing his brother Ritchie Valens and three other musicians. Rosie and the baby come outside crying.

I looked at my mom, my grandma. I’m trying to comprehend what is happening in the movie and why everyone is so sad.

Again I’m focused on the movie. The scene of Bob hopping his mother Connie’s fence and turning the corner as she’s listening to the news of the fatal plane crash come from her radio. Her son, Ritchie Valens, is dead.

“No, not my Ritchie!” Connie whales into Bob’s arms after tossing her laundry into the air. Bob holds Connie up to catch her fall.

The first few chords of Sleep Walk by Santo & Johnny begin. I cry. I rarely cried in front of anyone. The song is morose and resonates with something I haven’t met yet. At that moment, the song positions itself into my cellular memory. I feel it. I understand what is happening in the movie, and I cry more. I look over to my mom, and she is crying. Her thick mascara runs down into the wells under her eyes. She wiped her eyes and nose with a dinner napkin. Her face is void of the enthusiasm it carried earlier in the day.

I look at my grandma, and she, too, is crying. Not as hard as my mom, but she is crying. I sob harder because my grandma is hurting, and it pains me to see her mournful. Her sharp candor always entered rooms before she did. My grandma rarely broke down or showed emotions aside from anger and frustration. To me, she was superhuman. At this moment, she was human. She was soft and scared. She was sad. Though I was only eight years old, I understood what the movie evoked in my grandma. I see the similarities between her and Connie. The struggle, the pride, the worry. My grandma always worried about her sons. I feared she’d feel like Connie one day. Her greatest fear was to lose one of them. Later in life, she’d lose two. From a young age, I would begin to worry about my grandma habitually.

Her worries became my worries.

Sleep Walk continued to play as the funeral procession scene occupied the screen. Black cars and the iconic baby blue convertible drove slowly into the cemetery, palm trees shooting tall into the blue California sky. This scene, this song, would become the most vivid to me.

Each family member was emotional in their own right. Uncle Anthony opened another beer while Uncle Tony was held it all in. My grandpa was taking long, numbing drinks of red wine. My dad lit another filter-less cigarette. Mom and grandma remained emotional.

The light of the television felt more somber now. Sleep Walk played on.

The final scenes of the movie continued.

Bob stood on the bridge and shouted, “RITCHIE!”.

Then the scene from the beginning of the movie of Bob and Ritchie running up the hill played in slow motion.

Our backroom mirrored the slow motion, weighted with sobering despondence.

Our family paused. It was more than the loss of Ritchie; it was the eerie similarities and realities of the struggles of the Valens family to those of my grandparents, and specifically to my grandma Lorraine. It was a foreshadowing I felt but couldn’t yet identify, but inevitably would.

Sleep Walk now permanently rooted itself into my memory, along with the night our family watched La Bamba.

That night we watched a story about Chicanx people and one young Chicanx person who made it. People who looked and lived like my grandparents and their friends and family were in a movie. They, too, ascended from the ashes of cultural struggle and plight. It was a story of hope and encouragement to a generation and culture of people whose lives were strung together by one setback after another. It was a story of a dream come true and of the unattainable becoming attained.

The story was true.

The story would end in loss.

August 2016. Saturday.

“Don’t be scared, grandma.” I was frustrated that she’d gone against doctors’ orders and walked around the house without her walker. She’d fallen and broken her hip.

“Okay.” She said, fearful.

Going against an order of any sort from anyone wasn’t new for her. But it had caught up with her. Her rebellion against her doctor’s orders had led to several hospital stays, but there was still no reasoning with her. Exhausted, we accepted it.

My grandma’s health had been declining for the past couple of years. And more rapidly over the past five months. My fear and anxiety grew as her health weakened. Her hospital visits became my new routine, and I rarely slept.

Since childhood, I had always feared my grandma dying — a morbid fear, but a real one. Our bond established when I was a child as I stayed with her often or whenever my parents couldn’t get their shit together. She’d buy me fun things to wear and cook french fries for me and had soap that smelled extra fancy. She always had Coke in the glass bottles. “We drank Coke out of these bottles when I was a kid,” she’d tell me every time she opened one.

“We’ve gone up a lot of mountains, and this will be another one, okay? It’s okay. We make mistakes. We’ll just deal with this, too,” I said. I was starting to soften despite feeling frustrated, drained, sad, scared, and broke. I was worried that she was so mad at herself. She was doing so well — until she wasn’t. I was frustrated that I had to wake up early and do hair for trade for my landlord as part of our rental agreement.

I was frustrated I had to have a rental agreement.

“Why did I have to get up and water the lawn? I wanted the yard to be nice for you and your dog, Olive.” She said, bothered. There was a fear in her face that I had never seen before — a disappointment in herself.

“Oh, grandma. You don’t need to do that.” I wanted to cry from guilt and frustration of her going against the doctor’s order for my sake. She wasn’t supposed to walk without a walker if she was alone. She’d fallen and broken her hip. I knew I should have been there at her house. I should have been there. I hated myself at that moment. I often still do.

“Okay, honey. I’ll be okay.” She looked at me. I held her hand, kissed her on the forehead. She was scared. She wouldn’t say it, but I could feel it.

I walked down the halls that were lit by fluorescent lighting, they were bright yet dull. My head hung down. I left the hospital. I cried when I started my car and during the drive home, most of which I don’t remember.

August 2016. Sunday.

Morning arrived after a night of spotty sleep. I called her hospital room. No answer.

I called again.

I called my cousin Michelle, and we spoke about the upcoming challenges and realities we were about to face with a potential hip surgery for my grandma. She was a high risk, but we knew she’d choose possible death during hip replacement surgery over going into hospice. There was no easy answer. Michelle and I were both drained and fried. I’d withdrawn from nutrition school when grandma’s health declined the year prior, and I was nervous about the impact another round of caregiving would have. Michelle and I both put much of our lives on hold to care for grandma. Hip surgery recovery would be no different.

“Should I go down there?” I asked Michelle, concerned that grandma wasn’t answering the phone. I’d driven to the gym after doing my landlord’s hair for the rent trade.

“No, don’t, she’s probably in a mood. You know how she gets when she feels like people are crowding her. I don’t know if I should go to the baseball game. I was looking forward to it.” Michelle said solemnly. I could hear her sigh. She’d sacrificed a lot, too.

I sat in my car, too exhausted to move, but also wired and anxious to relax. I was crawling out of my skin.

“Yeah, I feel the same. Should I go to Taste?” I closed my eyes sleepily.

Taste was a party that my friend Alex hosted on Sunday afternoons on a patio bar during the summertime. Taste was my solace and place of community and release. I could dance for hours and forget about it all. It was the only place I felt alive, anymore. I could forget about the fact I didn’t know how I was going to pay my car insurance or how I was going to eat that week. It was where I’d lose myself in the music and dance floor. It was the only place I smiled. The only place I pretended.

“I was looking forward to it. I’m just so fried and annoyed and stressed out. I thought we were good; then grandma had to go water her lawn.” I said with a giggle. She was stubborn and tough. I still couldn’t believe she said she wanted green grass for Olive and me. “Go to the game, Michelle. You deserve a few hours of fun.” I remained in my car as we were on the phone.

“You think?” Michelle asked. She was looking for permission.

“Yes. We’ve taken care of grandma for three summers in a row. We haven’t gone anywhere. I’m too afraid to go to the mountains in case something happens. You’re always helping other people, and you need to have some fun. Go to the game. Recharge. We both need to recharge for what’s in front of us.” I rolled down the windows in my car. The day was going to be still with suffocating heat.

Michelle and I hung up. I tried my grandma’s room one more time.

I cried as I drove the five-minute drive back to my house. I kept vacillating on whether to go down to the hospital.

I wanted to feel ordinary and be around friends and community. I was depleted and didn’t know where I belonged or where I should go.

I laid in my bed, crying, debating, and devising a plan for what was next.

I got out of bed and showered.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked into my eyes as I applied my liquid eyeliner. I no longer recognized myself beneath the neon pink lipstick and summer tan. I wondered if anyone would notice my pain and depression. The best I could do was go through the motions of getting ready. I wore a crop top and short shorts and my staple high-top sneakers. My fanny pack held my ID and phone.

I don’t remember the drive to Taste, but I remember checking my phone compulsively, praying for good news and relief.

I parked. Robotically, I exited my car and started walking into the still heat of the late-August afternoon. It didn’t phase me. I watched my feet walk beneath me. Left, right, left, right. The temperature hovered near 100 degrees, yet the distractions of my mind kept me controlled enough not to feel weak in the August blaze. The shadows of the trees and bushes along the sidewalks extended. Fall would soon greet us, and the clench of the heat permeating from the streets would be a distant memory.

My hands felt clammy and cold as I approached the entrance to Taste. Butterflies of social anxiety always presented themselves when I went out. However, the uneasiness in my gut was unrecognizable. The smell of weed exiting the patio was pungent. I didn’t need to show my ID. The bouncer motioned me to go in.

The walk from the indoor bar area to the patio felt like it was in slow motion. My feet were heavy. Just minutes ago, I was watching them take one step after another — now I couldn’t tell if I was in motion or if I was standing still. I clutched the medals of St. Michael and St. Joseph that I wore around my neck. I needed a miracle. I prayed for one compulsively. Persistently. My vision felt a little blurry. Last night’s conversation with my grandma in the emergency played through my head. Hypothetical scenarios of me going to her house and intervening in her fate took over my mind. My eyes widened again with a hazy vision.

The music became amplified as I walked up the concrete stairwell to the patio. The sound and vibration of the bass was the sound of home. I was home. The heat hit like a wall in the partially enclosed patio as I entered Taste. I recognized faces and voices, but it all looked and sounded the same. My mind was fragmented and distracted. I struggled to be present. I was notably thin, living off of corn chips and stress. And I was as broke. I looked into the crowd at nothing.

A frequent conversation with my grandma replaying in my mind over and over again.

Every Sunday, she would ask: “Are yous going dancing?” She always wanted us to do what she didn’t get to do.

“Yeah, I am.” I always went.

“Good. Have fun. Live.” She’d say.

I watched my feet. Left, right, left, right. They guided me to the DJ booth. Alex was playing an opening set, setting the tone for the afternoon. I approached him mid-transition. He removed his headphones for a few seconds to hug me.

“You good?” he asked. I nodded, lying.

He knew I was lying.

I stepped in front of the turntables and started dancing. Alone. I was always the first person on the dance floor. I felt heavy. Fellow patrons followed my lead. Alex had flown in DJ Effect from LA to play at Taste that day. As he took over the turntables, it was apparent he was genuinely having a good time. Smiling, and allowing the music to guide him and the dancefloor. His expertise was moving the party. I forced a smile and motion. I should have been enjoying his set more, but I couldn’t. Debris of anxiety and tension clenched me.

My friends arrived and shared the dance floor with me. We danced, they made me laugh, we got our pictures taken. I felt supported, even though I hadn’t asked for it. My community at Taste was essential; the dance floor was my safe place. Taste provided a sense of home that I didn’t feel anywhere else. I needed my community now more than ever, though I was private about my stress and depression.

The crowd was sweating and grooving, and both Alex and Effect provided the perfect musical journey for me to escape to on the dance floor. The party was electric. I needed the reprieve.

Every few songs, I would go behind the DJ booth and check my phone. Nothing. Nothing from Michelle or grandma.

Bodies started to leave the dance floor area, and the energy began to dissipate as the end of the party drew near. I was always the last one dancing. Sweaty, happy. Euphoric. My friend Elise remained on the dance floor with me. Effect hopped back on the turntables while Alex said goodbye to some regulars.

I kept dancing, moving in a trance-like state.

And then I froze.

Did I hear this correctly? The first few chords from Sleep Walk? From La Bamba?

I turned to look at the speakers as if they’d somehow confirm what I was hearing. They did.

I remained frozen as I looked on. Mental relics from that summer evening assembled in my brain and psyche. I was at a numbed standstill.

I smelled lilacs. I felt the summer before it became too hot. I felt the excitement of school being out. The song transported me back to when we watched La Bamba in the backroom as a family. I could see the wine glasses sitting by my grandpa and mom. I smelled the cigarette smoke and saw the bowl of the remnants of aging guacamole. I could taste my mom’s enchiladas. I saw the silhouette of my mom’s shoulder pads, and her tan legs crossed as she watched the film with intention and sentiment. I saw my dad drink another beer. I could see the lilac bushes in the yard — the ones that provided the smell of summertime. My grandma’s highlighted hair, and her position on her chair were right in front of me. I see her face, and in her face, I see the worry she carries.

The scenes of Connie and Bob replay in my mind. They hear the news on the radio of Ritchie dying. I am again observing my family crying and showing a rare sharing of emotion. I’m on the corner of the couch. The past replaces the patio I was dancing on just moments ago. I’m in the backroom and can decipher what the feeling in my grandma’s face meant as we watched the movie. What I saw was the recognition of loss in my grandma’s face. It is expressionless yet visible.

I witnessed a foreshadowing that was coming full circle at Taste at a coincidental time. It hit me. At that moment, watching that movie, she knew. She knew she would lose a son. And years after that, another one.

Sleep Walk continued to play out of the speakers that stood next to the DJ booth.

Elise and I look at each other.

I gazed back into my memory. The heat of the party was repelled off of my body as I went back in time. I felt cold.

I saw the funeral procession scene playing in my mind. It felt more like reality than the dance floor I was standing on. I saw the palm trees graze the California sky. I saw the black cars drive into the cemetery.

The song triggered the most cherished and vivid memory from my childhood.

The song was a message.

A chill of muted panic passed through my body. I felt paralyzed and anchored. Elise looked at me. Earlier in the day, I shared with her what had occurred in the past couple of days. She knew. She knew what I was thinking and feeling without me having to vocalize it.

As the song ended, I approached Effect at the DJ booth. He was mixing, and I knew I was interrupting him, but he was kind and welcoming. I dwelled in a bit of a haze. My voice shook as I thanked him for playing Sleep Walk. I took a delayed notice of my right hand on my heart as I spoke to him. “I love that song. It reminds me of my family. Of my grandparents. Thank you. Thank you for playing that. I needed to hear that.”

“Of course! It’s a great song.” He was humble and gracious in his response.

“No, no one knows that song. It means a lot to me. As a family, we sat in our TV room, the whole family, and watched La Bamba. It’s a strong memory for me, and you just played the song from my favorite childhood memory. Thank you.”

“Aww, you’re welcome. That’s awesome to hear. We never hear stuff like that.” Effect was gracious and genial.

I returned to my unassigned place on the dance floor, now empty aside from Elise and me.

An invisible message materialized loud and distinct: “She needs you. Look at your phone.”

I still hadn’t heard from her all day.

I knew I had to see my grandma. I teared up.

I looked at my phone. Michelle had texted.

I left Taste after I quickly said goodbye to Alex and Elise.

I called Michelle back right away from my car.

“Hey,” Michelle answered with exhaustion.

“What’s going on? I haven’t heard anything all day.” I kept an eye on my speed as I drove home full of anxiety and adrenaline.

“Well, grandma had surgery today and didn’t tell us because she didn’t want to bother anyone. And it went well. I went down there because something didn’t feel right. She had surgery at 1:00, and she’s doing well. She’ll get physical therapy, and likely need a nurse at home for a while.”

“Oh, phew! Okay. Oh my god. God, what a relief! I’ll go down there in the morning, first thing. I can talk to my boss about shifting hours to take care of grandma. We can alternate days and make sure someone is always there.” I drove home quickly and parked haphazardly.

I opened the front door and paced in my kitchen, talking with excitement.

I was relieved. A weight lifted, and my grandma was on the mend and survived the surgery. We could sleep easy now. Michelle and I made plans to alternate nights at the hospital until she was released to go home. I was the happiest I’d been in a few months. Grandma was going to be okay. Finally, things were coming around for me after a brutal summer of surviving on stale corn chips and barely making rent.

Michelle and I joked that grandma was always going to be stubborn and was going to have it her way or no way. We knew her not telling us of the surgery was her being authentically herself. Stubborn and a bit passive-aggressive. But we didn’t care. Michelle and I could rest, make a plan for grandma, and relax a bit. The relief was a blessing, and grandma was going to be alright. We were going to be okay. We hung up the phone laughing about grandma and her stubborn attitude.

I washed my face and changed into my gray sleep shorts and ripped up Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five tank top and crawled under the covers. I was asleep within minutes.

I felt my phone vibrate at 5:30 a.m. It was Michelle.

“Hello?” I answered, my hair still in braids from Taste.

“It’s her heart. It’s beating irregularly. They don’t think she’s going to make it.”

The collective has an opportunity to re-evaluate, clean, cleanse, reset. To face who we are, who we aren’t and become humbled by the unknown. To re-enter normalcy as people who have transformed for the better.

That is my hope. But I’m a realist.

Our society displays a grotesque addiction to convenience and an expectation that personal needs are more important than the health and well-being of the greater good. I was a hairdresser for 21 years. I’ve experienced what people become when they don’t get their way.

I learned the reality of humanity and human character when my dad died. I was 27, a full-time hairdresser and had to take two weeks off to plan my dad’s services and deal with, well, his death. When I came back to work, a disappointingly large amount of my clients were annoyed that it would be weeks before they could get in to see me. A smaller portion of my clientele was patient and supportive. I learned how selfish, insensitive and self-absorbed people become when they are inconvenienced. I also learned that some people will ride the wave of loss and sadness with you.

None of us are perfect or above our flaws. It’s natural to get wrapped up into what we choose to get wrapped up into. That too is humanity. I’m re-learning the realities of human character during this uncertain time.

My life has presented many periods of calamity, of uncertainty. I’m understanding the purpose of those times as I grow older and more observant.

Those times strengthened me, prepared me, and softened me.

But I’m not worried about me right now. I got this.

I’m worried about the poor, the sick, the hungry, the unemployed, the elderly, the struggling. I’m worried about the people with no family or community, alone in their homes.

I don’t need to tell you that industries whose income is reliant on daily client and customer revenue and services are suffering.

Or maybe I do.

I don’t need to tell you that grocery workers, delivery people, hospital staff and those still working with the public in any regard are scared, want to be home, but need their jobs. I don’t need to tell you that their jobs are keeping the world intact.

Or maybe I do.

I don’t need to tell you that staying home and doing our part in the temporary will help everyone get out of this sooner.

Or maybe I do.

I don’t need to tell you that the service industry and small business are the fabric of our country and are taking a brutal hit.

Or maybe I do.

I don’t need to tell you that this is bigger than us.

Or maybe I do.

I see and hear a lot of people helping one another out, sharing posts to help small businesses, offering to deliver groceries to their or disabled or elderly neighbors.

I see and hear a lot of people crying about this.

I see and hear a lot of people checking in on one another.

I see and hear people at home in their loneliness, yet encouraging their communities with words they too need to hear.

I see and hear a lot of people trying to do the right thing.

I see and hear a lot of people being patient and empathetic.

I see and hear a lot of people thinking about their fellow people.

I see and hear a lot of people doing what they can.

Your choices are healing the collective.

I see and hear a lot of people complaining about how inconvenient this is.

I see and hear a lot of people laughing about this.

I see and hear people resisting the inevitable adjustments and sacrifices.

I see and hear a lot of people who lack understanding.

I see and hear people risking the health of others.

I see and hear a lot of people who have never struggled.

I see and hear a lot of people who have struggled but are choosing to forget the impact.

I see and hear a lot of people who think they are exempt from this.

I see and hear a lot of people only thinking of themselves.

Your choices are destructive to the collective.

Now go wash your hands. You’ve been touching your face all day.

1989

“Do you want to go see New Edition at the Riverfront?” My dad asked me on a Saturday morning as he was driving me to gymnastics in his tan Chevy truck. The local radio station Y108 was playing Word Up by Cameo.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was confused. And shy. I’d never been to a concert. I knew they existed, but I thought only for adults.

My parents had gone to see Prince, Sade, Kenny G., and Luther Vandross. To see a group as famous as New Edition meant I would finally have something to talk about at school with the other kids. Growing up in a suburban area at that time with young parents that were much more urban than suburban meant I was a little bit of an outcast. I was dark, half Latina, my parents were young, and we didn’t listen to music like Bon Jovi. However, by fifth grade, I could tell you who Rick James was and who Wendy and Lisa were. So, to brag about going to see New Edition to the fellow kids in the neighborhood whose parents listened to Steve Miller Band could fall on deaf ears.

“They are doing an autograph signing and concert at the Riverfront next Saturday. Your mom said I should take you. It’ll be a good time.” My dad said as he turned up Mercedes Boy by Pebbles.

The Riverfront Mall was about ten minutes from where we lived. It was of a brick-build and had modern finishes for the time. It was more of an indoor/outdoor dining and shopping center than a traditional mall for that era. The restaurants were of the fine-dining type, and the stores were unique and eclectic. The mall featured a stage that was surrounded by exotic plants planted in concrete planters, and some tables and chairs. The Riverfront was also home to a record store that had an entrance from the outside of the mall. The record store soon became where we’d go album shopping with our mom.

“Is Adrian going to go?” My younger sister and I were five years apart and would be on different planes of growth and maturity until we reached our twenties.

“No, just me and you.” My dad said as he lit a filterless cigarette and pulled into the liquor store parking lot, which was in the same strip mall as my gymnastics gym.

“Wait here.” My dad took a long pull from his cigarette, placed it in the dirty ashtray by the emergency brake, jumped out of the truck, went in for his six-pack of Miller Lite, and then started up the Chevy again to drive twenty yards to the gymnastics studio.

My dad was a man of little emotion and fewer words. It was only after a few beers and him listening to the local R&B and Hip Hop radio station that he’d smile and laugh a little bit.

I was shy and excited and entering the awkward years of childhood into a pre-teen. Nothing could dampen my enthusiasm for seeing New Edition in the local mall. If It Isn’t Love was continually playing on MTV, and I had a crush on Ronnie DeVoe.

The day of the show had arrived. The magnitude of going to see my first concert had not yet resonated with me. New Edition, at that! And only ten minutes from my house. My mom gave me a fresh perm for the occasion and dressed me in tight-rolled jeans, a teal top, and flats. My dad wore his Club MTV shirt, his Levis he’d ripped holes into, and his black leather jacket. His hair always managed to be combed into a perfect Fonz-like pompadour. During this era, he wore a mullet. The back was permed, and the front was feathered back with subtle highlights. My mom was a hairdresser so that ensured that our family wore the latest hairstyles and fashion. When my parents went out, they looked like they belonged in a music video. Now I did, too.

My dad and I were ready to hit the mall.

“Jesus God damned Christ.” My dad said with irritation through gritted teeth as we pulled into the mall and saw the seemingly endless line of Aqua Net-laden permed hairstyles, baggy pants with tight-rolled cuffs, and neon hair scrunchies. I immediately felt inadequate with my fresh perm. I wondered how my parents could let me out of the house to attend a New Edition concert without metallic blue eyeliner applied to my lower lash line? I felt so plain. I also felt every part of being an awkward ten-year-old.

My dad took my hand as we walked to the line. We quickly learned that this was just the first line we’d stand in to get into the record store to buy an album. From there, we’d be ushered into another line to wait to have my album autographed by New Edition. From the autograph table, we’d go to the indoor courtyard area where the stage was, and then they’d finally perform.

The crowd of older, much cooler girls was overwhelming to me. I was intimidated and a little scared. I’d never been around that many people before. For the first time in my life, I held my dad’s hand tightly. At that moment he softened a bit. He’d often be worried and consumed with his image of being fresh and young, and still ‘with it,’ but at that moment with me squeezing his hand out of fear and shyness, he was my dad. And that’s all I ever wanted and needed from him.

What seemed like an eternity finally passed as we approached the area the record store had set up to purchase the latest New Edition album in preparation for the autograph table that was just around the corner. I stood there with my dad as he bought the album — the album that would be signed by the members of my favorite boy group. As he was pulling cash out of his Velcro wallet, I took notice of the 12” single for The Jets Crush On You hanging on the wall amongst other popular albums. I wanted so badly to look like the girl members of The Jets with their big hair and bright pink shirts. My dad was given his change back by the exhausted cashier. My dad grabbed my hand as we walked toward the autograph table.

As I stood there silently observing, I noticed the guys sitting at the table signing autographs. I was a little confused. They didn’t look like Ronny, Ricky, Bobby, Mike, Johnny, and Ralph. These kids that were signing records were white. Who were these white boys?

“Dad?” I tugged on the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

“What?” He half responded. There was always an underlying sense of irritation with my dad, so growing up, I often felt like I was walking on eggshells. I never wanted to bother him or get on his nerves. He was always on edge.

“Dad, who are these guys? Who are those guys sitting at the table signing autographs? And what album is this?” I looked up at my dad and looked at the album he had just purchased. I noticed it was not a New Edition album.

“It’s New Edition.” He replied flatly.

“Dad, no it’s not. These guys are white.” I pointed out to him.

“Oh.” He looked as he took the album out of my hand to inspect it.

“New Edition, New Kids On The Block, same thing.” He handed the album back to me, and I looked at it more closely. The cover was a black and white photo of five white boys. In one corner it read: New Kids On The Block, and in the other corner, it read: Please Don’t Go Girl. We were in fact, NOT going to see New Edition that evening, nor were we meeting them. We were going to see a group of which I was unfamiliar. New Kids On The Block?

“Oh, okay,” I responded with a little bit of disappointment.

We were next in line.

“And, hand him your album.” My dad instructed. He was so excited about taking me, his daughter, to her first concert.

“Hi! What’s your name?” Danny Wood asked me.

“Andrea.” I shied away into my dad’s arm.

“Should we sign it to Andrea?” Joey McIntyre asked.

“Make it out to Andrea and Adrian!” My dad replied, smiling and excited. Giggling, almost.

My shyness kicked in as we stood there as they signed the record. I had minimal idea of who these guys were, but they were very friendly, so that put me at ease.

In red marker, the album was signed: To Andrea & Adrian. A big heart was drawn below our names by Joey, right above his autograph. Danny Wood signed in the bottom right corner and made a smiley face in the large loop of the stem of the lower case ‘D’ at the end of his last name.

We were then ushered into the center of the mall to gather around the stage.

My dad wasn’t the tallest man, and I was small for my age, so we had to find a spot where we could see. We settled on an area that was near a concrete planter.

I had no idea what to expect at my first concert. I stood there with my dad and took it all in. I was in a large crowd for the first time in my life, and it made me a little nervous. I noticed what people in the audience were wearing, and the high-pitched voices of teenage girls. It was a sea of permed hair and neon.

And then the announcer entered the stage. That alone made the girls in the audience went wild. I can’t remember what he said, but the next thing I knew, New Kids On The Block hit the stage. The crowd erupted in cheers, screams, and shouts, and girls started dancing. I was impressed by their dance moves and seemingly effortless rhythm.

My dad sat me on his shoulders as NKOTB performed Hangin’ Tough. I was feeling a little braver, so I waved around my album in the air from side to side as I sat on my dad’s shoulders above the crowd. At that moment he laughed and was proud of me for enjoying myself and waving my album around. I think he was so thrilled because I was the only one in the crowd who was doing this. His laughter was of a tone that only appeared on special occasions. It was like he was a kid again — taking in the experience as much as I was. Sincere happiness replaced his stress.

New Kids On The Block encored with Please Don’t Go Girl, and the volume of teenage girl screams could have easily broken every window in the mall. When Joey hit those high notes, the place went nuts. He was the baby of the group, which made my newfound crush on him flourish. He was so cute. Of course, I was too shy to admit that I had a little crush on Joey. I’d certainly never tell my dad.

The concert ended, and my dad grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd. We reached his Chevy truck in the parking lot and headed home. As soon as we returned home, I showed my mom my newly autographed record.

“Wow! That’s great, And!” She said, hugging me. There was never a hello or goodbye kiss or hug between my parents.

“You should have seen her! She sat on my shoulders and started waving her record around! None of the other girls were doing that!” My dad laughed as he opened a beer.

“Yeah, and they signed my record!” I was on familiar turf now, so I felt comfortable enough to be excited about the night I had just experienced.

I went to bed that night giddy and excited. I didn’t know much about these New Kids On The Block, but I did know that the highlight of the night was sitting on my dad’s shoulders, waving my record around in the air as the crowd went wild for Hangin’ Tough. I felt more grown-up and like I was part of the ‘big kids’ group now. I had my first concert under my belt, and an autographed album to go with it. But I think my favorite part of the night was that it was just my dad and me: no little sister, mom, or grandparents. I now had an experience that I didn’t have to share with the rest of the family. It was our special bonding moment. And it was one of the few that my dad and I had shared throughout my life. I would realize much later how rare and significant that night was.

You never know when you’re creating a memory.

Time went on as it does, and I’d often sit on the floor in the family room of our house. We had a large red woven rug that I’d occupy, and I’d dig through my parents’ records. I would inspect every detail their Purple Rain album, along with their Rick James albums and the 12" single of Kiss by Prince. I felt mature because I too had a record in the collection. And it was autographed, to boot! I would look at the red marker autographs on my coveted album. At one point, I drew hearts on the back of it in secrecy to avoid any embarrassment should my parents discover my smitten state. Along with the hearts, I signed pretend autographs as if I were part of the group. It was my most cherished possession.

1994–2007

My parents divorced when I was fifteen. The era of their divorce is one filled with the chaos of which we were all casualties. My dad worked and went out to the bars and nightclubs during the weekends with his girlfriend. My mom also absorbed into her new life.

During that time, a lot of things went missing from the house that was now my solely my mom’s. My dad had moved out, but I don’t recall him taking much else besides his clothes and tools.

When my dad passed away in 2007, I immediately recalled the night at the Riverfront Mall. It was my favorite and most vivid memory of my dad. When people die, we remember the items that store their memories. The most significant thing that was symbolic of a happy and jovial time of my life with my dad was that autographed New Kids On The Block album.

I prayed it was in my old hope chest that was still in my mom’s basement.

It wasn’t.

At the time of his death and the years following, I learned that things are just things. Nothing can bring someone back after they die — not their old clothes, not photos of them, not numerous visits to the cemetery. Looking at old pictures of my dad would keep his image and smile alive in my mind, but I would never hear his voice again. Not in real life. Not in this life. He’d come to visit me in my dreams, and it was only then that I could get a glimpse of his smile. That same smile he had the night he took me to my first concert and put me on his shoulders. That’s why that album was so significant to me. It was a memory not only of my dad but of my happy dad.

When our loved ones pass away, we want to remember the best of them. The New Kids On The Block album signified a simplicity in all of our lives before the divorce. It wasn’t so much the physical album that I wanted back in my possession — it was the emotions attached to it. I came to peace with knowing that I’d never see the record again. I also learned that the power of our memories far outweighs any physical memento.

2016

I didn’t want to get out of bed that day. Gabe and I spent a sleepless night together after going out, and I wanted to lay in his bed all day. It was raining, I was tired, depressed, and life felt heavy.

“Come on. Get up! Let’s go thrifting. I need to get a gift for Will.” Gabe pulled me out of bed. Rare that he was up and about before me.

“Okay, fine.” I pulled myself out of bed, rinsed my face off, brushed my teeth, and we drove to Gabe’s favorite second-hand store.

He shopped for hats as I became antsy.

“Can we go to that thrift store I was telling you about? The one on South Broadway? The one, my young cousins go to.” I asked.

“Sure, yeah, we can go,” Gabe said as he looked in the mirror for the fifth time debating on a hat.

“Okay, you’re driving.” I handed him the keys.

He purchased his hat, and we walked in the rain to the car. It was a perfect day to be sleeping or eating, but here we were thrift store shopping in our sweatpants.

We arrived at a store that specializes in 80s memorabilia. The store was a time capsule of my childhood — displays of Cabbage Patch Kids, He-Man, and various pop culture staples of the era.

I browsed without intention. My head was in a fog from the late night, and I was eager to get home and nap.

As I roamed the store, I noticed a New Kids On The Block display. I didn’t think much of it. As Gabe was wandering around to the other side of the store, something caught my eye. I had noticed a New Kids On The Block album hanging on the wall in a frame. I didn’t give it a second thought. Then I looked at it again. I noticed writing in red marker on the album cover. I thought: “Hmm. Interesting. My old album had autographs in red marker on it from the record signing.”

I walked around the store in a state of boredom and imminent hunger. My mind wasn’t fully present, yet I was taking in all of the nostalgic knick-knacks with detail.

True to form, Gabe was at the Star Wars display.

I looked around for Prince memorabilia. Since the recent passing of Prince, a lot of childhood memories of our parents listening to Prince had surfaced. His music was a profound part of our childhood and heavily influenced our parents. I was in search of all things Prince as if to hold on to his memory forever. The truth was, I was looking to hold onto my childhood forever — to hold onto that innocence forever. The store had a slim and disappointing Prince selection, aside from a photo reprint of him circa the 1970s that I had set at the counter for purchase.

Again I passed by the New Kids On The Block display. An invisible push that was gentle yet firm forced me to pause and look up at the wall behind it.

My eyes focused on the album. It was the New Kids On The Block 12” single of Please Don’t Go Girl. Something told me to have the woman working the desk take the album down from the wall.

“Can I see that New Kids album?” I asked, breaking the silence in the store. Only low-volume music of the 80s filled the air with sound.

Gabe looked up at me from across the room.

The woman took it down and handed it to me.

I looked at it. I looked again.

“To Andrea and Adrian,” it read. There was a smiley face in the loopy stem of the letter ‘D’ in Danny Wood’s autograph in the lower right-hand corner. My eyes gazed to the lines cut in Danny Woods’ hair, the red print of the text on the album against the black and white photograph of the group. I studied their matching Adidas shoes, just as I had when I was a kid holding the record on the red woven carpet in the family room. A vision of my dad’s ripped jeans emerged from my memory, and I felt the crowd at the Riverfront Mall.

My mouth went dry, and an unfamiliar breeze blanketed my body. My body locked from within, and it felt numb.

“Oh my god. This is mine. This is my record. This is my album.” I froze, gripping the album. Everything in the store went black and white. I felt hot and cold simultaneously.

“What? It is?” The woman asked.

“Yes.” I began to speak fast and was unsure if the words coming from my mouth were making sense. I stumbled over the story, trying to recount it as best I could. The words flew out of my mouth as I trembled.

“This is my record. My dad took me to see New Kids at the Riverfront Mall when I was a kid. He’s been deceased for nine years now, but he took me to this concert. He had told me: ‘I’m taking you to see New Edition, and I was so excited! As we waited in line to have them sign our record, I told my dad: ‘Dad, who are these kids? These kids are white.’ He said: ‘New Edition, New Kids On The Block, same thing.” I shook as I told the story. Serenity and disbelief now occupied me. It hadn’t sunk in yet that in my hand, I was holding my favorite memory of my dad.

“What?” Gabe looked up. He too looked frozen.

I walked over to the desk with it. Gabe came over and stood by me as I held the album in my hands and just stared at it.

“I can’t believe this. I never thought I’d see this again. This album is my favorite memory of my dad.” I fought back the tears unsuccessfully.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“It’s thirty dollars.” I pulled out my debit card.

“You take it. It’s yours. We couldn’t charge you for that. It belongs to you.” The woman looked at her coworker and looked at me as she said this. They shared a subtle nod of approval as she handed me the album encased in its plastic frame.

“I can’t believe this.” I started to tear up as I walked away from the desk so Gabe could pay for his things. I stood in the corner of the store to look at the album in privacy.

We left the store, and I handed Gabe my keys. I sat in the passenger seat of the car and ripped the album out of the plastic frame that now housed it. I flipped it over and saw the scribbles I’d drawn on it when I was a kid. I transported back to that red woven carpet again. I recollected the albums of my childhood on the rug — spread out, me inspecting their every detail. For the first time in years, I felt that feeling of childhood innocence sweep over me. The emotion before life was tainted. I was temporarily back to a simpler time that I had taken for granted. Although I was crying, I was holding back and holding in what I needed to release. This moment was heavy. It was divine.

“That’s your favorite memory of your dad?” Gabe asked.

All I could do was nod my head in response. Memories kept flooding — the red carpet, the hope chest, the mall, my dad’s black leather jacket.

I knew my dad had orchestrated this experience.

I came home and parked in front of my house. The record rested in my lap as I sat in my car.

I called my sister.

“You’ll never believe what just happened.” My voice was shaky.

“What? What happened? Are you okay?” She sounded worried.

I told her the story through a storm of tears. I was still in my car parked in front of my house. I had tears and snot running down my face and chin. I didn’t care who saw me.

“That’s my favorite memory of dad. Can you believe that? I never thought I’d see that record again. And there it was, my favorite memory of dad, literally hanging on a wall in a store I’d never been.” I finally composed myself and walked into my house.

“Tell mom,” Adrian said.

“I’ll text her. I can’t talk much now. I have to get ready for tomorrow.” The next day was Mother’s Day, and I was hosting.

I sat on the couch and continued to inspect the album through tears and shock. I put it back in its frame to keep it protected.

I picked up my phone and texted my mom and told her of the experience. I could tell through text that she understood what had just happened. We carried on our text conversation for a bit longer, and I told her I was looking forward to having her and grandma Lorraine and Adrian over in the morning for Mother’s Day brunch.

Morning arrived, and I prepared Mother’s Day brunch. My mom and sister and I were wearing Prince shirts.

We sat down to eat.

“And, did you tell grandma what happened yesterday?” My mom asked.

“What?” My grandma Lorraine asked; looking worried. It runs in our family to immediately rush to a state of worry when someone asks a question like this.

As I told her the story as articulately as I could through my still present state of shock, her eyes widened, and she put her fork down.

“Are you serious?” my grandma asked, looking directly into my face from across the table.

“Yes. There it is.” I pointed to my wall where I hung the album.

“Your dad wanted you to have that record back.” My mom said.

“I know he did.” I gazed at the album, my eyes always wandering back to the autographs in red marker.

“Isn’t that weird that Andrea was in the Segunda, and she finds that record?” My mom said.

“That’s because her dad sent her there.” My grandma said.

“How does it feel to be 40?” My sister asked the morning of my fortieth birthday.

“Like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I feel lighter.” A smile formed as I spoke those words.

“You’ve done everything you’ve wanted to do.” My sister said.

“Yeah, I guess I have. Well, not everything, but a lot of things.” I paused.

“You’ve done a lot.” She reminded me.

“I have. And I’m grateful. There were a lot of times in my life when I didn’t think I’d make it. My thirties were more brutal than anticipated. But I made it. I’m more than ready for the next.” I swallowed tears and nodded to myself with approval.

So what are those things?

I began my thirties by becoming clean and sober.

By doing so, I cleaned up the messes of my twenties.

I made new, healthier friendships and let go of toxic surroundings.

I wrote and self-published a book.

I nurtured an established career as a hairdresser and owned a fashion consulting business on the side.

Longing to change careers, I attended Holistic Nutrition school while simultaneously working full time — at the age of 35. I aced my classes.

I spent a week in Maui alone.

I spent two weeks in Barcelona alone.

I was awarded a third trip to Paris.

Tiring of working for someone else, I decided to become self-employed.

Eventually professional burnout got the best of me, and I retired from my career as a hairdresser after two decades.

Plunging into the unknown, I started over. Anything beats burnout.

I discovered an affinity for spreadsheets and amending contracts.

The dance floor became my solace — a party called Goodness became my home; The Solution its elder. Chosen family at embrace me at both.

My tattoo collection grew.

As did my hair. I started growing out my hair from a pixie when I became clean and sober. It carries my story.

Prince died, along with part of my childhood.

An artist named Detour painted a mural of me. To say it’s an honor is an understatement.

My sister and I danced the night(s) and Sunday afternoons in the summer away.

We each have a Sheila E. drumstick caught from her show.

I loved and lost, loved again, and had my heart broken profoundly. Twice.

I witnessed my grandmother’s health deteriorate. I held her as she died.

I endured more loss in ten years than most people do in a lifetime.

My sister and I spread our grandma’s ashes in Barcelona at the beach. We took her on the trip she was never able to go on.

Solid friendships formed and continue to grow. I’m grateful for my pillars and dance partners.

I volunteered on a campaign I believed in and saw it to victory.

A friend and I started a podcast with our banter and morning coffee.

Feeling unfulfilled, I was searching for the next.

The necessity for change was crucial; the timing of an opportunity to relocate was divine.

I packed up my life and moved close to the beach like I’d always wanted to.

Another chapter of starting over.

All of this occurred while clean and sober. (Still).

So, did I really do everything I wanted to do in my thirties?

Essentially, yes.

So now what?

Create.

Love.

Laugh.

Dance.

Explore.

Write.

Rest.

Move.

Play.

Live.

“Do you want to be in this relationship or not?” I texted, frustrated. Hurt. In disbelief I’d ever have to ask him, or ever wonder where I stood.

“No. I don’t think so. Not at this time.”

“Then you need to come home and get your shit.”

“Right now? I’m all the way at my mom’s and I have to DJ tonight at 10:00.”

“Yes now. If you don’t want to be with me, I can’t have you in the house. It’s been torture the past few weeks. Knowing you aren’t sure about us. Feeling you pull away.” I replied as I turned down my street. Our street.

I parked.

I walked in the door. My dog hid under the coffee table. She knew something was wrong. That something had been wrong.

I walked to the kitchen. It was as far as I could go. He was everywhere. I could smell him. I could see him. I could taste him. I sat on the kitchen floor. I held my knees and cried into them. My cry was vigorous, yet mute. I involuntarily fell on to my side and sunk into the kitchen floor. The tile was ever so slightly dusted in outdoor residue from the cold, bleak, February spell of stillness. A sign that there was tumult in the house. The kitchen floor was always spotless. My eyes wandered; vision blurry from tears. My body was dense and petrified with emotion. I was paralyzed with shock.

My breaths became brief, yet they multiplied. The more breaths I took, the less I could breathe. My face was wet. I looked on to the living room. I saw the rugs we purchased when he moved in, the cowboy hat I bought when we went to the street fair, his posters on the wall, our coats on the coat rack, the dried roses from him in a vase, I saw the rocks from our trips to the river.

We always took a few river rocks as souvenirs. I loved the river. We’d picnic and kiss and talk and relish in the stillness. We’d walk barefoot in the water and feel the chill and purity of the mountains as we held hands in the current. I wanted those moments to last forever, or at least to cherish them forever. My river rocks were my time capsules of our chemistry and peace. We had a special dish of our river rocks that was placed under my coffee cup collection. It was yellow and square. I kept them in clear site to recollect the memories they housed. The ones we took home with us on our anniversary were on top of the pile. On our anniversary day we made promises to each other and set intentions as we stood in the river. I told him I’d marry him in that very spot. He said that we might just do that. We kissed, held river rocks in our hand, and tossed our intentions of permanent union and love into the water and into the earth. He held my face, drew my lips near, and kissed love into me.

My body was heavy and my face was red and soaked.. My nose was running, yet clogged and raw. I anticipated he’d be there at any moment. The river memory lingered and thrashed out more tears.

I peeled myself up from the kitchen floor. My legs were heavy with grief. I could feel my heart pound and begin to fracture. I took a few steps into the living room and stood there. I cried as I looked around at the memories and love that was about to disappear. It was over. And he was on his way to come get his portion of our relationship out of the small cottage house we rented. My portion would remain until I moved when the lease was up the following month. I was experiencing a bad dream and my worst fear and it was very real.

I sat on my grandma’s couch. I’d inherited it when she passed a year and half prior. The couch she purchased on layaway from May D&F was her pride. It meant she’d made it. It meant she’d survived when others from her past did not. The side of my face sunk into one of the tiny throw pillows that rested against the arm of the couch. The floral print of coral flowers against the deep teal base was comforting. It was my childhood. My heart was breaking on my childhood.

He walked in. Walked through the kitchen toward the basement door.

“Aren’t you going to say anything? I’m fucking falling apart, Gabe.” I wiped snot from my nose. I could feel my eyes swelling.

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I just don’t want to be in a relationship.” Gabe sat next to me. I returned to the couch. Shaking.

“You’re sorry? You don’t want to be in a relationship anymore? Why the fuck did you move in with me, then? To play fucking house until the lease was up? Do you know how fucking damaging it is to live with someone you’re in love with, and when life starts to get real, they tell you they’re not ready? That they think we should live separately?” I searched for reason in his eyes.

“No. I don’t.”

“I know you fucking don’t.” I wiped away tears.

We sat on the couch. The only sound was the sound of my crying. I was seeing red. He had his arm on my shoulder to console me, but I jerked it away. He was the cause of my pain — why would he comfort me?

“Everything is just happening so fast. It’s been so heavy. I know your grandma died and you’ve had to deal with a lot. I know that. I’ve been here! I’m the only one who has been here! And now that’s all settled and you want to buy a house! And it’s like: ‘Oh, I’m buying a house now. Come pay half my mortgage.’ Do you know how that feels? Just to spring on a home purchase on me like that?” He was crying and angry.

“We agreed on it! We’ve been talking about buying a house! You don’t have good credit and I do and I started the process and I was approved! Our lease is up sooner than anticipated, so I thought I’d look into making an adult decision. I need to get my life back in order and be smart about my future. I want my life back. You even said we could live with your mom until I had enough for a down payment and then we could start looking. And now you’re backing out of that? We have to pay to live somewhere, so it might as well be a home purchase. I was just trying to do something smart and financially stable. I need to have a foundation for my future. We’ve talked about all of this and now you’re scared?” The tears subsided for the moment.

“It’s too much. I don’t know why we can’t live separately and see how it goes. It’s been one heavy thing after another. I just want calm. A home purchase is a lot to think about.” He looked down into his clasped hands.

In the process of reclaiming my life at the beginning of the new year, I’d lost perspective of what was really important. I’d begun to sacrifice my relationship out of fear of not being where I thought I should be.

“I know it’s been heavy. I couldn’t help that my grandma died. You’ve seen how hard it’s been. I’ll always thank you for being there for me. No one else was. And you know what the brutal thing is? Is that I didn’t go see her that day that we rekindled because I was in bed with you. And I could have seen her. But I was happy. I felt good. We felt good. I felt our love. We rekindled after 10 months, and for the first time in months I was happy. I was so stressed out with money and professional transition and my grandma, that I actually felt good for the first time in a long time. And here we are. You’re leaving me. I made a mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I didn’t go see my grandma because I thought she’d be there. I didn’t go see her because of you. Because I love you. And I thought you loved me, too.” My eyes wandered the house. The tears returned with a vengeance.

“I’m sorry, babe. I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you feel this way.” Gabe’s tears surfaced. His face was red.

“Gabe, I know it was hard. I felt you pull away when I started with all of the house and business stuff. Is it that bad that I want to create some stability for myself? I’m thirty-eight years old. I need to rebuild after the past few years.” I was looking for understanding in his swollen eyes.

Almost two years prior, I had retired from a lucrative, yet soul draining and depleting career as a hairdresser and fashion consultant. I was drained mentally, physically, and financially. Twenty years of blood, sweat, and tears and I had nothing to show for it but burnout. In that time, my grandma’s health was rapidly declining. She’d been a fighter her entire life, but nature was starting to take its course and I was on perpetual edge with anxiety. The few years prior had been occupied with frequent hospital stays and doctor visits.

Six weeks after my retirement, I landed a job that transpired into being a scam. Being in my mid-thirties without a degree lent me few options. I no longer wanted to be in the industry I was in, but had to start over. A former client hired me to be her assistant and office manager shortly after my stint at the scam. It was part-time and a fraction of what I made as a hairdresser, but it was different and I was grateful.

From the beginning of my new job, my grandma’s health went from bad to worse. I didn’t speak about it at the office. I was very close to her, and her decline was heartbreaking, surreal, and toilsome. I was living on a thin budget, my grandma was deteriorating, Gabe and I were in an off phase, and my only solace was finishing the book I started writing when I became sober several years prior.

The chemistry Gabe and I shared was undeniable, and not like anything I’d experienced in former relationships. We were magnetic. Magic. Even during the time we were apart and on a break, the gravitation we had for each other took our breaths away. It was love in its purest form. I’d loved him the second I saw him.

After ten months of an off period between us, Gabe came over one very early Saturday morning around 5:00 am. We’d been texting all night. We pulled together like two magnets. Our love erupted in the form of animalistic, primal sex. We knew we belonged together. Our chemistry confirmed it. We were in bed together until noon. I felt alive for the first time in months. I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to afford food with the $60.00 I had in my bank account. I gave my mind a break from worry. I gave myself permission to be happy without guilt. I opted to ride the high and see my grandma the next day instead of my usual Saturday. I felt I deserved it. For the first time in months, I felt good. I felt happy.

She died two days later.

Most of me died with her.

Gabe loved me and I loved him and he showed up for me like no one ever had. The grueling task of me taking on the role of my grandma’s executor begun immediately after her passing. I was robbed of my time to grieve and cope. Instead I had to sell her house and make sure her outstanding debts were paid. She died poor and in debt. My heart vanished. It was all too much. I was not in my right mind. Gabe kept my heart beating. And comforted my mind.

After several stressful and heavy months, I settled the estate. Though difficult and dark, Gabe never left my side.

My grandma’s passing had turned me into a version of myself that I did not recognize. I’d neglected myself during her decline, and was now faced with grieving her loss, putting myself back together, and praying to God that I did not push Gabe away with the stress and weight of my grief. I returned to therapy and began to live a life without my grandma. And a life with Gabe.

He moved in.

I was elated. I wanted Gabe to be my forever person. I prayed everyday that he would be.

The summer he moved started out promising and fun. The spring had presented a rough patch for us. On a night out at a friend’s party, a guy who had assaulted me when I was a teenager was at the party. The following week, an abusive ex-boyfriend found my phone number after twelve years and called me. At one point I had a restraining order on him. I was flooded with memories of trauma and abuse within a short amount of time. It felt like a bad dream. Gabe took the brunt of it and our intimacy suffered. My psyche had been triggered and I found it hard to be intimate without memories of trauma and abuse. This impacted my mood, mindset, and rationale. These unforeseen and unwanted circumstances impacted our relationship, but we powered on.

We lived and loved together. We celebrated two anniversaries in the span of several months; when we met and when we became an official couple. We took drives to the river to relax and I prepared decadent meals for us on a nightly basis. Cooking for him was part of my love language. Once we moved past the rough patch, we made love often. I was the most sexually open with him than I’d ever been with anyone else. We devoured each other. We’d fuck and laugh after and hold each other and love on each other. Damp with sweat, we’d look into each other’s eyes. I knew he was the one. I’d leave scratch marks all over his back and bite marks on his chest. To me, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’d watch him sleep. His full and dark lashes still with rest and dreams.

Lingering in the back of my mind, I knew that our lease was going to be up in the new year. I also knew that I had to get my life back. I had been lacking financial stability and foundation since I retired from my former career. My grandma’s health and passing took some life out of me, and I was barely reaching a point of being able to wrap my head around starting over without my grandma.

It was time to rebuild.

Gabe was making trips from the basement to his car; trash bags full of his belongings in hand. I was paralyzed with agony as I watched my love and my heart drag his things into the frigid night. He was crying in spurts, blank in others.

I shook myself out of emotional paralysis from my grandma’s couch and walked over to my coffee cup collection that resides in a knook. The yellow, square dish of river rocks below the cups looked at me. I looked at the memories they contained. The intentions we placed on our anniversary in the river. I set those intentions in the rocks and in my heart. I meant them. I felt the intentions in my spirit. I committed to them.

Tears poured out of my eyes. He broke his commitment. I was just getting started to my commitment to him. To us. I picked up the dish of rocks and walked over to one of his trash bags. I dumped the rocks into his trash bag of clothes and shoes and random hats. As I did this, he approached me from behind.

“Wow, really?” His smirk contained hurt.

“Yes, really. I meant what I said at the river. When we said we’d have an eternity of anniversaries ahead of us. That we’d commit to growing our love and growing our relationship. We put that intention into the rocks. And we took some home to remind us of that moment. I said I’d marry you in that spot. I meant it. You didn’t. But you held my face and looked into my eyes and told me you were here. That you weren’t going anywhere this time. That you were here for me.”

His face went blank. I could see him remember the river and remember what he said.

He took the last of his belongings to his car. He stood by the door. I couldn’t hug him, but I forced myself to. The love of my life was leaving and none of it made sense.

“I love you.” I looked into him.

“I love you, too.” He said, crying.

“Then why is this happening?” I pleaded.

“I have to go. I don’t want to.” He held my hands.

“This is going to take me a long time. This is a big one. I prayed for you to come to my life. And you did. And now you’re leaving.” I looked down.

He walked out crying.

I stood still.

I looked around at the empty walls.

His empty closet.

The empty cabinets.

On the other side of the room I saw the yellow square dish now empty.

I laid on the floor on my side until I drifted into a mild sleep.

I dreamt about river rocks.

Be honest.

Your residue might look different from my residue, but we all have it.

If you’ve ever experienced a significant heartbreak, or spent years with someone whom you thought you’d be with for the rest of your life and it seemingly vanished overnight, then it’s likely that the emotional fragments of that loss and of that person will linger for some time. And it should. Shaking the chemistry and energetic exchange of someone you were in love with should take some time. It’s a grieving process that we often deprive ourselves of because it’s an excruciating process, and we crave a quick fix and escape from the rawness of the torment.

You may distract or self-medicate with empty dating and sleeping around immediately after the split in an attempt to temporarily mend your wounded heart and ego, but eventually the reality of the loss of love surfaces and you’re right back to where you started, but this time you’ve added more threads to your tangled web of anguish and departed love.

The reality of a significant wound on the heart is present again, and it’s telling you it’s not going anywhere until you face it.

But often we don’t.

We prolong the cycle: Love — Fear — Loss — Hurt — Try Again.

Our romantic relationships generally begin with attraction, fun, chemistry, laughter, primal sex, intimacy and connection. We begin to fall in love and love the other person — we become energetically attached. The feeling of love, the smiling when you catch their eye looking at you — because you know, and they know. An unstoppable love is being born. Two hearts and souls are drawn to each other. We drown in their skin and breath and spit. It’s magnetic. It’s ecstasy.

It’s love.

Our psyches recall this feeling.

And we are scared.

We remember this high. We are falling fast and are opening our hearts, spirits, bodies, and souls to another person. It’s uncontrollable. It feels right, but there’s a fear crawling up from our emotional basement that we can’t silence. We’ve experienced this — the love, the chemistry, the hope, the happiness, the magic, and then it ended. Suddenly, our mind is crowded with anxiety. The last time we felt this level of love and magic, somehow the low ended up being more intense than the high. The love eventually left and broke us. It was so solid and so pure — until it wasn’t. And then it was gone and what was left were our shattered pieces and shattered beliefs.

A new love is in front of us and pumping through our veins, but the debris we didn’t heal from surfaces like rising flood waters. Internally we are suffocating ourselves with fear. We are now wired to fear love because love has abandoned us. The last time we felt this love, the love proved to be temporary, so we recognize this feeling and experience as something that will hurt us based upon our past. We try to hide it from our partners, but energetically we’ve begun to dispense fear into the present love that is growing and flourishing.

Fear is an invisible toxin to love.

We have become accustomed to the other shoe falling, so we subconsciously hold onto doubt and anxiety and prepare our psyche and emotions for what might happen, because “it” has happened before. Remnants of the past have festered into fear. We have cellular memory of that pain, and likely things were going good prior to the event that caused said pain. In turn, our bodies experienced the event / trauma / pain / loss / heartbreak, and so we correlate love with something painful being just around the corner, thus manifesting what we DON’T want by lowering our vibration to fear and attracting that vibration. Sometimes we subconsciously don’t allow ourselves to feel joy or free because of past emotional trauma. So, when things feel good, we assume the worst, as opposed to receiving what’s in front of us at that present moment. When our hearts are broken and we feel the empty weight of loss of our partners, our bodies remember that emotional trauma and store it away. The impact of the loss of a relationship is powerful.

We didn’t do internal homework of recovery and confrontation. The homework was necessary in order for us to build a new foundation in a new relationship. Past patterns and mindsets inevitably emerged and our inner chaos spilled out.

We’ve inadvertently sabotaged our relationship with an unhealthy, unhealed, and infectious energy. Love only conquers all if it comes from a place of vulnerability, openness and strength.

Another love leaves. We are devastated, hurt, confused, and broken once more. We vow to never feel this way again, so we ask what we can do to mend ourselves.

The only thing we can do is face ourselves. Blaming someone else is valid to a point, but there is no denying repeated patterns.

We begin to unpack. The vibration of fear and abandonment mentality seeped into our minds and out of our mouths. It polluted our best intentions with insecurity and rigidity. Coming from a place of love morphed into coming from a place of stubbornness and scarcity for fear of loss. We realize that we simultaneously suffocated and repelled what we loved the most. We were too afraid to allow space to organize the emotions and lay a new ground, instead we translated the necessity of space into rejection and abandonment. And deep down we knew better. Space can be the saving grace of a relationship when things get murky. Sometimes something as simple as softness and time can save a great, rare love. Yet it’s terrifying. Two humans coming together is both spectacular and precarious. If love can make us blind, fear can make us deaf. We see that we chose to be both.

The dive into the root of it all is horrifying, but we acknowledge it’s overdue. A life without love is a life without life. In order for us to receive the love we deserve, we not only have to shift our thought processes and admit that what we’ve been doing isn’t working, but we also have to accept our fallacies and flaws and work with them in a constructive way. Nothing leaves until we tell it it’s no longer welcome. Our flaws are no different.

It takes an enormous amount of strength to face the impact that we’ve had in our loss of love(s). It also takes solitude and being uncomfortable in our own heads to prune away a toxic mentality around the love and our hearts. It’s okay to sit in the anguish of our mistakes. To feel them. To look at them head on. And then we ask ourselves how we can mend the mistakes. The act of repair might look different from day-to-day. We are different from day-to-day.

We realize that we are not only healing ourselves from the pain of love lost, but we are healing ourselves from ourselves.

And then it clicks: To learn each other we have to learn ourselves.

Facing, healing, and unpacking our shit is an underestimated component to a relationship — a relationship that flourishes and grows.

Love is strong.

Love is fragile.

It’s unfair to drag our emotional shit storms into relationship after relationship. In order to truly give love a chance and experience what is natural human behavior and necessity, don’t we owe it to ourselves and our partners to enter a relationship after we’ve done some work? Is this easier said than done? Maybe.

Is it worth the work?

Fuck yes.

“Aren’t you drinking?” They ask; perplexed.

“No, I don’t drink.” I reply. I’m not as patient this time. It’s been several years now.

“No, not even wine? Beer? Do you smoke?” They ask as they light another joint.

“No, I’m clean and sober.” I reply; allowing their questions to dissipate with the smoke from their joint. They see in me what they want to see in themselves.

“Oh, really?” They pass the joint to a stranger.

“Yeah, I’ve been clean and sober for over nine years.” I turn around, hoping the conversation ends here. But they are intrigued and persistent with their curiosity. They see something both familiar and foreign.

“Oh. Why’d you do it? Why’d you quit?” The joint returns to their sooty fingertips and stained teeth.

“Because I had to.”

I started drinking and using drugs at the age of fifteen. Heavily. I can’t speak for all, but like most addicts, I have a genetic predisposition to addiction. I come from a long line of alcoholics and addicts on both sides of my family. It was always present at family functions and awkward visits to rehab centers to visit family members. As kids we thought we were visiting them in some sort of camp or mental hospital. I guess we were.

In addition to substance abuse pumping through my DNA, I self-medicated for half of my life. Like many addicts, I experienced trauma, loss, sexual assault, and family dysfunction. Because addiction is often learned behavior, I coped by doing what I saw around me — I drank and I used.

Drink, snort, repeat.

It’s not until we are out of the havoc that we get a clear grasp of how fucked up we were and to what extent we fucked up our lives. Distance from the storm is required to comprehend how far we allowed ourselves to sink and nearly drown in the turbulent waters of alcohol and chemical dependence. It’s in that clarity that we can look back and begin to dissect where it all went wrong and pinpoint that moment that we knew we had no other choice than to get clean and stop making excuse after excuse.

It was through the detox shakes and blacking out that one last time that could have been fatal that I knew I had to quit. That was it. I’d been making excuses for fifteen years to myself. Everyone else had seen through me for years. I’d only been fooling myself and trying to convince myself that I didn’t have a problem. I looked good on paper, after all. I had applied so much pressure on myself to succeed at my career and reach societal expectations to distract people from who I really was, and what my past really looked like. The only thing worse than death would have been people finding out what lurked inside of me. In the process of attempting to deceive and impress people, I’d been pulling the ripcord over and over again with every drink, powder, and pill — letting it all unravel from inside. I’d managed to convince myself that nobody knew. That nobody knew the tangled mess I’ve made of myself.

Everyone knew.

As I began to inform friends and acquaintances about my choice to become clean and sober, I felt like my skin was peeling off. I felt exposed and bare. My greatest fear of confronted me head on — I was being vulnerable. It took me a while to look into myself and start to put the fragments back together.

But I did it.

But just as I began this process, unfamiliar emotions began to crawl up from unknown places located in my psyche. And I had to face them alone. The crutch of a meeting or therapist would have been an enabler at that point. The addiction process is often devious. Just when we think we’ve reached the final destination of emotional arrival, we are faced with a new roadmap of unfamiliar solemnity and pestilent memories. Our only solace is knowing that what is ahead of us is better than what is behind us.

I’ve toiled through my past time and time again trying to make sense of it, and put the pieces together of memories that sometimes surface out of nowhere. Eventually that inner task turns into a maddening game of connect-the-dots that has no end point. I’ve learned to accept it and look at it. Then it goes away on its own.

My experience is not unique. Addiction does not discriminate. It does not care if you are rich or poor, what color or gender you are, what you do for a living or if you are married with children or single and childless by choice. Addiction was likely your most reliable friend when you needed to escape from yourself and the things that carved you into a self-destructive being. Addiction became your enemy when you learned that’s what was responsible for the ugly version of yourself. I hated looking in the mirror at that version of myself unless I was snorting a line off of it. Then she’d go away.

I chose not to attend meetings. I did, however, see a therapist in the beginning of my sobriety. She suggested I use Prozac to get through the depression and fatigue of the early phases of detoxing. I fired her. I wanted to be one hundred percent clean. With the exception of that piece of irresponsible advice, she did help warn me of triggers and encouraged me to be open about my sobriety and build a support system. What therapists and books fail to teach and do, is guide you through the discovery of raw emotions within the first few years of sobriety. The only crutch and coping mechanisms we knew are gone, and now what the fuck do we do? We are not prepared for the experiences of stress, heartbreak, and frustrations with raw emotion, lucid thoughts, and a sober mind. It’s as painful as it is strengthening.

I’m thankful that I never crave a drink or drugs when I’m faced with stress and life’s inevitable challenges. Addicts often cave and relapse during those times of tumult. Those circumstances are manipulated and used as an excuse to use and relapse — as opposed to using it as a lesson in strength and perseverance. Life is full of tests.

Accept that you’re always going to be a student.

Relapse is not part of recovery. Relapse is relapse. Recovery is recovery.

I’m candid and transparent when I’m asked about my sobriety, as opposed to reserved and secretive. I wasn’t hiding it in years past — I was avoiding it and the conversations and questions that came along with stating my status as a clean and sober person. I used to fear that if I mentioned that I’m clean and sober, that I would be met with judgement or it would make people feel uncomfortable. Fuck all that. I’ve worked too hard to worry about if I’m making someone uncomfortable or not.

And I’m proud of myself. I gave myself the second chance to view life through a mended lens.

But I’ve never made addiction and sobriety my identity.

There’s more to me than my alcoholic and drug addict past.

There’s more to me than the trauma and sexual assaults that triggered my escape into addiction.

There’s more to me than the double life I lived for too long.

There’s more to me than deep-rooted dysfunction.

There’s more to me than the scar on my wrist.

There’s more to me than the bad decisions I made.

There’s more to me than my polluted DNA.

There’s more to me if you simply ask.

But if you ask why I quit, I’ll tell you because I had to.

The weight of loneliness presents itself when I’m drinking my morning coffee.

The weight of loneliness strikes when I want to share something that made me laugh at lunchtime.

The weight of loneliness hits when I’m on my way home from work and he is not there upon my return.

Loneliness is heavy.

Loneliness is his replacement.

I crave his soft skin. Absent is his warm smile and premature lines that garnish the outer edges of his dark eyes and dense lashes. I long to lick his brown abdomen; just hairy enough. In solitude, my mind is sated with memories, yet simultaneously my consciousness is vacant. The loneliness awakens as the sun goes down; it is in full attendance when the night is pitch black. I miss his smell and the sound of his breath. I pretend that he’s next to me and that I could kiss the back of his neck and hold him.

I can still see him.

Naked, black hair tousled, eyes transfixed on my body, hands on my face and throat. I can feel his tongue inside of my mouth and then in between my legs before he enters me. Our alchemy is still present in my psyche. We are hot to the touch — extinguished with our sweat. I can taste the sweat in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. It’s my favorite taste. He is my favorite taste. There is a fire between our primal, yet sacred act. I bite his chest, lick his taste again, and straddle him. I swipe some of my wetness from myself, from my swollen and aroused clit. I taste it. He closes his eyes. I gather more of my wetness and put it in his mouth. And then I massage my clit with his spit. I come and scream and collapse on to him. He is not done yet. He makes me quiver, I reciprocate. I remove myself from him and put him in my mouth. He’s pulsating and hard. My spit shines his cock. I look at it, lick it, take it deep into my mouth until it touches my throat. The tip of my tongue massages the tip underside of his tip. I repeat. My hand grasps the hardness and moves up and down with my mouth. My naked ass is in the air, wetness between my legs still running down my inner thigh. My eyes water from how deep he is in my mouth. I take him out of my mouth and move my hand up and down and then return my mouth right before he comes. I want to taste it. He comes, I move my head up, and rub my thumb on the tip of his delicate dick. I lick last of the trickle and then lick the side of his abdomen. We are love ablaze. We are damp with sweat and love. We kiss. He holds my face and looks into me. We say “I love you.”. And we mean it. We giggle and hold hands. We love and lust for one another. We are magnetic. Our bodies are tangled together like a pile of neglected necklaces in an old jewelry box. We don’t move. I’m vulnerable. He’s vulnerable. Boundaries surrounding my heart and spirit have disappeared. I feel protected. I’m comfortable with him and who I am when I am with him. I desire this to be my life forever. This level of peacefulness and love with another person is foreign to me, yet I embrace it. I’m safe with him. I’m home. He is my home.

The night is hot — borderline sweltering and uncomfortable. I’m still wearing a full face of makeup. Rare for me. I’m driving home from an evening out with friends. Lonely. Longing for him, but telling myself I’m stronger than that. I’m on auto pilot. I’ve been on auto pilot since we split. I go through the predictable motions of the right turns and left turns to get home, knowing he’s not there. He never will be. I wonder yet again how it all happened. How half of my heart suddenly disappeared along with his soft skin and the lines that surround his eyes. I have a few friends, a few real connections. But he was my home. The loneliness intensifies as I drive toward my new and unfamiliar residence. Its heaviness is invisible, yet present. I drive through the quiet dark of night. I feel nothing around me. He circles my thoughts. The air of the night reminds me of that summer. That summer of us. The hot, still air would surround our bodies as we slept; only a slight breeze to cool us down. I was happy and in love. Was he happy and in love?

I continue driving in a hypnotic fog. When I’m alone I rehearse what I could have said and what I could have done. In private I fantasize about what could have been.

I feel something wet on my neck. Unrealized tears drip down my chin. I told myself not to cry anymore. I told myself to stop feeling. It’s easier that way. It’s best not to feel, but my smeared mascara would suggest otherwise. I need a tissue. I’m disappointed in myself again for crying. For yearning. For being vulnerable. For destroying all of my walls.

I turn onto my street. I park in front of the house. I wipe my face as gently as possible as not to draw attention to the emotions that are written on my face. I unlock and open the door. I’m too embarrassed to greet my new housemate with my swollen eyes. I retreat to my upstairs bedroom with my dog and uncontrollably sob the second I close the door. I am able to cry making almost no sound at all. I’ve become good at this. I never want anyone to hear me. I’m disappointed in myself that I gave him another opportunity to make me feel this way. I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t see it coming. I wish I didn’t ache for him to be next to me. The space in my heart that was reserved for him is still empty. I pray it grows back, and then I scold myself for giving part of it away so freely. Again.

I look in the bathroom mirror. I look unfamiliar to myself. I’m broken. My makeup is disrupted by the wetness that fell out of my eyes. Streaks of water run through my blush. My cheeks appear dewy and radiant. My mascara traveled down to my chin. My lips remain magenta. I look into my eyes. The white sclera has become reddish-pink. My dress is tight and black and looks flattering on my thinner frame. I’m alone. I wash the sadness from the surface of my face. I don’t moisturize.

I lay on my bed in my dress. I have removed my stiletto heels and they are sitting next to me. I observe the pretty package that left the house earlier in the evening. The curled hair and shaped brows and tan legs. And then I look at myself more closely and sit up in my bed. Tight black dress still on. My strapless bra causing discomfort. The lonely solitude has returned. I miss him. I trudge through the by taking off my clothes, putting on a tank top and panties and letting the sentiments run through my body. I give the feelings permission to be felt. I allow the thoughts of him to intensify. I allow the tears. Our alchemy is still present in my psyche. My nose is stuffy and my head hurts. The feeling of heartache is residing in my throbbing head. I take note that sometimes the feeling of a broken heart does not house itself in our hearts, but in our pulsating heads. The distress is just as much physical as it is emotional, and I wish it would vanish. But this time it is unstoppable and I have no restraint over the levy inside of me that just shattered.

The waves roar and then subside. And roar again.

Then there is calm.

The levy runs dry for now.

I am lonely.

I roll over onto the cool side of a pillow. It sooths my hot skin.

I reminisce. I smile. I close my eyes.

He was my home.

I realize that in residing in that home, I’d lost a home within myself.

Throughout the time I’ve been clean and sober, I’ve been asked on numerous occasions by people from all walks of life how I did it, and how I continue to do it. Everyone who chooses to become clean and sober will experience the pilgrimage from addict to former addict a different way. I’ve been asked about my experience, so I will share my experience. These are my discoveries and conclusions. They may or may not resonate with you, and you may even disagree. Maybe this is what you need to read at this time. Maybe this will encourage you. Maybe this will save you.

I’ve been clean and sober for over eight years. I’ve attended one meeting in this time. Meetings might be a life-saving fit for you, but I found the experience to be negative and draining. So I never attended again.

So how did I do it? How do I do it?

The answer is not complex. That’s the mistake that people who are new to the process often make. They over-complicate it. It’s natural to think that the answer to addiction would be complex as addiction itself, but it is not.

Addiction contains many layers and facets. It is made of chaos.

However, being clean and sober contains clarity and simplicity.

Before diving into becoming clean and sober, you have to be honest with yourself. Are you only wanting to dry out from alcohol? Are you wanting to become clean from drugs? Both? If you decide to go alcohol-free but continue to use pharmaceuticals, marijuana, ecstasy, molly, or cocaine — you are still using. You are now just alcohol-free. If you decide that you’ll quit drinking but use something else because it’s “not as bad as alcohol”, then you’ve just replaced one with another. Is continuing to alter yourself on any level still necessary? And if so, why? It’s okay if you still like to smoke marijuana and dabble in other substances but abstain from alcohol. Perhaps alcohol inflicts more damage to your life than the abovementioned substances and you still feel the need to “take the edge off.”. Maybe cleaning up from the hard stuff is a triumph, but alcohol is still deemed necessary to “deal”. Fair enough. But be honest with yourself. The rest of us can see through you.

Until you have completely stopped using drugs and alcohol, you do not get to put yourself in the category of clean and sober. Some would argue that you don’t get to put yourself in this category until you reach one year of clean and sober time.

Those of us who have done the grueling self-work are part of an exclusive club, and only the strong survive. You are welcome to join at any time. I invite you with open arms and no judgements, but only if you’re ready.

When I made the choice to become clean and sober almost nine years ago, I knew that if I didn’t stop the cycle of alcohol, pills and cocaine, I’d likely end up dead — either from my addiction, or from self-inflicting a permanent escape from my own self-destruction.

At the time, I was in therapy on a regular basis for a couple of years after the passing of my dad. The dark cloud of grief was starting to clear, but I still possessed the same problem I’d had since I was fifteen. My substance abuse problem still remained as I transitioned from my twenties into turning thirty. After a handful of failed attempts at cleaning up, I’d began to believe that this is just who I was.

My patterns were my identity. I’d drink after work, call my coke dealer, visit the ATM, and snort and drink the night away. It had been this way for years. I was twenty-nine years old, dating yet another drug dealer, and was showing no signs of ending the spiral of addiction and wreckage that I was leaving behind in a trail of disaster behind me. Dating a drug dealer was as convenient as it was toxic, but convenience always outweighs the damage of toxicity. Especially when you’re an addict.

Like many addicts, I had been self-medicating to escape past trauma, abuse, and neglect. Addiction also ran deep on both sides of my family. Even without the traumatic past, substance abuse was in my DNA. The unexpected passing of my dad put my drinking and using into overdrive. This was one more devastating event that I’d need to run from. I preferred numbness over lucidity. I’d drink until I blacked out. I’d buy cocaine from a couple of dealers and use by myself. I never told anyone. I loathed myself for my behavior.

Before the age of twenty-five, I had experienced more rock bottoms than I cared to talk about in therapy. So I didn’t. I’d been repeating the same patterns and cycles, yet I masked them with owning a house in a trendy neighborhood, a new car, designer clothes, and a successful career. Every day was a performance of hiding who I really was, and even more so, what had happened to me. I’d been doing this for most of my life.

I was tired.

I surrendered. I couldn’t run anymore. All the numbing and glazing over couldn’t make the past go away. I’d known since I was fifteen that I had a problem. I was thirty.

It was time.

I’d made the decision to rid my body and mind from alcohol and all drugs. I was exhausted with myself and the continuous state of my life.

I discussed this decision with my therapist. During the initial detox process, I’d become lethargic and depressed. As your brain begins to re-write and reset from chemicals, this is a natural occurrence. From that lethargic state, I began to face the flood of demons, memories, wounds, scars and their attached emotions. It was like a marathon of a movie of all of my fuck-ups and traumatic experiences constantly replaying in my head. It wouldn’t shut off. Not only did I have to see it, but I had to feel it. There was nowhere to hide. So I slept. I voiced my depression and fatigue with my therapist. She suggested Prozac.

I fired her.

She didn’t hear me. I’d made the decision to rid my mind and body of alcohol and drugs. Putting a chemical blanket over my past that needed to be faced and dealt with was counter-productive and was what I had been doing my entire life. Prozac was just a prescribed and legal form of the chemical blanket. I wanted and needed to face my ugliness and my past head on. I was ready to be raw with myself. I was ready to be clean and sober.

In addition to all of the money I saved from ending my relationship with my therapist, I also gained something else that I didn’t know I needed: The ability to rely on myself and not a crutch. I learned how to be strong and talk myself through the dower self-talk full of the soot of self-doubt and bleakness. I learned how to pull myself up when it all became too much. And it often did. Therapy is a wonderful tool when it is productive. But I also believe therapy should teach you how to navigate through life by becoming reliant on yourself. If you feel like you need to see a therapist once a week for the rest of your life, then continue to do so, but I encourage you to learn how to be accountable and reliant on yourself, by yourself, for yourself.

It was during this phase of the process that I had my awakening.

I realized that the solution to being clean and sober is simple: Just quit. Just stop, already.

I had been going in circles with books and therapy in search of a magic answer that was right in front of me, and it was something that I had been doing the entire time. I had stopped. I just did it. I just quit. I had quit it all. I was too wrapped up in the: “How am I going to do this?”, instead of the: “I am doing this.”.

That’s the simple part. Stopping.

The difficult part is the changing of everything you know. Changing the places you frequent, your friends, and the things you do. It all has to change. You’ll find out in time that some of these things will change on their own. Allow it.

Identifying your triggers sounds simple enough until you have to avoid them. Triggers are the places you go to socialize, eat and drink, the conversations you engage in, the music you listen to, the memories that surface. They are your friends and coworkers.

Sometimes they are your family.

You can’t start a new life with the old one still latched on to you. You have to let go to let in. Let go of toxicity and let in life. For me, letting go of the drugs and alcohol was the easy part. I was ready to be clean and sober and wanted to be clean and sober. The challenge was to let go of frequenting the same places with the same party people and expecting to live a healthy life while residing in the same toxic places.

The curse of habitual behavior is a vile one. Out of habit, and simply not knowing what else to do to keep me socialized, I’d go out to the bars and clubs that I would frequent when I used. I discovered rather quickly that it was too early in my recovery to do this. It had been less than eight months of clean and sober time. I thought I could jump back into the only thing I knew — a party atmosphere. I was a nightlife veteran. At the time that’s all I equated myself to being.

I’d see familiar faces in the crowd, but I was different now. I wasn’t ordering drinks at the bar or snorting lines in the bathroom stall. I didn’t know what to do when I would go to these bars. It became evident that drinking and using is very much a social ritual, often creating the illusion of friends and genuine bonds with people. Now that I was lacking the common thread of alcohol and drugs, I suddenly had nothing in common with these people. I realized that my membership to this club was being revoked and I was alone. And they didn’t care. I’d leave these places feeling awkward and out of place. I’d cry on the way home. I’d tear my trendy outfit off the second I walked through the front door. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I was different now. I would be different for the rest of my life. I’d cry myself to sleep if I didn’t first have an anxiety attack.

I would wake up lonely and feeling unfamiliar in my own skin. But I was clean. I wasn’t hungover. I remembered everything from the night.

I began to feel the best I’d ever felt in my entire life.

I was also incredibly lonely. My phone stopped ringing. Invitations to go out with friends dissipated. I was confused and depressed. Where had everyone gone? I didn’t know what to do with my time and the anxiety that was at the corner of every thought that surfaced in my mind.

So I isolated.

I stayed home on the weekends. Sometimes three or four days would go by without one call or text. Aside from work, walking my dog and going to the gym, I would not leave the house. Many times I did not leave my bedroom. I’d browse social media from my bed and fantasize about doing the fun things and going to fun events that I saw my friends and acquaintances partaking in. I’d wonder if my former party friends ever thought about me or wondered what I was doing. Or how I was doing. It was evident that I no longer mattered to them.

I began to write.

I needed an outlet for my loneliness and anxiety. I’d never written anything before, but I would often joke with clients about writing a book about my hairdressing career. So that’s what I did. It took seven years to complete and self-publish my first book, but I wrote a book. I would write after work, I on the weekends, and on my back patio on hot summer nights. My writing sessions replaced the anxiety attacks and emptiness. Writing did, and still does, give me something to look forward to. It’s my time and place to reflect, recharge, and create.

My affinity for writing and telling stories became a healthy way for me to release the emotions and confusion about my new life. About the new me. It was a way to express the unfamiliarity of clean and sober living. I was on the cusp of one year clean and sober, and was still timid about telling people about my choice. When I did open up to people about my choice to become clean and sober, I was met with cynicism as opposed to support. So I just didn’t talk about it much. I felt there was no purpose in setting myself up for that hurt.

Any therapist will tell you to build your support system by disclosing to your friends and peers that you’ve chosen to become clean and sober, but what if there’s no one around? Aside from my sister, that first year of sobriety leant very few pillars of additional support.

The first year of being clean and sober will teach you unexpected lessons of false friendships. For the first time you’ll face your past, your demons, your ugliness, and your rawness with vulnerability instead of fear. You’ll discover your strength. You’ll learn to be both hard and gentle with yourself. You’ll lose friends and make new ones. You’ll think you’re in a place to have a romantic relationship — you’ll learn you are not. Reserve the first year for yourself. You’ll never have those clean and sober “firsts” again — cherish them and their lessons. You’ll see the world as more vivid with color and artistry. What was once ignored and taken for granted because of a clouded mind will become a fresh experience with a more gracious perspective. You’ll dig deep into your wounds and face their perpetrators head on. It’ll hurt and be uncomfortable. But you’ll realize that that is the only way out. To get past it all, you have to go through it all. By stepping straight into your chaos with a clear mind, you’ll realize that it’s not so bad after all. You’ve been through worse.

There is not a meeting or a therapist out there that will do the work for you that you have to do for yourself. Sometimes that work is simply being alone. Sometimes it’s working through an anxiety attack. It’s okay to be shattered when no one is looking. Often times nobody is.

If you want to choose clarity over fog, balance over tumult, clean over toxic, life over death, then you have to want it. It won’t work otherwise.

It all comes together after a while.

That’s how it happened for me. One day I woke up, looked at the same four walls of my bedroom that I’d been confining myself to, and thought: “Am I just going to stay in here for the rest of my life? Never leave my bedroom because I’m afraid of what’s out there?”. The answer was no.

I finally understood that I was, and am, outnumbered in the world as a clean and sober person. My problem with alcohol and drugs is my problem with alcohol and drugs. It is not the problem of club-goers, the general public, my friends, or my family. It is my problem.

My shit is my shit.

In my former life of drinking and drugging, I used to go out dancing a few nights a week. I loved it. I missed it. Truth be told, I was only coherent for a fraction of the night, but I loved dancing, nonetheless. I loved sweating with the crowd. I would dance the night away in a blur of alcohol and drugs, barely remembering the songs that were played or the people that I saw. The dance floor was an escape in itself. The vibration from the speakers would enhance my ecstasy-induced euphoria.

Fear and anxiety took over when I so much as thought about going out dancing in my newly clean and sober state. Did I even belong there anymore? Was I capable of having a good time without alcohol? Would it bring back too many memories of my old self? Would the familiar faces recognize me? Would I recognize them? Should I just stay in my bedroom where it was safe? I was anxious with inner conflict.

So I decided to go dancing. And I did it. I danced sober. I danced clean. And for the first time, I heard the music.

Many of us have been there. That event, or series of events, that disrupted our lives and routines so severely that we do not recognize the person that has been churned out of the the other side. It could have been the heartbreak that shattered our hearts and self-worth, or it could have been the bender we awoke from in an unfamiliar and caliginous place. We may have inflicted pain on the people we care the most about and now they’ve blocked our phone number. We marinate in our embarrassment and consequences and wonder, “What is wrong with us?”. Did our dark and dysfunctional upbringing factor into our current state of catastrophe? Or was it the trauma we were victims of? Or have we just hit a rough patch and don’t know how to climb back to balance and stability? We are uncomfortable. We know that we have to change and rebuild.

We are broken.

We are damaged.

We are hopeless.

So we begin our quest. Our quest of self-help.

We are drawn to stories and “secrets” to “living your best life” and “getting your life back”. We are told all of the tools to repair and heal are hidden within the pages of self-help books, and that if we subscribe to webinars and email newsletters that our lives will improve and we will become the best version of ourselves. “Yes! That’s what I want!”, we think as we browse the Self-Help section of the bookstore.

We begin to purchase books and attend pricey seminars of people we don’t know. They do not know our struggles and secrets. They do not know our history. They do not know what the inside of our homes felt like as we grew up. The do not see mental circus is inside of our heads that keeps us up at night. They do not know what makes us tick or whether or not we’ve been in love. They do not know what our triggers are and how many pills we took that one time in hopes of ending it. They do not know us. However, we become convinced that a stranger will “transform” our lives and lead us to the “path” of our “journey” and “purpose”. That by repeating affirmations on a regular, and borderline compulsive manner, we will heal, and quite possibly become overnight self-help success stories. We are broken. We are sold.

We buy into the industry of self-help.

This works is because humans do human things, and generally humans do not like discomfort. We are holding on by one fucked up thread, and if a book says it’s going to fix us, then god damn it, we are reading it. We want to be fixed, and we want to be fixed in the fastest, easiest, most convenient way that is available to us. Whatever it takes to end this inner turmoil and distress.

I’ve done this countless times. Maybe you have, too.

The odyssey for the “secrets” and “tools” to live my “best and most abundant life” began after I’d become clean and sober. I was faced with the raw emotions and realities of sobriety. I replayed all of my fuck-ups with a clear and clean head. This was an aftermath that I was not mentally prepared to encounter. It was haunting. I’d have anxiety attacks and wonder if I’d make it. I’d wonder if what came surfacing up from my past would petrify me into using again. I’d isolate and sleep because it was the only escape from my new self that I was becoming acquainted with — the clean and sober version of myself with a story nobody knew. The weight of that story plagued me. I’d wonder if I’d be able to function as this new version of myself with all of my vodka and cocaine-wrapped layers ripped off. I was exposed. More importantly, I wondered if anyone would like this new version of me. I thought: “There’s has got to be a way to sort this out and birth some balance out of the chaos.”.

So I searched. I bought books and listened to seminars and talks and podcasts and bought more books. Did they help? In the moment, yes, but I still felt vacant in my search. There was never a feeling of completion and relief. Where were all of these answers and epiphanies that would unlock my gate of flaws and anguish and turn me on to a life of greatness and enlightenment and healing? All of the books said I could have whatever I wanted if I just asked for it, so where was it? The books promised “leveling up” and “embracing the journey; not the destination”. But would I ever reach that destination of “balance” and “inner peace?”. This journey was exasperating. I was doing as instructed by the books. I was manifesting, repeating affirmations, reading compulsively, posting inspirational quotes, and searching for enlightenment at any corner and crevice. I was also making wealthy self-help authors and motivational speakers even more wealthy. And they didn’t even know that I existed. They didn’t know my story. But I trusted them.

After years into my quest for self-discovery, balance, inner peace and healing, I have an extensive library of self-help books and books that specialize in inner peace, enlightenment and healing. Guess what I don’t have? Inner peace and enlightenment. And I am most definitely not healed.

You know why? Because I’m human.

But you know what I do have? Experience.

Experience in trauma. Experience in suffering. Experience in addiction. Experience in hurting people. Experience in loneliness. Experience in heartbreak. Experience in taking people for granted. Experience in death. Experience in losing people. Experience in starting over. Experience in disease. Experience in failures. Experience in abuse. Experience in survival.

And then I had my moment of awakening.

I realized that there is nothing within two hundred pages of a self-help book that isn’t already living within you that is waiting to teach you.

I will tell you this, nothing changed for me until I put down the books, as helpful as they might have been at the time, and looked at myself. Looked into myself. I saw what I’d been searching for within the pages and seminars. I saw what I didn’t want to see, but what I needed to see.

I saw myself. I saw my imperfect, abuse survivor, drug addict, alcoholic self. I saw the person who self-medicated to escape the gruesome wound of sexual assault. I saw the person who chose life over death. I saw the ugliness of the past. I saw me.

Not only did I see myself, but listened to myself. I listened to my self-talk. I listened to my cynicism. I listened to my doubt and anger. I listened to my pain. I listened to my desperation for love and support. I listened to my loneliness. I listened to my depression. Nothing is more frightening and telling of your mental state than how you talk to yourself.

I listened and looked into myself. I’d been running from my own experiences and mistakes in hopes of finding a shiny and new answer to all of my problems on the next page of the current book I was reading. But all of those mistakes and experiences surfaced and showed their ugly heads. They’d always been there, just waiting for me to welcome them in and take note of what they had to teach me.

The long-awaited epiphany had arrived. It came tumbling down onto me like the heavens above had ruptured, and from those heavens poured the thing I needed the most: Reality. It wasn’t the epiphany I was expecting, but it was the one I needed. What I’d been searching and hoping for did not come from the thousands upon thousands of pages I had read. What I’d been seeking was both obvious and buried. My experiences were my greatest teacher. As were my mistakes. And my pain.

There’s a lot to be learned about ourselves when we hurt people we love. There’s even more to be learned about ourselves when we inflict pain on ourselves. We own our experiences; our experiences do not own us. Accept them. Learn from them. One could theorize that there’s a plan mapped out for us by something bigger than us that chose our plight and the mistakes we make with the sole purpose of blessing us with an awakening. Some people may think that that’s all horse shit and that humans will be humans with human experiences. Whatever the case, what better teacher and influence do we have than our own history? Than our own fuck-ups? Than our own flaws? Our own egos? It sounds simple enough, but the hardest person to face is ourselves. And most certainly the hardest person to be honest with is ourselves.

The hardest person to forgive is ourselves.

And the hardest person to accept is ourselves.

In addition to facing exactly who we are and listening to what we have to say, we might have the realization that we may never have it all figured out. And we’re not supposed to. Humans are continuously growing and evolving. Life throws unexpected changes and turbulence at us. It’s inevitable. Freedom comes when we accept where we are in the present and give ourselves permission to be, well, us. Once we shut down all of the static clogging our minds along with the pressure of constantly trying to have it all figured out and heal as soon as possible, that’s when the breakthroughs happen. There’s productivity in stillness.

I’ve accepted that there are some things that I will never fully heal from. There are some things that you will never heal from. And that’s okay. Accept it. Take that weight off of your shoulders and allow yourself to be flawed. Free yourself. I spent over two decades looking for answers, and they aren’t there. Sometimes they won’t be. Not everything can be fixed. Not even with a self-help book on a bestseller list. It’s okay to be broken.

I am not suggesting that you abandon all of your self-help books and never attend or listen to a motivational speech again. If those avenues help you, and even save your life, by all means, keep doing that. What I am proposing is that before we spend another dime on another book or seminar written and spoken by someone who does not know us and our history, that we take a moment to go inside of ourselves. A lot of the self-help industry is positive and supportive. And a lot of it is a hustle that preys on humans just simply being humans. Try putting as much faith in yourself as you do the authors and speakers whom you have never met — who will never know you. I understand from experience that those books and seminars can be comforting when we feel lonely. The mission of self-repair is a lonely one, and the companionship of speakers, authors, and mentors is often the crutch we need to keep moving. But don’t deprive yourself the gift of temporary loneliness. It builds tenacity.

My quest for self-help and self-improvement is continuous, but I no longer let it consume me. Life is too short for compulsive consumption of anything. My greatest feat has been accepting myself. I hope it is your greatest feat, too.

The more damaged we are the more wisdom we contain.

Embrace your wisest teacher.

Yourself.