Dear Ether,

Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell.”  

This is how I feel about English gent.

Yes.  He lives here.  I see him.  But who he WAS and who I WAS and who we WERE……….there is a giant abyss.  I reckon loneliness might be one of the most painful emotions of the human heart and mind.  Many a man and woman will die shortly after a spouse passes away–they call this “the broken heart syndrome.” When English gent and I used to be separated, I would feel so alone and be in such a catatonic state that I couldn’t eat, interact with anyone and would force myself to sleep hoping I’d catch him in a dream.  

In so many ways I have let this poor guy down.  He left London, his family, a great job, a lovely flat, friends–the lot–to follow me and a pipe dream to Los Angeles. He did this because his love for me was so great that the above paled in comparison to being alone.   And I, partly through selfishness but mainly because I was madly in love, allowed him to give these things up to come West.  So how did things go so South?

When he looks at me, his once warm eyes narrow and ice over.  I even see them flicker with impatience as he listens to me speak.  He sleeps constantly (not in bed with me) even though he drinks constant cups of coffee to try and fight, what I think is heavy depression.  He still dresses up every day, dapper as a dandy, as if he has a destination.  But sadly, he just sits in his office or walks in the garden smoking cigarettes.  When I hug him he is rigid.  When I touch him he stiffens.  

I don’t want this post to be about what I’ve done wrong or what he’s done wrong.  Nope.  That’s been written about countless times.  This piece is about missing someone.  Feeling their presence.  Hearing their monotone voice.  And feeling that “there is a hole in the world.”  

Poor English gent.  He has no one to talk to about his woes.  Nowhere to go and hide.  No money to treat himself.  Ethers, I can’t fix this.  I can’t fix him or our problems–at least not in the immediate future.  But he’s a good person and I remember so many wonderful moments that we shared that changed both of our lives. I can’t bare watching someone so key in my life suffer.  Yep.  Maybe I miss a ghost.  An ethereal object that will never return.   It haunts me.

What he doesn’t know is that I still smell his jumpers—right around the neck (that’s where he carries his wonderful smell).   I still look at him and think he embodies utter beauty.  When he speaks sometimes I close my eyes and listen because his voice is so melodic and his thoughts so intelligent—I even tear up.  And I watch him in that garden smoking those cigarettes.  Pacing back and forth.  Smoke billowing out of his mouth.  I know he can’t see me, but, like a voyeur I try and guess what he’s thinking about.  To try and crack his secrets.  And he thinks I’ve just discarded all of his handwritten notes that he’s sent to me over the years. Gorgeous letters written in a fountain pen with beautiful drawings around the edges on cream paper.  I’ve kept every single one and have them in a special drawer. I take them out and read them, crying line after line.  

One day I hope this will pass.  That we can either move on and go our separate ways content with our parting.  OR, we can finally accept one another and embrace our future.  But right now, like a horrible nightmare, I keep walking in circles day and night around the space we’ve created.  

So, to you English gent, “I miss you like hell.”

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Because this post really has no theme, I just thought I'd include a total non sequitur image (and hey, I could go for a long shot and say there are people sleeping in this pic and my post DOES talk about sleeping...). Hey, at least this person was A: Toasty. B: Anonymous (great to market to any celeb) C. And totally on trend (those colors are SO HOT right now!

Dear Ether,

I just wanted to say a quick hello before I went back to sleep.  I didn’t feel very good today, went to a meeting despite feeling like rubbish, and then got back into bed.  English gent is wearing a face mask and declares Swine Flu! But I think  I’m just run down (I’m kidding about the Swine Flu but not about the mask….  )  I’ve taken some Nyquil/Night Nurse and hope to be in a green capsule daze soon (actually, I really don’t need that amateur stuff for slumber.  I’ve got Dr. W’s goods.  But, hopefully this will unblock my nose and ease up my throat).  

My meeting was very exciting and was about my future with my newest freelancing gig (which is the one I love the most).  My Editor is a DOLL and immediately assigned me two more pieces (really quirky and fun, I’l tell you about them later) and told me that she should have good amounts of work for me since the department I was writing for was growing.  I asked her to please consider me for a permanent position if one were ever to arise and she gave me her word she would.  She said she’d also keep her eyes peeled for positions internally posted.  I NEVER put my eggs in one basket and I don’t trust anyone EVER, but I hope this Editor is an honest one who comes through, because I’m in love with this gig.  

My first feature came out today, and when I saw my byline along with a 1,200 word article, I really choked up.  I felt like a writer again–a real journalist, not just a star fucker.  It came out in the Sunday edition so it must have been read by  loads of weekenders–and remember–it isn’t always about the dosh for me.  It’s about that lady unwinding on her Sunday after her long work week and picking up the fun part of the paper and reading my piece and smiling.  My next feature, another 1,200 word beauty, is making headlines within the next fortnight.  This is the one I’m crazy about. It’s the spec piece that got me the gig to begin with. They normally don’t take this type of feature as it’s an opinion piece (by me) and it really meant a lot  that it got printed in this publication, particularly because of its prestige.  You see, I tried to sell it to lower grade glossies and no one was biting.  To see it come alive in this newspaper is a real honor.  

Going to see “An Education” with shoe gal and another one of her fab friends (Thursday) who owns a very famous restaurant here in Los Angeles.  The friend is sassy and I like her a lot.  But she’s married to a guy with a BAD TOUPEE–what’s with me and running into people with bad hair-pieces?  She’s a bit of a cougar and a lot of fun!  Maybe a new friend in the making?

English gent and I have spent a few peaceful evenings together.  And though we do have our shorts spats, we try and hold our tongues and get along.  Hey, at least we’re in the same room together right?  Regardless, he’s my best mate and still owns a bit of real-estate in my heart so we have to see what happens.  From my stats it seems like you Ethers really liked that piece about our courtship!  I guess I’ll have to tell you a bit more about our walks down memory lane.  And what a wild, crazy path it was and still is!  

I hope you’re all well.  I’m devastated that Internet Explorer is still banning people from my site (is this so—can you let me know for sure?) and that folks can’t read when they want to escape from doing work AT work and their damned computers only allow them to search via IE.  My host can’t figure it out, Wordpress says it can’t fix it as they can’t see a problem (both say THEY can view it fine on IE on their servers) so, I am extremely confused!  Regardless, I’ve gotten some lovely E-mails from the blog.  Do continue to write.  Those who HAVE can attest to the fact that I DO indeed reply…..and like my hideously lengthy posts (remember this was supposed to be like 2 lines–I’m at 732 words) I write back a generous amount!  Anything you wanna get off your chest, any questions about a post—write me.  

Okay, back to bed (I think when I die, and if I don’t get cremated, I’ll get a coffin that looks like a bed….it makes sense….it’s where I was happiest and spent most of my days!).  I have an adorable pooch snuggled up at the foot of my bed, of course on my cashmere throw (what a prince) and some good books I’m in the middle of.  Oh, and of course a few cookies by my side table

I know many of you have already gone to bed–or will be seeing this in the morning–so I will just say–as I usually do–

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Word Count: 860

I feel utter despair. This post is ironic. I start out lighthearted, but as I write and I begin to spill my guts, I end distraught.

Dear Ethers, 

***The beginning part about “Fashion Fridays” was written before I began delving into my somewhat stream-of-consciousness “rant” about the state of English gent and I…therefore it starts very lightheartedly.  I apologize for it turning into something far less amusing.

Shock! Gasp! “Fashion Fridays” is not going to happen today!!!!!!!!! I know, I know.  Grab the tissues, I’ll wait for you to stop tearing your hair out.  Done?  Okay, I’ll explain.  My photographer is ill and my replacements are A: serving jury duty B: on vacation.  So, since there is no one to snap the photo, the shoot cannot be.  But, that means there is one extra outfit in the wardrobe waiting for you next week that will be very special and I promise I’ll make it ultra-fab to make up for this terrible loss.  Are we cool?  Thanks for understanding Ethers. 

So, I suppose I should update you on what’s going on with English gent and myself…yes, the saga does continue.  He’s fading fast guys.  He’s truly miserable.  He sleeps for hours and drinks tons of coffee and energy drinks to keep his depressed eyes open to even do any work.  He’s proclaimed that he doesn’t even know if he’s in love with me anymore and that he thinks I might have ruined his life.  He doesn’t believe in Dr. W anymore and won’t attend sessions.  He and I are monosyllabic at best and don’t find anything that either of us do of interest any longer.  He does not sleep in the same bed as me—he has taken over the spare room/office and made it his.  I hate to get graphic, but we haven’t been sexual for months.  And I mean, we haven’t even grazed fingertips or lips either.  He is very angry towards me and I am very resentful towards him.  

Ok. 

I know what you’re going to say. 

It’s time to move on. 

It’s not that easy. 

English gent and I sent in visa paperwork which detains him in the USA for 6 months.  Yes, he can leave, but this would cost $2,000 and destroy his application.  

Who cares, you say?  He doesn’t want to be there anyway. 

Well, we don’t know after 8 years if this is just a rough patch because of our life situation or if we are DONE.  You have to remember it wasn’t very long ago that we were madly in love and living together in bliss in London strong as ever.  I used to look at him and thank my lucky stars.  I was always terrified that the States was going to ruin that.  That maybe there was something magical about us in England.  But that taking him out of context and putting him in America where he had to depend on me would kill us.  I was right.  

I feel bad for him.  I feel sorry for myself.  I know the right thing to do would be to rip off the plaster and send him away.  He’s be in agony, as would I, but probably in the end we’d both find our feet…….slowly……..and have better lives for it.  Ethers, he is a Londoner through and through.  He is a fish out of water here and he is never going to learn to swim.  The problem is neither of us know what to do.  It’s like we are Siamese twins.  We’ve been attached for so long that even though the option of separation would be best, it’s too scary to think about cutting us apart.  I really can’t imagine my life without him in it.  

Right now I’m scared.  Terrified.  This is the guy who I thought I’d be with forever.  I thought I got lucky young.  And now, on the brink of 30, my whole world is upside down.  When he told me that he didn’t know that he was in love with me anymore—the truth is—the world didn’t freeze—it sort of thawed.  He was on to something. 

But you know what happens if we aren’t lovers…..he’s gone forever.

He’ll never speak to me or see me again.  8 years and he’ll never speak my name again.  And I have never really dated.  Will I, after one horrible date after the other, dream of him and what a fool I was to let him fly away?  Will I spend the rest of my life running after him?  Will I become the ultimate bolter?  

I’ve never experienced anyone dying, or had major surgery.  But I think this is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me.  I live with the ghost of English gent—his body and face are the same.  His clothes are familiar.  But his eyes are slightly different and his soul has completely morphed.  He probably thinks the same of me.  

I know I still love him because while I’m writing this my heart doesn’t hurt for me, but for him.  For everything he might lose.  For his pain.  If you don’t love someone, those feelings don’t exist.  

Once he goes back to England—my life in England is singed at the tips.  I’ll have nothing left but some photos and an expired Oyster card.  He was supposed to be my London.  My own piece of my fantasy that I loved for 8 years.  And when he leaves, all I’ll have are faded memories.  I can’t help but feel this is all my fault.  If I could have just wanted for nothing and been quiet and content.  What does one do with a really broken heart shattering with every beat in ones chest?  I feel like a 50 year old woman who is in the middle of a divorce.  But I’m only 29.  And he’s only 27.  I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs HELP. But I can’t because it is a dirty secret he and I have to keep from our families.  We have no one.  We really only had each other and now we are each other’s worst enemy.  

I can’t write anymore.  Wow…and this started off as a lighthearted post.  And I am so sorry to be repetitive.  You have all given me your best and most thought out advice.  I know we should break up.  I know. I know. I know.  But can you see it from my point of view Ethers?  Please?  Try and remember when you were in relationship binds.  It isn’t so cut and dry.  You don’t need to bother leaving me a comment.  Thanks for letting me vent.  Whoever you are out there reading this—-thank you for listening.  If I had 1 wish it would be to do it all over again.  I really fucked up my life.  How do you live with that?  I guess you do….I’m still breathing……but all I want to do is just go to sleep. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I used to dread the rain when I lived in London. But in a town like L.A. where you rarely get a season change, you kinda embrace the moment. The only problem is, unlike the famously written pavement sign in this photo, neither of us looked right after that day.

Dear Ether,

It rained yesterday in L.A.  The temperature and the wet puddles in the pavement reminded me so much of London.  English gent and I decided to celebrate by taking a walk along Melrose and Robertson (people probably thought we were mad—who celebrates rain, right?).  These famous roads felt like the closest thing to High Streets that we could conjure up.  Melrose was like a pathetic Camden—the punks in L.A. would have been beaten up by the kilt wearing ones in London.  Robertson was a bit like South Molton Street but a bit trendier.  Paparazzi got soaked trying to grab a picture of some celeb leaving The Ivy, their famous head blocked by a big black brolly.  We loved the sound of water rushing into the gutters and cars splashing the sidewalks.  It was a laugh to see the girls who were so L.A. wearing flip-flops and skirts shimmying about screaming in the rain unprepared for this seasonal change. 

English gent and I found a small café run by a Frenchman who embraced us smoking (he complained that he had no one to enjoy a good fag with in this city) and we ordered lattes and pastries and watched the world go by.  We were on a small side street and we played a game with ourselves that we were actually IN London.  We planned the rest of our day.  We were going to go to the National Portrait Gallery (I needed some new postcards to add to the fridge in the flat) and then off to the South Bank for a stroll leading us to the Tate where English gent would buy an overpriced art magazine.  If we had time, and the shops weren’t shut, I begged him if we could go to Liberty.  I wanted to see their bag collection for fall.  Finally, we’d watch the lights go on in Carnaby Street and stroll as shopkeepers shut their metal gates locking them until tomorrow’s punters made them come alive again.  Tired from our day, we’d grab the Number 54 bus and take it all the way to Golders Green where we’d grab food at the amazing kosher wrap restaurant where we’d dine with Orthodox Jews and Arabs and chew to the beat of Hebrew rap.  Finally, smoking an after dinner cigarette and sipping espressos, we’d head back towards Hampstead to our little flat and crash—me putting up my postcards and gent reading his overpriced art mag. 

After we played our imaginary game, I looked at English gent.  He was smoking his cigarette very slowly and staring at nothing. “What’s on your mind?” I asked.  He slowly turned to look at me and I saw his eyes were glassy.  “I’m so homesick.  I miss our routine.  I miss the hustle and bustle.  I really miss MY culture.  But really, I miss us.  This place has destroyed us.”  My throat closed and I began to cry.  I grabbed his hand—the same hand I held 8 years ago—when it was 19 and stained with nicotine from rollies and being a poor student—and I told him that I loved him so much.  That nothing could take away OUR London.  He stared at me and said, “It’s too late.  Look at what’s happened.  Look at what we are now.” The whole time he was gripping my hand it was so tight that his knuckles went white and my skin went red.  I knew that things HAD changed forever–even if we moved back to the UK.  

Ethers.  I had nothing to say.  He held on to my hand for dear life for a good minute and let it go.  We paid the bill.  Then, we got into my car and our London disappeared.  The concrete jungle that is L.A. reared its ugly head again and we sat in silence in traffic both our hearts aching knowing that in the past we were each other’s remedy, not sickness.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365