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

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