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

A woman scorned...tsk tsk. But there is a first for everything. And my short, little tale will tell you the time that I SHOULD have looked more like the girl in this picture, but in my timid youth I allowed myself to be stood upon. No longer. My big mouth might get me into trouble sometimes. And things may be rocky with English gent. But every day I aim to NOT be a woman scorned ever again (fuck you Mr. X).

Dear Ethers,

When I was in College in the States (which I HATED and subsequently made me move to England) I was invited to a dance.  I was really young when I think about it now.  I had just turned 18, I had never had a boyfriend.  I mean, this was BIG.  The school I went to was old for American standards, being from the early 1800’s (it even had a slave tunnel that ran underneath it for underground escapees!) and it was done up in a beautiful gothic style.  Trust me, it was THE ONLY endearing thing about the place.  The dance was black tie and was to take place in one of the old halls that had probably seen balls and banquets where ladies and gents had gotten their tails and hoop skirts out before there was TV, an iPod or the Polio vaccine.  

I wasn’t particularly keen on the boy who asked me.  He was about 2 years my senior and I barely knew him.  He was the older brother of a girl who was in my dorm and since I really was very inexperienced with guys, I felt very anxious.  But, I was committed to the fact that this was part of what college was about and I had to go for it.  I’ve always had a very slim frame and a nice height, especially in heels.  I probably weighed about 110lbs and in my lovely red Betsey Johnson wedges (very 1940’s, Rita Hayworth) I was about 5’9.  I wore a black strapless LBD.  I had gone and had my hair done and went to Stila for my face to be made up.  I really went all out.  For a girl who had never had her dance card even penciled in, I felt it might be a full night with names marked in lead on my sheet. 

The arrangement was to meet outside of the Dance Hall at 8pm.  This was before cell phones were really popular so neither of us had one.  Lickety-split, I sprayed some special perfume my mom gave me, gave a last look in the mirror, took a deep inhale, and walked alone to see him.  I could see girls were looking at me and other guys were admiring me.  It made me feel shy.  Again, I hadn’t yet embraced being an adult yet and many of these kids were from Manhattan or Seniors in college and had come into their own—I felt like a kid.

8:15.  8:30. 9pm.

He never showed.  

I stood outside watching other couples happily enter the building where you needed a ticket to get in (he was in possession of those). I heard the music playing from inside and the loud chatting over it.  Glasses clinking.  Why did I wait a full hour? 

I had a red pashmina that I wrapped around my shoulders and walked home humiliated.  I didn’t want to be seen by anyone in the dorms because I didn’t want to tell anyone what happened.  Nowadays, oh, if I could step back into that One of 365 body and tell her what to do, that night would be SO different, but Ethers, I was crushed. 

I remember staring in the mirror at my beautifully made up face and seeing my eyes well with tears and thinking, “What a shame, my make-up will be ruined.”  But then I realized there was no occasion for it to look nice.  I slowly unzipped my dress, sat on my bed and undid the ankle-straps on my shoes.  I took the pins out of my hair, each wound up piece unraveling onto my shoulders.  I could have called home that night or spoke to a friend, but I think this was a right of passage for me.  Being stood up.  No one could console me anyway from 3,000 miles away. 

I got into bed and thought of those couples still in that old Hall dancing away.  I wondered why he didn’t show or leave a note?  Door locked, side light table on, I picked up a book and read until drowsiness stole me away and my alarm woke me for classes.  I wasn’t very popular so no one really asked how it went.  But then I saw him (it was a VERY small school).  I sort of cocked my head in wonderment with a quizzical look on my face.  He was sitting in the café with a group of friends.  I know he saw me, and he chose to ignore me. And I didn’t even know what I did wrong.  And to my dying day, I’ll NEVER know.

It was the first time in my life that a boy had hurt me.  And though he really had no deep meaning because I didn’t care about HIM, per se, it was the feeling of being jilted by the opposite sex.  We all remember our first kiss, our first “time,” our wedding and so on.   But do we all remember the first time we got stood-up?  I still have those Betsey Johnson wedges and still wear that strapless LBD.  And you know what, another guy eventually came and dipped me and put his hand on the small of my back in that outfit and I DID get my dance.  It all worked out in the end.  But I do wonder………..what WAS that boy thinking leaving an 18 year old girl standing out in the cold on that October evening?  And, 10+ years later, I wonder, has he ever thought about me?  Funny how someone can be an influence on your life, but you can make no impact on theirs.  And do you know what’s even crazier?  Even though it’s been a decade, I can still close my eyes and see myself in that mirror with fewer lines on my forehead, features less sharp—and yes—still a virgin (oh boy, sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to reveal that tale to you guys–I mean, do you even want to hear it?) thinking that 30 seemed dreadfully old.  And hearing my now 93-year old grandmother say, “It all goes by in a flash.”  My god, what a simple memory can conjure.

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