A long time

 I used to think that my words would reach you somehow. And so I sent them out like prayers. Because I wanted to connect with you. Because I loved you. 

Even when strangers read my posts, when I saw the men you worked with reviewing and assessing, because they seemed to believe I was something like them: perfunctory and clandestine. Even then, I still felt a little closer to you. Because they were connected to you. 

But my words never hit their mark. 

I was fighting for you. Of course I wanted to be with you - but that wasn't what I was fighting for. I was fighting for your soul. I was fighting for mine. 

It's been thirteen years. Thirteen. 

Not a day goes by that I don't ache, knowing what I lost. 

In my dreams

I slept in a hotel last night. White sheets. Unfamiliar sounds and smells, and a neon purple light coming in at the top of the blackout curtain. 

I needed to sleep. That's why I'm here. Work. Sleep. The sum total of my agreement. I paid for a hotel so I wouldn't spill my time on the commute. I've signed up for too much work and don't know how to manage it all. 

But at 0430 I was awake again. And there was so much tension in my chest I could barely breathe. 

I turned on a "get back to sleep" meditation and tried. But it didn't work so I got out of bed, and started reading about the commercialization of space, and trying to piece together the right items from the federal budget. All so I could log more hours. 

But I needed sleep. I took a pill and tried again. Listened to the meditation, tried to get my muscles to release.

And then, at last, they did.

And, in my dreams, you were there, beside me in the bed, naked, propped up on your elbow, keeping me in the hollow of your body, our legs twined together. My hand was on your chest. And you were smiling. I was so happy to be with you. 

My dreaming mind said, "Am I dreaming? This must be a dream." 

And then it convinced me that I wasn't dreaming, that it was actually you beside me. 

I can't describe the peace and joy then, knowing you were there. And it felt so natural, as it always felt natural.

I woke, and the disappointment gutted me. 

But the feeling of you there, beside me, stayed with me throughout the day, a haunting I long for. 

The reality of you was always better than the memory. 

I remember that much. Hated how my mind mis-placed things about you. 

I never wanted the fantasy. Just the man. 

Arnoud said once, "Interesting. Why is this so important to you? What does it give you to not let go?" 

Even now, it feels like I would be lying if I painted it differently than it was. 

But if you were here with me now, I would feel so ashamed. 

I got old. 

I didn't mean to, but it happened. And the pain wound its tangled threads through my life, tripping me up, tightening and choking off parts of me I'd hoped to save. But then they died anyway.

 

My hair turned white far too early. In those years your boys put me through hell. Before I'd turned 40 it was completely silver, so I thought, why pretend? 

I've taken to painting it. Purple. Blue. As if to say that I was in on the joke. 

My body didn't stay young. I still moved and ate the right things, but eventually the shape changed and got all wrong. Sometimes I can forget this, think I'm still the person I was, then I see a mirror and it fucking shocks me. It's not as though I've ever had the greatest self-image. Even in the days when I knew you, when I was fucking hot, I despised myself. So maybe I'm not the best judge on this one. 

I tried to have children. I couldn't. I think I waited too long, hoping you'd come back, refusing to think of any child without your smile. 

There was the cost, too. When you get fucked over by a covert intelligence agency, the financial situation can be quite awful. 

And so much instability; how was I supposed to raise a child by myself when I couldn't find my own footing, when I was so fucking sad? 

And then when I tried, I couldn't. 

That's a grief I still haven't come to terms with. I don't know that I can. 

I have two embryos in a freezer someplace, and a dozen frozen eggs that may not survive the thaw, and a body that has never been able to become pregnant. I just delay the inevitable because I can't quite let myself believe it's over. I will. Soon. Most of me has given up on the idea of ever being a mother. I'm just too fucking old now. But not yet. 

There are parts of me that are beautiful, though. Even if you wouldn't see them at first. 

I'm fucking strong. I know that much. I'm proud of myself for never compromising, for never surrendering that fundamental part of me, when they wanted me to negate myself, repent for my spark. Even when it cost me. I lost so much of myself in those dark years, at least I never lost that. 

I'm kinder to myself now than I used to be. I take care of my inner child, speak gently to her, hold her when she's afraid. And somehow learning how to be kind to myself means that the patience and love extends outside of me, too. And I find myself able to love better than before. 

Of course, Floriaan is largely to blame for teaching me how to be so kind. If I know how to do it, it's because he showed me first. Sometimes I'm in awe of him, and so grateful to whatever gods or angels put him in my life. I've learned so much from this kind and gentle man. 

I have the most amazing friendships. If Floriaan is wonderful, then so are the other friends who have walked beside me in the darkness. There is such richness there, such profound intellect, depth of spirit, and an ability to sit with me in discomfort. God, I love them so much! 

Okay. That's enough. I'm getting tired at last. It's nearly midnight and I have another 14 hour workday ahead of me. I need sleep. 

I never got to keep you in my life. But please be with me there. 

After finding a picture of you

I think of myself as myself

A complete whole

As if I have not died and been reborn hundreds of times

Reshaped to accommodate the newer narrative

Stopped trying to live in a life that didn’t happen

As if I didn’t kill who I was

So I could leave you behind

not bothered

 It's 0500 and I'm awake. 

Last night, at dinner, I talked a little about what happened. At the time, I felt okay. But I woke up an hour ago all sorts of triggered and distressed and disregulated. My body doesn't know that this happened a long time ago - and isn't happening right now. I have a hard time talking it down because my brain isn't convinced that I'm safe either - that I'm not being monitored, that there isn't some new horrible surprise ready to fuck up the little bit of security I've built here. 

I want there to be a time when I'm not so upset by this. 

What would I say to you?

 We never got to talk. Not really. 

When I look back, I don't know how many of our conversations were real. You were always hiding the most important bits from me. So can I ever say that it was real? 

You moved. I don't know where you are now. 

It wasn't as though I was ever going to go back to your house, try to have a conversation again. You were so horrible to me when I tried before. I wasn't planning to make that mistake again. But I did feel comfort knowing that the option was there - thinking that maybe there could be some sort of closure. Now, there's only a great void. A physical chasm that's become as significant as the emotional and psychological chasm between us.  

When I look back, I'm inclined towards the best memories. But that isn't honest, is it? The betrayal was a more significant portion of time, and portion of my life. It crashed my world, and ultimately stole my work and career, my financial security and peace of mind. It wrecked me for so long. I can't ever think through that clearly (I never was able to) because it's so imbued with feelings of terror and shame. Whenever I'm triggered into those memories, it takes me days to recover. 

I'm trying to finish this most recent novel. I'm stuck on the final chapters - because I've written myself into a literary eqivalence and I can't find resolution in the book because I can't find my personal resolution. And this pisses me off. My writing is the one thing I feel some control over and enthusiasm for. I hate the idea that you'll fuck this up for me too. 

So, what would I say to you? If you were able to actually receive my words, instead of those horrible things you did in real life? The lying, the denials, the gaslighting ("nobody has ever harmed you. You were never harmed.") Fuck that. Every time I tried to talk to you, I was dissociated and could hardly speak. Even if you were to behave kindly, I doubt I could say anything I mean. You're just too unsafe for me to be honest with you. 

The only thing I can do is imagine a scenario where you and I could have a real conversation. What would I say to you? 

It's been bad. What you did was really bad for me. I'm afraid to start describing everything that happened because I can't bear the thought of your apathy or derision about it.  I don't trust you - even this imaginary version of you. So I'll keep this part to myself for right now. 

What I really want to say is: I miss you. I miss being able to be around you and feeling like I would burst for happiness. I miss your thoughts and the way your mind worked. I miss your charismatic humor - and how every time we were together, it felt like the beginning of an amazing adventure. 

I miss who I was in those days when I trusted you. I was a different person. Happy. Passionate. I wanted to protect you, to protect us, to be the best and most ethical version of myself - to help you be the best and most ethical version of yourself, too. 

I wish we'd been able to have all those things we imagined. I wish I'd been able to make love to you every day for the past decade. I wish we'd had children together. That dream was so real to me for so long, I couldn't tolerate the contrast with what you had actually done. 

I wish I hadn't lost such a significant part of myself when I lost you. It's like a chunk of my soul got carved out, that I gave it to you, and I've never been able to get it back. I think that's why I'm so upset to think that I can't know where you are now. You have that portion of my soul, and it feels unbearable to not know where it is. 

I wish you had chosen differently. That's all. I don't know why you didn't. I'm inclined to think that it was some sort of moral weakness on your part - but maybe that's harsh and judgmental. Maybe it was just a calculation to you and you felt like you had too much to lose.  Or maybe you were like me - so traumatized that the walls went up involuntarily and you couldn't feel anything or be in touch with the person you'd been when you were with me. 

I hate what you did.

There is still so much anger and grief about what you did. Sometimes, I delude myself into believing that I've reached some level of acceptance and resolution, and then it slams into me again and knocks me down. I fucking hate all of you for spying on me, for fucking with something personal and private, and for completely fucking up my life when I turned around and acknowledged what you were doing and tried to stop it. I hate you. I hate what you are, what you represent. And I hate you especially - whichever one of you had a sliver of conscience, a bad feeling that you shouldn't be messing with a private citizen, shouldn't be hacking my phone and fucking with my personal relationships, and who didn't speak up and try to stop the rest of the team from doing it anyway. Fuck you.

New Rules

I walk in the evenings after I finish my work. I try to get things done before the sun sets so I have at least a few minutes to enjoy the light. Most evenings I walk towards the sea, through the dunes.
I can't run anymore. A bad leg injury two years ago has left me quite unable to do anything beyond a casual stride, and I always feel a little nostalgic when I see runners on the trail, a little jealous. But the walking is good, too.
Tonight I wasn't quite finished with work when I left. The world was getting dark as I made my way outside. I walked to the Dunes, careful to avoid people on the path, keeping the designated distance. I don't know if I have anything. I don't know if they do. But I don't want to be responsible for inadvertently killing anyone.
These are strange times, and the rules we all agreed to, the paradigms we all thought were so important, have broken apart.
I listened to the sea, pressed my feet into the wet sand. And I talked to god.
It feels wrong to ask god for any personal favors. Why on earth should I think my case is special? The idea feels obscene. There are so many people suffering right now, so many people mourning the loss of loved ones, so many first responders, doctors and nurses on the front lines. My prayers go to them.
I am lucky, and I know it.