When I say that I love you,
I guess what I mean is that I love you like a home I have to leave

Recently, I was thinking about the last couple years leading up to mine and Michael’s break-up. 2009 and 2010. They were horrible, miserable years. Things were bad for me. Things were bad for Michael. Things were bad for us. But what I realized is: things were bad because were we lying. I was lying. Michael was lying. We were lying. I knew, deep down, we did not belong together. But, I fought for Michael. Michael was all I ever wanted. I could never love anyone like I loved Michael (no one else would ever love me, but Michael). I didn’t care what I knew deep down. I would never leave Michael. I would go down with the ship.

So, I did. I went down with the ship. Way, way down. And I have spent the last 3 years fighting my way back. In fact, I even dared to say last year was one of the best years of my life. Best. 09/10 Jeni would never believe that was possible.

Of course those years were horrible. I wasn’t me. I was in a bad relationship and willfully ignored it. I treated people horribly. I treated Michael horribly. I treated myself horribly. Of course things were horrible. The universe was saying “Get a fucking clue, idiot”.


But it’ll always be home, till the memory fades
I love you, thanks for the golden age

Things have been bad with my siblings. Dawn spent a year, year and half, barely speaking to me. We talk a little more now, but things aren’t like they once were. Froggy and I haven’t really spoken since April. And now he’s gone. He doesn’t live here anymore. Froggy and I will never be like we once were, either. Joe and I have’t spoken in 3 weeks, even though we work in the same office, 10 feet apart. Joe and I will speak again. Neither of us really has choice in the matter. But, we will never be like we once were.

And what were we? I thought I knew.

No other siblings has ever been as close as we are. No secrets between siblings. Our relationship came before other relationships. We would do anything for each other. We kept each other’s secrets. We helped each other. We helped each other out of crazy/silly/ridiculous/serious/scary situations. We defend our sibling as if we were defending our self. There is no space between us. 

I don’t know. That describes it, but doesn’t. I don’t think I can accurately describe it. But I felt it. And I lived it.


When I say that I’ll miss you I guess what I mean is that I’ll miss you
like the autumn misses spring

I made the whole thing up. 

I am not sure when, exactly, I made it up. Maybe when I moved here to Seattle. Maybe I made it up because I was afraid of losing my relationships with them, now that I was here, all alone. I can’t say I know when or why or if I ever will. But I do know I made it up.

And the signs have been there. . . forever. Little things, big things. Fucking therapy. The universe was saying “Get a fucking clue, idiot”.

But, you know me. I want to go down with the ship. The only problem is, I’m the only one on it.


Kiss me once more
Then leave me forever
I know I’m too heavy to hold

This is a big lie. A really, really BIG lie. Why did I believe this for so long? Why did I willfully ignore it?

I feel like so much of me is them. I guess, because it is.

Last year, when things went wrong with my dad, I felt relief. It was like popping a big, ripe zit. All the pressure was released. Sure, it was bleeding and sore and looked gross, but it felt so much better. And in a day or two, you hardly remember it happened at all.

This is like ripping out my soul. How do you put a soul back in? Maybe it regrows?

Does that sound dramatic? I know it may seems like I am being dramatic, but I assure you, I am not. If you have ever spoken to me, even once, I’ve mentioned one, if not all, of my siblings. Read through this blog. Even way, way back. I have let my life revolve around my siblings. My happiness is directly correlated to how my relationship with each of them is.

No wonder they fucking hate me. I am exhausting.


you can’t die alone, if you are free
You didn’t mean to, but thank you for showing me

But now I know.

And now I have to let it go.

This one is going to hurt more, I think.


Because, of course, Tyler Lyle always says it best.


*but, Jenny Lewis knows what’s up, too


Last year, when Austin fell apart, I suddenly found myself in a place where I had to make some decisions. Up until then, since the break-up, my life had sort-of been in flux. Joe and I hastily moved into together. Then, less than a year after that, we decided to do that whole Austin thing, so, when he moved, my life was kind of in this temporary phase until I could move to Austin too. Then, Austin went up in flames and I had to figure my shit out. Where was I going to live? Was I happy with my job? Was I happy in Seattle? And what about relationships? Since the break-up, I was able to avoid really thinking about relationships because, well, first, I wasn’t ready. Then, I was moving, so anything serious was out of the question. The Austin fiasco took away my excuses.

Things with my condo started moving rather quickly after that and that cemented my housing, job and location questions. So I was left with this huge, scary thing: relationships. Where to even begin? I have never dated in my entire life. It terrifies me. Not to mention, I have a ton of hang-ups surrounding relationships. All of my relationships have been unusual. From married men to kissing strangers on the street, none of my relationships or flings or whatevers had ever been what people would describe as “normal”. Relationships became a huge part of therapy—something we were constantly discussing and dissecting. I had no idea if I wanted to be in a “real” relationship. At the time, I was sleeping with someone I had met pre-Austin, both of  us not wanting any sort of commitment, for our own reasons. AKA—a not “real” relationship.

As the months went by, it felt like I was becoming more and more “grown-up”. I was about to own a condo. I had been in therapy for 2 years and had figured some shit out. And the more we talked about relationships, the more I thought “huh. I guess I should get me one of those”. It felt part of the package. I felt “hey, it’s been 2 ½ years since the break-up, maybe I can move on”. Thus began 8 months of emotional turmoil as I broke up with and got back together with pre-Austin guy at least 3 times.

I know myself well enough to know that I am not exactly an open person, in general. Forget about the idea of being open to a relationship or meeting someone. Especially if I am getting really, really good sex elsewhere. So, I thought I had to break-up with pre-Austin guy so that I could be open to a “real” relationship. However, at the same time, I was just kind of dealing with the nightmare that was buying my condo from Michael. It wasn’t a nightmare because of Michael (ok, a few things were his fault), but just because home buying is hard. Short sales are hard. I cried at work. Tom had never, in 10 years, seen me cry, but buying that condo made me cry. A lot. So, breaking up with the guy who I had really good sex with just seemed like an unnecessary hardship. And that was fine, for a while. But, as soon as I closed on the condo, that nagging feeling that I had to break-up with him in order to be in a “real” relationship reared its ugly head.

There was a lot to it. I was afraid to find myself, 5 years from now, in a not-real relationship and regretful that I “wasted” 5 years of my life. Especially because I had this lingering feeling of “wasting” my 20’s in a relationship with Michael. So, I broke-up with pre-Austin guy. Again. Then, shit really hit the fan when I had a friend die, another friend have a heart attack and I received some disturbing family news. In one week. And, as I had done in the past, I forgot about the break-up and turned to him for comfort. He’s good at the comfort.

And so it was. Since March. Yes, I was still thinking that I should break-up with him for a “real” relationship, but I wasn’t thinking too hard. I had the realization that, whatever happened, it wasn’t “wasted” time. Tyler Lyle (duh) has the lyric:

“Time is not the enemy / I am, I think” -Tyler Lyle, Medusa

I have applied this in so many places at so many times in my life. But here—here it made me realize it isn’t “wasted” unless I spend the whole time thinking that. It’s my time. It counts. And sometimes, things count differently that you thought they would. As long as I’m happy, it’s not wasted. Stop being my own enemy.

Then, in May, he broke up with me. And it fucking sucked. And I was really unhappy. I no longer wanted a “real” relationship, I wanted what pre-Austin guy and I had. But I didn’t want that with some other schmuck. I wanted it with pre-Austin guy. But, I couldn’t have it. I was mad at myself for going back and forth for months. I was mad at myself for be the instigator for him to break-up with me. I was mad at myself for spending so much time telling myself I needed to be in a “real” relationship, when, the reality is, I am a weird person! I am. I don’t like or want things woman traditionally seem to like or want. And that’s OK. I had always been OK with it. Why was I suddenly not? See: all of the above.

So, when pre-Austin guy texted me because he wanted a lil somethin’, somethin’, I was ecstatic. And then, immediately deflated. I had spent a month+ mourning my loss. But, I figured a lil somethin’ was better than nothing. Still, the next day, I texted him and basically told him that what he and I have is good and we shouldn’t mess it up. And that I knew I spent the last 8 months doing a great job of messing it up, but I was over that. I liked things exactly as they were. And, much to my surprise and delight, he agreed.

And man, oh man, have I been happy. It’s kind of exhilarating to know what you want, ask for what you want and then actually get it.

Maybe one day I’ll have a “real” relationship. For now, what I do have works and I’m going to stop fighting it.

[Not] Letting Go

I look through the archives. I wrote pages and pages. Not only here—at one point, I had 3 blogs going at once. I wrote and wrote and wrote.

I don’t know why I don’t write anymore. I write more in my journal. Physical pen to physical paper—thoughts that are not physical and have no way of being so. Still, the writing in my journal does not compare to the pages and pages I once wrote.

I like writing. I feel better when I work out my feelings with words. I write things I cannot say otherwise. That’s always been my way. I think it drives people in my life crazy. It’s almost impossible for me to sit down and have an impromptu conversation about a serious subject. I want to write first—get my ideas in order. I am terrified of being misunderstood.

And sadly, it is my long-held belief that no one understands me. There really isn’t a person who just gets me. Inexplicably and without thought. I have no Wilson. I wish I did. Instead I write for me, hoping that I can finally understand myself.

I have a hard time letting go. I am fairly certain that this is the lesson I am here to learn. Let it go. Let it go. I won’t let this blog go. I’m still friends with Michael. I am never ready for change, despite its inevitability. Even when, maybe, I want the change, I don’t want to let go.

I don’t want to let him go. The reasons are complicated and yet, so very simple. Tyler Lyle (who can always find the perfect way to express my feelings) put it best:

“C’est la vie / now you’re free / and it’s not that I’m unhappy and it’s not that I’m still blue / It’s just that I don’t like myself as much I liked myself with you / You felt good in my lungs and I thought it was enough / but you… “

So very simple It’s just that I don’t like myself as much I liked myself with you. This sentiment could not be more perfect. For all the reasons this relationship worked and made me happy, ultimately, it made me into a person I liked. Sure, it was part of a bigger picture. A bigger picture that has been evolving for over 3 years now. Still, without it, I am back at square one, just after becoming so comfortable in that skin. And I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to let it go.

Yet, like so many, many things. I have no choice. I have to pretend I have let it go. And make no mistake—it’s pretending. I cannot even begin to list all of things I have pretended to let go, yet I still think about, obsess over, want back. Despite that I, rationally, know I can’t have them back, I cannot get rid of the want to have them back. I know it’s unhealthy. I know that it’s weighing me down. But like so many things, I don’t care. Or, rather, I care, but I can’t let go. Isn’t that the whole fucking point?

Stubborn. Always have been and, I guess, I always will be. Unable to change, unable to let go.

The Year

I had a big year.

I started the year with the thought that I only had 6 months left in Seattle. I had big plans to do it up right.

I went on trips to Portland (twice!) and Vancouver. I went to South by Southwest with my favorite band and good friends. My best friend came to visit me. My brother graduated from college and my whole family was in town. I also met up with my best friend in Austin in October.

I celebrated 10 years in Seattle. My move to Austin fell apart. I started the process of buying my condo. I helped Joe find a job and move back to Seattle.

My year ended with the closing of my condo and my brothers living in the same city as me.

When I write it out like that, it doesn’t seem like much, but when you live that shit, it’s a lot. I can feel every minute of this year deep in my bones.

And you know what? It was a good year. I honestly cannot remember the last time I was able to say that. It’s been at least 5 years, if not more.

It was a good year.

It’s hard for me to say that, actually. So many people I love can’t say the same. There are people I love that have had years so wretched that I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy and I feel that. I feel how hard it’s been for them this year. And because when I love someone, really love them, I feel and experience hurt with them. But, I guess, life will always be like that. Some of us will have good years and some of us won’t. One of the many things I wish I could control, but I can’t.

I had a good year. I deepened relationships. I made amazing new friends. I traveled. I listened to live music. I had a lot of sex—good sex, even. I stood up to my father. I bought my condo.

Life isn’t perfect. It will never be. However, slowly, but surely, I am coming closer to being the person I can be; the person I want to be. I don’t know what next year will bring, but for the first time in my life, I think I can handle whatever it is.

Closing Time

In the summer of 2005, Froggy came to visit me for a week or so. That week was magical for many, many reasons, but I am only going to talk about one of them right now.

After almost 2 years in Seattle, I had decided to move to Bellevue, where I worked, so I would no longer have to commute. At the time when Froggy was here, I had only been looking half-seriously, even though my lease was up in 2 months. One of the days he was here, we were at my office and then heading back to my house. As we were leaving Bellevue, we drove by some condos near the mall. I pointed them out to Froggy and said “Like, there. That’s kinda where I want to live. Close to stuff and close to work”. Frogs wrote down the name of the place and I promptly lost that piece of paper and never thought of it again.

About a month or so later, Tom comes in one morning and tells me it’s a nice day, so I have to leave work at noon. I, of course, complied, and promptly went home and fell asleep. At about 3:30-ish, I woke up and decided to peruse Craigslist for apartments. I found a great one and called the number listed. We set an appointment for the next day. Tom decided to go with me to view it. We left, having given a deposit and signed a lease.

One year after that, Michael bought our condo and we moved in. And remodeled. And lived happily ever after, or, we lived there together for 5 years.

Then, two, almost 3, years ago when Michael and I broke up, there happened to be a 2 bedroom condo available just down the complex, near where I had originally lived, and Joe and I moved in.

Another year passed and I had to move again. Michael was kind, gracious and generous when he offered to kick out his tenant so I could move back in, even though I told him I would be moving to Austin soon.

One more year brings us to the beginning of this one. Michael was going to have to stop paying the mortgage and short sell the condo. I would have to move out before I moved to Austin.


Shortly after Austin fell apart, as I began to decide how my life was supposed to look now, Michael asked if I wanted to buy the condo. I wasn’t sure. Maybe I would move to Seattle. One morning, a few days later, I was taking a shower and rinsing my hair. As I looked up, I noticed one of my hairs on the ceiling. How the fuck did my hair get on the ceiling? And it hit me. This is my house. My hair is improbably, inexplicably, on the fucking ceiling. This house belongs to no one, but me.

Today, 7 months after I saw my hair on the damn ceiling, I closed on the condo. This is my house. This house belongs to no one, but me.

My story isn’t over. I don’t know why I am meant to live here. But I have no doubt that I am meant to live here. How can I believe anything else? I can’t, I won’t and I don’t.

I’m home.

Coming clean

I’m freaking out guys.

It’s one of those things where you think you totally have a situation under control only to realize you totally do not. That it is, in fact, laughable that you ever thought otherwise.

This next part is going to require me to admit something I don’t want to admit. I have actually been furiously denying this for months and months and months now. I realize now, though, that I have to be honest with myself if I am ever going to figure this out.

I have developed feelings for someone. I have been sleeping with this guy for almost 8 months. It was just supposed to be “fun”. Non-committal. When we met, I was moving to Austin. The last thing I wanted was to fall in love or start a relationship. I couldn’t let anything try to keep me here, as it was already going to be hard enough to leave. Then, of course, everything changed. I have spent a lot of time picking up the Austin pieces and doing my best to figure out what my life will look now that Austin isn’t happening. As I have mentioned, my “final frontier”, so to speak, is relationships.

I don’t know what happened. Life, I guess. One second it was all perfectly fine and the next  . . . the next I find myself feelings things I don’t want to feel. The things is—he’s not the guy for me. I know this. I’ve known this for a long time. We have nothing in common. We don’t want the same things. He thinks Superbad was inappropriate. No, that was seriously  thing he said. He isn’t the guy for me. So, why am I falling for him?

I know why. Again, this is me admitting something I don’t want to admit. (this one is even scarier than the first)

I’m falling for him because I am ready to fall for someone and he’s the easy choice. The thing is, though, it isn’t easy!! Easy is the word I am using, but it isn’t easy. I am chasing someone unavailable which is easy for me. Because that is what I have done my entire life. The chase—that’s what I think love is. I chased my dad. I chased Michael. Look at me! I am awesome, I am so perfect, I have no needs or wants of my own and I will take care of you;  fall in love with me. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t “get me”, like, at all or that I actually do have needs and wants. It’s fine. You are letting me chase you. And that’s love. To me, that’s love.

I realized, every time he leaves, I immediately start to feel a withdrawal. I suddenly feel unsatisfied and I need him to come over again and again. Last week, I saw him every day. I was so hungry. Then it dawned on me that I would never feel satisfied as long as I kept seeing him. I would never be satisfied because I would never get what I want. Which is, apparently, a real relationship. Trust me, I am just as surprised as you are. Not just that I want that (most of you probably knew that), it’s more that I actually admitted it.

Well, fuck me.

I feel stuck. I don’t want to stop seeing him. I don’t want to have feelings for him. I don’t want to be in a relationship with him. I am at odds with myself. Which, P.S., sucks. I don’t know what to do. I am indulging myself. Whenever I think “just fucking break up with him, fuck. Be a damn grown-up” it is immediately followed by “No. I’m not ready. I don’t have to be ready. I’m not ready”. I am acting like a child. I am accepting a situation that is untenable. I am going against myself.

I am going against myself.

Why isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t that be enough? Knowing that I am going against myself should be enough of a kick in the ass for me to make a move. But it isn’t. And that is scary.


I’ve never written about why I am not moving to Austin. There are a few reasons for this, but mostly, I was tired of talking about it. When you spend over a year agonizing over something and telling everyone you know you are moving and then, suddenly, you aren’t, people want to know why. And all of them were important, well-meaning people and I wanted to tell them why.  Eventually, though, I got tired of the story. I was tired of feeling like a fool. Not that anyone made me feel that way, but every time I repeated the story, it was so obvious to me how foolish Joe and I were, so, I felt like a fool.

Months have passed. I’m tired of the story, but I am also tired of being misunderstood. I am tired of being quiet and respectful. Joe and I tried hard to not drag the entire family into the mess, but apparently, they all want to be in the middle of it. I’m tired of that too. While I understand where they are coming from, it would be nice if they tried to understand where Joe and I are coming from. There is absolutely no empathy for us, though there is plenty for my father. The funny thing is, if they did show the slightest bit of understanding for our side of the story, they would get so much further in their goal to make us speak to our father again. I’m not saying it’s that easy, but it’s really the only place to start. The more we are told that our feelings don’t matter, that what happened to us—in April and our entire lives—doesn’t matter, the angrier we become.

I’m tired of being told “but you are family and you have to forgive family for everything they do wrong to you”. Fuck that shit. No. I don’t. I do not have to forgive my father anymore. I have forgiven him a million times for a million things. I have spent years and years walking on eggshells around him, making decisions based on what he will think of them and, basically, doing all I could so he wouldn’t leave me. Again.

Well, guess what? He left. He decided that Joe wasn’t worth the hard conversation and, with God on his side (according to him), he walked away.

Good riddance. Do you know how freeing it is to not be afraid anymore? How freeing it is to not watch every word and weigh every decision? Do you know how freeing it is to not have to move to make your father’s dreams come true? The palpable relief has been like seeing the world for the first time. It wasn’t until then that I realized how I enslaved myself to my father and to my fear that he would leave me.

It makes sense, though. I think I wanted him the most. Out of the three of us, I wanted a dad—my dad—the most. I’m the one that forced myself into his life. And then made sure he built good, strong relationships with the other two (well, as best I could). I’m the one that moved across the country to live with him. And I’m the one that works in the same field as him. I’m the one who did everything in her power to make herself needed by him. All in the hope that it would, somehow, stop him from leaving me. Again.

Joe and I are told that we are causing irreparable damage to our relationship with our dad and our step-mom. But, no one seems to be willing to acknowledge that they already caused irreparable damage to us. We matter too. We matter too. And I will be damned if I don’t shout that from the rooftops. We matter too. We matter too. We matter too. WE MATTER TOO.

So, no. I won’t move to Austin. Not now, not ever. And no, I won’t talk to my father. Not now. One day . . . probably. Probably one day. For now, for now I want peace. Joe wants peace. We want a chance to reconfigure. We want time to heal. I am tired of the bandaid being ripped off. I’m tired. Enough is enough.