The Kitchen

I ate the entire box of pierogies.

That’s not how it was supposed to happen, but then isn’t that what we would say about us?

Since our parting on Saturday I’ve just flitted in and out of the kitchen. I can’t linger there too long because you’re everywhere in that space … the two kinds of cocoa, the velcro cake pan straps, the cast iron lodge pan, the cleaned out pantry …

Here I sit listening to the Dixie Chicks “Hello Mr. Heartache” while I polish off the pierogies with the damn cherry lemon seltzers you convinced me to buy. I did not want to buy them. I insisted that lime goes with cherry, not lemon. Besides, I didn’t want to carry a case of them all the way to my 3rd floor apartment. You were convinced that lemon did go with cherry, they were on sale¬†with¬†a coupon on top of that, and you offered to carry the case into my apartment. And now it’s my favorite drink. I never did tell you that you were right. Lemon does go with cherry. It was a good buy, and thank you for carrying the case into my apartment. There are only two cans of cherry lemon seltzer remaining. I keep telling myself to stop drinking them, make them last. But I drink them anyway. I like them, and I like remembering the first time I drank it. You gave me the first sip from your can, and I looked at you after I drank it and said, “Oh my god, that’s good! Wow. New favorite drink!” I raised the drink in the air, and you did that thing with your eyebrows when you’re right about something. You move them up and down. You’re all proud of yourself that you were right, and I’m going ape shit over a new favorite drink. Couple of weirdos if you ask me.

The pierogies were meant for two people. We would usually saute some onions and put sour cream on top. I dispensed with all that, and just ate them plain over an entire evening tonight. The pierogies have mashed potatoes in them, and I found myself recalling you there in my kitchen making mashed potato casserole for thanksgiving. I see you there making that crazy fatty dijon mustard, half and half concoction that went into the mashed potato casserole. It was strangely good. You were all mashed potato casserole, and you hit that one out of the park.

I’m eating out tomorrow night.

The Bus Terminal

I have to leave you behind at the bus terminal. It is time for us to board our separate buses. I want to be on your bus, but my ticket has a different number on it. I avoided it for a while by taking a longer layover, but in the end, I have a different destination from you. And the longer I delay my departure, the more time that passes before the inevitable will be clear to both of us: that I should have heeded my original bus ticket in the first place, when I realized we had different tickets.

You, who are kind beyond measure with my PTSD and dissociative disorder -I wish you were on my bus. But, alas, we are not even on the same busline. I will miss how you gently rub my head when I shake unexpectedly, and the fab way we baked that chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting from scratch in my kitchen. We learned the difference between unsweetened cocoa and Dutched cocoa. I still have that container of unsweetened cocoa we accidentally bought at first, not realizing our mistake. We planned on doing something with it sometime. But sometime never came, and now there it sits on my pantry shelf. It will likely remain there. I like looking at it, thinking of you in this kitchen, bringing it to life with your presence.

Aside from baking and a fondness for board games, we have little in common. Before I forget, please keep my copy of Power Grid, the board game. I had not played it in years. Let it live on with your friends. Games should be played instead of gathering dust in a study. I will miss playing games with all of you.

My heart does not yearn for you the way it should when two people are in love. We have little to talk about, unfortunately. I think that’s why we usually tried to “do” things together because we both knew, on some level, there wasn’t a connection, a passion, a love -none of that was there. What we had was a friendship, for which I hope some day can be revived if you forgive me for all of this.

I yearn for your companionship, but not your heart, and that’s why my bus ticket is different from yours. We’ve hung out in this bus terminal for a good while, and it’s been a lovely, but I should catch my bus and stop dillydallying. My bus ticket is nonreturnable, and so is yours. As hard as it is, I must wish you well. It was the best layover ever, but we can’t spend our lives in this bus terminal. It’s time to find out where our buses will take us. One last hug, but I can’t turn back when I walk away.

To the dude from last summer and the summer before that

We have to stop meeting this way. I am putting a stop to it, against my addictive urges.

We are not going to meet tomorrow night.

I want to see you, but I can’t.

I never told you that I’m a sex and love addict in recovery, and that I have dissociative identity disorder. Previously, I told you that I have PTSD and a severe dissociative disorder. That was my way of downplaying my DID. I know I did this because DID is most definitely unsexy. It’s so not sexy that it’s unsexy.

I rationalized getting intimate with you too soon two summers ago because I liked you. I told myself it was okay because it wasn’t casual sex as casual sex is my bottom line behavior. But then we went our separate ways, and we’ve just had false starts since then.

Out of nowhere I hear from you the same day that I learn of a loss that I’m grappling with. I can’t trust myself to go out with you when I am feeling this way. I have to sit with this loss, feel it, and not try to numb it away by being with you.

I can see myself going to bed with you, and regretting it when I don’t hear from you for another 6 months.

I am no longer interested in playing out this script. I am throwing it away. I truly hope you have a good life.

Be well,

Beatriz