If you had told me I would be weeping for anything other than sheer relief a month and a half after two hospice journeys and my seven-year career as a caregiver ended, I would have told you to shut your pretty mouth. But here I am, heartbroken and lonesome, crying myself to sleep. Oh, Mars, really? How did this even happen?
Oh dear, let me tell you a tale! A few weeks before my father went into hospice, I met a very handsome, very appealing human being who seemed to find me handsome and appealing in equal measure. Even before we were clear on this mutual attraction and affection, I was elbow deep in the daydreams and the hopeful expectation of what a connection with this man might look like. And so, blessedly, instead of white-knuckling my second run through hospice, instead of dread, drudgery, and depression, I was smiling and having toe-curling fantasies about this lovely individual.
And then, about a week after my father died, we asked each other out! Callooh! Callay! That electric moment and the handful of encounters we had in September were over-the-top in their cinematic perfection. We effortlessly managed to star in the first 30 minutes of a very charming and surprisingly steamy rom-com. The conversations were warm and candid. The flirting was smart and enticing. The sex was off the fucking hook. I cannot believe how marvelous it all felt, and how well-matched we seemed to be. I pretty much thought of nothing else for a solid month.
And then it all fell apart. Or, well, I realized that it had to. The how and why are not that important here. What blindsided me was how tender and disappointed I felt when I realized it needed to end and that I needed to be the one to end it. My heart literally ached. I’m not even sure when I last felt something so unexpected and challenging.
A solid portion of that ache is sadness over this person in particular. He is so pleasing, so sexy, and just so everything. A sultry situationship with this dreamboat felt like all I wanted and needed. And god help me, despite how foolish it would have been (the how and why are relevant here), if he had given me half a chance, I would have been all in for more than that. He never gave me that chance, though, and I don’t know if that’s something I want to be angry or thankful for.
And because, for me and so many, all romance wants to be accompanied by music, know my emotional soundtrack swung between the intensity of Jeff Buckley’s Lover, You Should Have Come Over and the luscious quirkiness Janelle Monae’s Make Me Feel, with interludes of the perfection of Shudder to Think’s So Into You and the bittersweetness of Phoebe Bridgers’ power ballad Waiting Room. Honestly, I am still swinging back and forth and playing all the songs.
When I told a friend about this riveting but ridiculous romp and its abrupt ending, she graciously consoled me, saying that sometimes we get what we need, but only for the time we need it. Maybe that’s true. It certainly feels like I needed him, and I loved every second I was with him. That the length of time I needed him, and that glorious sex, was so short, I can choose to lament as a bitter disappointment or take it as a sign that perhaps I am ready to find all the things that looked and felt so promising with someone else.
In the end, that this marvel of a human helped me gently through to the other side of a very dark and very long night was no small thing. To use the words of another dear friend, it felt like the universe gave me a kiss on the forehead. It really did. I will remain grateful for that, no matter how my feelings for him might change as the distance between us grows.
The rest of the ache, though? I don’t think that is so fling-dependent. It’s something more foundational and more profound than a romance that began and ended in less than a season. Though having a taste of the fearless, intense intimacy I shared with this soul has illuminated things I never expected to see, let alone feel. I’m having a tough time sorting it all and making sense of it, and I guess that’s why my heart hurts. It’s painful to hold all this at once.
It starts superficially. In seven years of caregiving, while very single and largely in solitude from my peers, “me-time” was a precious, limited commodity, and I approached it with the single-mindedness of a Depression-era scarcity mindset. Each stolen moment of reading, writing, meditation, peer connection, therapy, exercise, even fucking TV watching felt so thoroughly precious and very necessary. Then, practically overnight, my job vanished. My life of seven years ended, and all I had was time. So much fucking time.
Oh, and over the summer, my kid disappeared into adolescence. They grew out of me! In my daydreams about my life post caregiving, I had envisioned we’d have at least a year of close, luscious, cuddle time, but apparently, we had blown past that in the last year or so, and now they are firmly entrenched in a (fully developmentally appropriate) ‘see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya’ mindset of their own. Even my job as a parent feels relegated to the role of part-time consultant. Joking aside, I’m holding it in my heart that they are right where they need to be and doing what they need to do, but I’m feeling the universal and maternal lament of my baby growing up.
And so, here I am, bored. ACTUALLY BORED for the first time in almost a decade. None of the activities I once felt to be life-sustaining have the same texture, allure, or the powerful punch they had when it was unclear when I would get my next healing fix.
And it’s not just all the fucking time I have on my hands, it’s an abundance of attention, and of space, and ugh. You wanna know what packs a punch the way my old self-care routine currently does not? Hot fucking sex, that’s what. But also—engaging conversation, warm companionship, a person with a body to lean on, and to regulate with. Attunement.
Sigh.
I quickly found that in addition to being bored to tears, I was lonely for the first time since I do not even know when.
Bored. Lonely. (Never mind, horny). The thing I found the hardest in those days immediately following my father’s death was just having to sit alone with myself. It felt like torture. Boring fucking torture.
Looking deeper, admitting how hard it is to sit alone with myself leads me to question whether I need to do more work. Our culture and pop psychology want us to believe that we have to be okay being single and alone before we can call ourselves whole and healed or ready to show up properly in a relationship. There is a morsel of truth in that. I know there is, and I certainly used the notion as a convenient and safe excuse to appropriately shelter myself from intimacy and connection for a very long time.
At this point, though? Even my very wise and well-meaning friends have addressed my now-chronic complaining about this state of affairs with suggestions that I focus more on me. Oh. My. God. If I spend one more minute focusing on myself, I might burst into a furious mist of lavender and Instagram memes.
Okay. Okay. I hear myself, and I can easily concede that a touch of mindfulness could serve me well here. Am I clinging to something pleasurable and sugary sweet? You bet your ass, I am. And I’m resisting, oh, I don’t know, just a smidgen of discomfort and disappointment? Of course. And I’ll sit and breathe with this and honor the hard human stuff just like everything else before it.
See, the thing is, I functionally survived the the pandemic and caregiving by digging into the most rock-solid, genuinely productive, rigorous self-care I could manage. In the early days, I quickly learned that self-care is not fucking bubble baths, fine cheese, or Netflix. It’s trauma work, reparenting, meditation, and somatic nervous system recalibration. It’s WORK. And I did that work every day for a very long time. And I am still doing it. I won’t quit anytime soon. But healing now does not look like it did while I was caring for my parents and being a single mom to an elementary schooler.
We aren’t meant to sit alone, heal, and perfect ourselves in isolation forever. Or maybe I should only speak for myself: I’m not. I have spent years validating myself and seeking an internal sense of my own safety and worth. I am so relieved to say that I found and built a solid foundation of… me.
But at some point, I want to do this work relationally. ‘Cause if I hate sitting alone with myself, I believe I can truthfully state it’s not about being uncomfortable with who I am and how I feel about myself. It’s inextricably tied to the reality that I have felt abandoned my entire life. Unsafe, unloved, alone. Attachment wounds will do that, and I don’t know that we ever fully release the tender parts of us that suffered those injuries. They have lingered in me, and I want to show those parts that I can keep us all safe, even when I reach out and seek intimacy with others.
I can’t soothe what’s still aching without continuing to lean into the indelible truths that I am worthy, lovable, safe, and capable of being vulnerable. I know and believe these things. I really do, but I want to see it all in action. The work I want to do now is with other people. I don’t need proof of my worth, but I do need practice to flex it. A fling with a hot, sweet thing definitely showed me that. How about that? Thank heavens for gifts from the universe dressed up as handsome electricians.
So what now? I don’t have a fucking clue. I am going to nurse this sorrow with time, wine, music, friends, writing, and hopefully getting out into the world in ways caregiving and single parenting previously would not allow. And, yes, fucking delicious cheese.
Oh, Heartache, welcome to the party! The fact I’m feeling your pangs at all is proof that my life is still unfolding in all its messy glory, and for that I am so deeply glad. Heartache, feel free to stick around as long as you see fit. I have a great playlist to put on repeat.
May we all find a way to move through and on with our lives and healing, and may each of you—if you so desire it—find the sizzling hot tradesperson of your dreams to kiss your beautiful face and snap you out of your long, but much-needed slumber.
Leave a Reply