As a child, do you recall your fascination with helium balloons and refusing to release one, if you were lucky enough to have it, and the despair/tears if one managed to slip passed your tightly clenched fingers while you listened for the ice cream man or realized it was beginning to snow? I remember taking my birthday balloons, after the adults had gone back to their conversations and games, and tying to the ends of the strings the love letters for my grandmother I had carefully penned on notebook paper. I’d tell her how much I missed her and how I loved her every single day. I’d apologize for not knowing the exact address of Heaven and for not having the money for stamps even if I did but I hoped she knew how much I needed her because I was giving her my best birthday balloons. I was always sad at some point on my birthdays, missing someone I was forbidden to name but who I knew loved me unconditionally. I’d look at her picture in a place of honor in the apartment and I’d hoped, the hope only children under 10 can do, that her eyes could see me. Then, I’d take the balloons and squeeze them passed the safety bars of the windows, give the letters a kiss and let go. I’d watch for as long as I could before they inevitably drifted beyond the next building or were pulled quickly into the city’s night sky. I was always happy and sad to see it go. I waited a long time for response.

It shouldn’t be surprising then, that my mental image of my relations with every person, animal/living, breathing life, is sometimes me holding onto an insane abundance of helium filled balloons of all colors, sizes, shapes of varying height. My friends lift me up just as I keep them grounded. Some friendships deflate and others blew up into latex pieces. Other times, it’s like I have to keep tugging on a string to keep it from entangling amongst the others (I cannot stand when people over the age of 18 are overly dramatic/immature – those are the ones I pop or release) and holding one out to the side if I’m unsure where they fit in my life. It’s a game of trying to find the right fit in the large cluster of bobbing encased air and hoping there’s space when I do. I know if I let it go, it’ll hurt but I’ll be less frazzled trying to come up with a solution only to find there is none. Helium balloons are meant to soar away sometimes…

That was what I was trying to figure out with Beck. I desperately wanted him in my life as I know he wanted me. His balloon was one of the grandest in the pack with string composed of dancing light and whimsical song and one of my favorite to hold, look upon and enjoy. I would tug it close to me when I missed him and his essence would be there. Trying to keep him afloat with my optimism was easy if I wasn’t being harangued or sick. Seven years of joy and tears, change and refinement, arguments and reconciliation, gifts and mementos, pictures and journals were what I weighed when I had to pull Beck’s balloon to the side. With the help of friends, I placed everything into a box and watched them light it up and burn a few days after Beck was lowly and petty enough to let his new piece of ass contact me. I cried and they held me up. They reminded me how weak Beck is that he couldn’t handle a clean break from our relationship and not only needed a new relationship to swing into but wasn’t strong enough to handle my essence to stay in my life; my family and friends are unbelievable: they helped my deflated confidence and peace of mind rise again. They emphasize this critical period for indepth analysis while encouraging me to take up the exotic weekend get-a-away’s and to keep the gifts/tokens, from recent and future suitors, Beck could not afford to give me. I used my anger to berate my nostalgia into letting that beautiful string go. I used my pride to turn my back and have a blind eye as Beck drifted away forever. There is no fellowship with fools.

Still, a part of wishes I could tell him that there’s a difference between sharing your feelings honestly with your partner and burdening her with them. In the last 7 months, Beck stopped asking about my thoughts and just preached away or judged me. It hurt. I had so much I wanted to tell him and could never find the right time where I felt he would be receptive. My passion and sexual desire for him was extremely high for a while (always best if we were communicating in the way that made us understand the other) but began to dip when he gained too much weight. I’m not one to make someone change and his sensitivity to his image was something I knew was fragile. I loved feeling the weight of his muscular arms around my waist and playing with his perfect amount of chest hair to feel his pecs. I enjoyed watching him flex as well ;o) I knew he saw some of my medications (that I’m being titered off as I get ready to spread my wings and soar again) as temptation and I wonder if he couldn’t be around me because of them. I made sure not to put them in his face when I remembered but still, I didn’t like how he raged over the use buds and other hallucinogenics by people close to him. Even his best friend (since childhood) needed the stuff but Beck would go on like he’d never done almost all the drugs the DEA considers Control I. I don’t like hypocrites and I don’t like people who have closed off parts of their heart and mind while I remain open.

Sometimes, I’m caught by an overwhelming and deep sense of sadness when I’m doing nothing that would encourage or involve sadness (cooking or laundry for example). I know Beck thought it was me but I think it’s our souls crying. I get this image of Beck slamming a fist onto a countertop and screaming a silent scream. Sometimes, the image is a Siberian tigress snarling into the night air. How do I cut this mental and emotional connection?! It’ll be 3 months since our break-up soon and I almost look forward to our anniversary date chugging by without me noticing… I wonder if Beck will remember the 7th of November.

If you’ve noticed that some entries (most concerning Beck or my relationship with him) are now password protected, it’s because I’m no longer wrapped up in heart-exploding pain and anger. I know some of you return to read those entries (I’m flattered and I hope you’re finding some solace in my words) thus, I offer you the password if you would like it. Just shoot me a message or leave a comment that you do.