11..., Lifestyle

11… Things I Learned From Heart Break

Life is better with love.

Cuffing season is upon us. If you don’t know what that is: the season people search out a partner for the long or short term to cuddle up with through the cold months and/or celebrate the holidays with; beginning in October and lasting until after Valentine’s Day. 

As all the beautiful people in the world are coupling up, I’m reminded of one of the possible and inevitable endings every couple faces: the end. Every. Relationship. Ends. Some with a breakup. Others with death… We call these the lucky ones because they lasted. Either way, every relationship ends and is often partnered with heartbreak. Happy holidays! Let’s talk about pain.

Heartbreak comes in all shapes and no two feel the same. So often heartbreak is equated with romantic relationships, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ve had friendships hurt far more than romantic relationships. Whether romantic, platonic, familial, or other, to love is to open ourselves up to pain. So much so that, for me, love and pain are all but synonyms. Not to detract or overwrite the joy and warmth of love, but those feelings cannot exist in the absence of pain. The two breathe in tandem making one all the more poignant because of the other.

My heart may break, but I won’t stop loving.

Autumn and winter are the seasons where couples, families, and friends come together. In Texas, it’s wedding season. The holidays are looming; families and friends are planning gatherings. It’s a time to be with loved ones. Social media becomes even more inundated with people declaring their affections for one another. These occasions also have a tendency to bring up unresolved issues, hurt feelings, drama, and all things heart aching. There’s love and happiness in there too, I suppose. For me, it has been no different. Well, the declaring my love on social media for a romantic someone is far from likely. I’m speaking to the holiday heart aches. Historically, October has been a consistently traumatic month for me. Some of the worst events of my life happened in October. Some of the biggest heartbreaks too. October wrote scars across my heart, so I’m always happy to say ‘Au revoir, October’ and ‘Привет, Christmas!’ 

In no uncertain terms, heartbreak is the fucking worst. I’m not talking about breakups, friendship endings, or endings specifically. Breakups are not always painful; some pain does not accompany an ending; and heartbreak can happen when no relationship ever occurred at all. It’s the pain that sits unrelentingly inside my chest. Whatever the reason. Whoever the person. No matter the relationship. Pain is still pain, and it has been my greatest, most consistent teacher. 

Over the course of thirty years, I’ve learned a thing or two from my heart breaking, and I expect I’ll learn many more. Some opinions may change, and hopefully I get better and less bitter with time. I remain hopeful.

I don’t know if I’ll ever walk down an aisle in a white dress, but I’ll wear them with flower crowns any day.
  1. Love Hard; Love Ferociously; Love Resolutely I truly believe in loving with everything I have. Friends, lovers, family. I will give everything I have and everything I am. I have never regretted loving someone fiercely; though it has been painful, I don’t look back with regrets or what ifs. Even as endings loomed, I loved hard even when quitting would be the easier thing to do.  
  2. Love Has Boundaries Boundaries are hard for me, but I’m learning love, healthy love, has boundaries. Just because I love ferociously and without limits does not mean it’s a free for all. It took me a long time to know what I would endure and what I will not. I was a doormat for a very, very long time, but I’m finally learning how to stand up for myself. That comes with setting boundaries for myself and for my relationships. I’m still not great at this, but I’m trying, damnit.
  3. Timing Matters I wish this weren’t true. Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. It’s so cliché, and yet it’s true. Timing matters, and sometimes that’s the only reason a relationship needs to crumble.
  4. Set Expectations Take this in any and all ways. Friendship, workships, family, sexual partners, romance, whatever. Expectations are so important. If they’re not established, how the hell is the other person to know what I want and need and expect from them and us. Expectations change with time and growth, so continue to talk about them. Have check-ins. Regular check-ins! 
  5. A Breakup Isn’t Failure This one took me a long time to come to terms with. I have a deeply rooted fear of failure. Anything not working out was a failure, a personal failure, all my fault, and no one else’s. I know in my brain this isn’t true; my irrational brain has not caught up. Breakups—romantic, familial, platonic—are not failures. Sometimes things just don’t work, and that’s okay. People are not always compatible, and that does not mean either one is wrong or problematic or “crazy.” It just means people are different. The failure is in not trying at all. 
  6. Radical Honesty I’m not a relationship expert, obviously. I’m sitting here in my office absolutely single at thirty, but I have had incredibly successful relationships and breakups. People ask me for relationship advice—I don’t know why either. I always say: Communicate all the time about everything. There is no such thing as too much honesty. In my relationships, I practice radical honesty, which is why I’m so close with all my exes. We never had secrets. There was nothing to hide, so when an ending came, there wasn’t anything to be angry about. No dark secret that tore us apart. The problems were on the surface. They’d been talked about for a long time. We tried working through them because we were honest about what we needed and wanted from one another. We gave it our all, but things didn’t work for whatever reason. Lack of love has never been at fault. Radical honesty doesn’t prevent pain or arguments. It may not even prevent a breakup. It does make everything healthier, happier, and so much easier. My life is so much better because I have been honest in my relationships. Even when honesty stings, it saves much bigger pain.   
  7. You Will Not Be the Same Person People change us. Every single person in my life has influenced who I am today. Those I have let into the deepest corners of my heart and soul have a larger influence over how I move through the world, which is why I’m choosy! I don’t want to be influenced by crap people. Ideally these very important people make me a better person. Even in heartbreak, I have take aways on how I can do better in the future for myself and in relationship with others. I am not perfect. I never will be, but I am a better person because of all the incredible humans I have loved. 
  8. Always Say ‘I Love You’ I have never regretted saying these three words. Sometimes they’re not said back, and that’s okay. I don’t say them with the expectation of hearing it. Love is amazing when it’s reciprocated. It can fucking wound when it’s not, but I will always say I love you to the people I do love because I don’t want them to wonder or not know where they fit in my heart. I say it a lot, but I also show it, but I’m also going to say it. I want the people I love to know without a shadow of a doubt that they are loved.  
  9. Fight For Love, But Know When To Leave I have fought so hard for love. Not a regret in sight. I will always fight for love as long as there is a love to be fought for. Sometimes, I’ve fought a lot longer than I maybe should have. There has always been that moment when I knew in my heart it’s time to be done. I can’t tell you when that moment is because it’s different for every person and every relationship. When that feeling settled in, I let go. The pain didn’t necessarily stop, but I learned to stop fighting for something that wasn’t meant to be.
  10. Love Is Not Enough I said this at nineteen. I’ll say it at thirty. Love does not conquer all. Love is not always enough. This is probably an unpopular opinion. Love is enough of a reason to sure try. Many obstacles can be conquered with love, dedication, and hard work from both partners. But there are obstacles that even love cannot surmount. That does not mean the love is any less real or pure. It just means life is ridiculously hard.
  11. Life Goes On I’ve had a breakup where I really wish this weren’t true. I’ve had my heart broken with grief over someone passing or friends leaving my life. The pain doesn’t always get easier. I hate to say it, but sometimes the pain doesn’t go away. I’ve learned to live with those aches like the knee pain I have from my ballet days. Life does go on.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

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In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Four Years Later; Unpublished, Open Letter to My Dad

I walk through this world as a woman.

Today is a joyous, historic day. Joyous because the people spoke. Hatred was voted out of the Oval Office. Historic because the people chose a woman of color to lead us as Vice President. We chose change and progress, love and acceptance, hope and perseverance. We chose to strive for better, to embrace diversity in this country, to trust a woman with an office we should have been represented in a long fucking time ago.

If I am being incredibly honest, it’s not joy I’m feeling today but relief. The depth of which is overwhelming because tomorrow, I will wake up not having to suffer through the quotidian knowledge that the vitriol spewing Donald Trump is President of the United States.

I am not living under the delusion that when I wake up, the world of tomorrow is brand new. No, it is the same world as today. The fight is not over; it has just begun. Biden and Harris will not miraculously change the hearts of every man and woman who voted for Trump, who has turned a blind eye to systemic racism, who has decided police brutality is acceptable, who thinks the immigration policies of the last four years are humane, who has believed women are inferior, who has perpetually chosen to hate. In a world where information is more readily available than ever before, it is a choice to be ignorant of the devastating reality rooted in history, policy, and the heart of America so many people live in on a daily basis. 

This is the world we live in. 74 MILLION Americans voted for Trump. Not just men. Not just white women. People from all backgrounds voted for Trump. 74 million Americans will not disappear or change their hearts and minds by tomorrow morning. Nope. They are still here. They are still our friends, coworkers, neighbors, family, parents. They are all around us, and it is our mission to show them a better world.

I believe in love and kindness and peaceful protest. My activism is fueled by loving those akin to myself as much as those who have different beliefs. In my heart, I believe love and kindness is the only way to change the world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fight, I don’t call out ignorance, I don’t push boundaries, I don’t stand up for what’s right. It means I do it from a place of love. I also believe in anger. 

I am angry. I am furious that Trump was elected in 2016. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it crushed my soul. I have spoken up in the past four years, and I have marched. Mostly I have read and listened and learned. I educated myself more deeply in areas I have been passionate about but lacked information. On a personal level, I was deeply devastated by Trump’s election. I have not spoken about my life as a rape survivor, a domestic abuse survivor, as a sex worker outside of a brief mention here and there. None of these define me, but they are an integral part of my identity, my career, my activism, my existence. Trump’s election cut to the deepest corners of my pain as a broken woman. This man fueled by hatred was elected to the most powerful role in this country after he proved time and time again that he was unworthy. I am angry because people I love voted for him in 2016 and again in 2020. They’re not bad people; in fact, they’re great people, but they searched within themselves and were still able to support a despicable man. 

On Friday, January 20, 2017, I woke up at 3:43 in the morning in tears. I was filled with the need to write a letter to the man I have loved and looked up to my entire life. A man who is kind and loving beyond words. A man who voted for Trump. A man I call Dad. I have no idea who he voted for in 2020, and frankly, I have no desire to. Even if he did vote for Biden, it wouldn’t change my hurt. This is a letter I never sent. Instead it is a letter to my father and every father who voted for Trump. It is a letter to every man and woman I love who voted for Trump. It is a letter for every Trump supporter. It is a letter that is unchanged, and yet I stand by every word exactly four years later. Biden may have won, but 74 million people voted to reelect Trump.

Dear Dad,

I didn’t need to ask who you voted for. I already knew, but I asked anyway. I couldn’t validate my feelings without knowing for sure. Maybe it was hope that kept me from asking for so long, or I was delaying the depression that I knew would set in the moment you answered: Trump.

It’s there now and always will be. In every hug, laugh, kiss, kind word. You love me, I don’t doubt that. But your vote tells me something else. Whether you realize it or not, your vote showed me where I stand. I am not worth the same as you. Your tiny act of filling out one tiny circle with your one tiny voice as one tiny vote in a sea of other tiny votes is not tiny to me. 

You are my father. You gave me half of my existence. I see you in the mirror and in my mannerisms. I am yours. I carry your last name and my face is recognizably yours. You were with me every day of my life for nineteen years. You watched my first steps, heard my first words, changed my diapers. You woke me up early to breakfast together before work and put me back to bed. You taught me long division and gave me my first coffee. You showed me what perspective is in art and life. You were at every dance and piano recital with words of encouragement. You watched band concerts and sat through cold football games to watch me in the marching band at half time. You were there at high school graduation and the real reason I walked at my college graduation. You have held my hand and shed tears in a hospital room. You celebrated my successes, but bought me ice cream through my failures and missteps. You chose to support me when you didn’t want to. You have been a part of my entire life. You were not an absentee father. You knew me. You raised me. I am your first born. As birthdays passed, your role turned from caregiver to being the person I wanted to emulate more than anyone in the world. You have been the hero, the guiding light my entire life, and I don’t think I can say that today. 

I am your daughter; the only you will ever have. On November 8, 2016, you silently told me I am less than you, less than your son. My future looks different than yours or your sons. Going into the world tomorrow, I will face challenges and obstacles you or my brother have never and will never have to face. Because I am a woman. It shouldn’t matter but it does. My genitals affect my existence in this world, and your vote made that existence even harder. 

Anger is a part of my soul. I am angry for so many reasons. I am irrationally angry that you couldn’t save me from pain men have put me through. With time, I will forgive you for not saving me in the past. I am familiar with the reality that it isn’t your fault, but you are my father. You were there, and I have the human wish that you could have just known something was wrong, someone was hurting me. You didn’t see. I hoped you would look in my eyes and see the pain, the pleas for help, the need to be saved, the desire to be believed. People talk about a parent’s intuition, but you didn’t have it all those days I was silently dying. You never saw the subtle signs as the little girl you watched dance around the house disappeared every time a boy you shook hands hit and raped me. I wish you could have seen all of those things in my eyes because they are your eyes. I am your daughter. I was hiding inside a body that looks like a female version of yours. I forgive you all of these things because I know it was not your fault; just like it was not my fault. Something I will have to continue telling myself everyday until the day I die hoping to believe it myself. You are not culpable for that boy’s actions or any of the other boys who came after. Men have hurt me in ways, I’m sure, you once prayed would never happen. But I carry their actions with me everyday as a permanent part of my psyche and history. 

You didn’t know then. You had no way of knowing. You know now. I have started making a career fighting against the kind of men who hurt me, the kind of man who is being inaugurated today. I speak out against violence against women by using my story to create positive change. You know now; yet, you do not believe me. 

You voted for Trump. You invalidated my struggle as a woman and supported every man who has ever hurt me. You normalized violence in an instant. With your one tiny vote you gave power to predators by electing a predator, a rapist to the most powerful office in this country. You helped make him a role model to little boys and young men. They will say, “Well, the President did it.” and “I’m just quoting the President.” Your vote made it even harder for me to get out of bed everyday because I always wonder if today will be the day I’m going to get raped again. Your vote told me it’s fine for men to act like your president. A man who thinks it’s totally fine for men, like my ex-boyfriend, college best friend, childhood friend, friend from church—all men you welcomed into your home—to take me without my consent because they are men, I am a woman, and they wanted me. 

By voting for Trump, you showed me I am not equal to my brother in your eyes or my country’s eyes. My brother who has just graduated college, who has a better job than I will have for years to come if ever because not only have I overcome being a woman, I have overcome so many obstacles he will never face because our genders differ. I have to worry about employers seeing this to only question if I am a viable candidate, someone who can be trusted to not make claims about sexual assault or cause problems in the workplace. I am shamed for overcoming and surviving repeated rapes and violence instead of being lauded for my vulnerability, transparency, and fight for equity because I am a woman, and this is my plight. My brother and I are not equals in your eyes; your vote told me that. 

Stories of how women prevent rape and assault circulate constantly when men should jut not be raping. I do not walk in fear to my car with keys entwined between my fingers. I do not call friends to chat on the phone so I don’t look vulnerable. I do not ask a friend who is both trusted and male to walk me home. I do not wear pants instead of skirts. I do not back down when men intimidate me. I do not stay in well lit areas. I do none of these things because I am not scared of the worst thing that could happen to a woman. I am not scared because I have already been gang raped. What else could be worse for me? It happening again? It already has happened on repeat for years. I am not scared of men because they cannot bring worse. And being murdered sounds like the most uninterrupted sleep I’ve had in over a decade. You do not know these things because you are a man, and you don’t live them. You could know them, but you don’t believe me when I tell you. Instead you choose to label me a liar, troubled, in need of help. All I need is a world that believes I deserve to be treated like a human. 

Your vote says everything to me because of who you voted for. Even if I agreed with all of his policies (which I absolutely do not), I cannot overlook his humanity. Or lack thereof. You voted for a man who treats women worse than the dirt he walks on. He says it is his right to grab me by the pussy. Well, someone did. 

Someone did for years, and several men after him did too. Some stopped at just grabbing, but others took it further. I have been harassed and groped by male “friends” in a bar while I was sober wearing a turtleneck. But it was fine because they were friends, and I was inexcusably in a bar. A liberal, Black president was in his second term, at the time. A man who believes women are equal and deserve respect and have the right to autonomy. Yet, you voted someone into office who has done what those men have done to me. What kind of world do you think he will create for me? If I was already living in hell? What will this man lead us to? For women, for minorities, for immigrants. I cannot imagine, and I am not looking forward to seeing what plays out. I just pray that we elect someone better in 2020. 

You helped make a man President, and he will be the “role model” for every man, son, brother, father, and everything male in between in this culture that surrounds me, your daughter, who has to live next to these men. I have survived in a world where this has not been the male “role model,” but yet all of these struggles have still been my reality. If this has been my world, what will it look like with this President leading us? Your President believes it’s fair to take me because I am pretty and female. Well, at least, I’m pretty because that means I’m worth being seen. Being a woman is not an asset with this President, who you helped elect.

How do I move forward? I have always been proud to be your daughter. I have always worked to earn your approval. As your daughter, since the beginning of my time on this earth, I have never wanted to distance myself from you because I had always been proud to be your daughter. I don’t know how to feel now. I’m not proud of you. 

I will never again hug you the way I once did because this stands firmly between us. How do I pretend things are fine when you have helped institutionalize discrimination based on the one thing I will never be able to change: my sex?

I love you less because of this. Just admitting that causes me more pain than you or anyone else will ever know because I have loved you intensely, loyally, blindly, and to a fault my entire life. You have been who I have idolized most. In my heart, I have always defined myself as your daughter. Not because you are my genetic benefactor or because we share the same name or because society and culture tell me I have to for patriarchal reasons, but because you are a good, kind, intelligent human. 

I can forgive everyone else their vote. Friends, family, acquaintances, etc. because it is their right in this country to vote for whomever they believe most fit. I can forgive them, though I will never agree. I can’t forgive you this. 

At 25, I now know where you believe I belong as a woman. This will not cripple my future. Your vote showed me I am less than. I cannot forgive you. Even though it is your right to cast your ballot as you see fit, it is still your obligation to protect me as a father. You took on this role willingly not at conception but when you decided to parent me. Parenting never ends. Not when I left for college or when you stopped financially supporting me or when I began a career or moved cross country. You are and always will be a father, and it is and always will be your obligation to protect me. You did not protect me when you voted for Donald Trump. What happens during his presidency lays squarely on your shoulders. It is your fault and every other person’s who voted him into office. 

You failed me. 

My heart aches, but I still love you.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Miscarriage

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I’ve tried writing this in several different ways. None of it feels quite right. Then again, nothing feels quite right about having a miscarriage.

Today was my due date four years ago. A due date that never came. I miscarried at thirteen weeks. My heart broke in a million different ways. I don’t really know how to describe that kind of loss. It is its own kind of grief.  

I had never wanted to be a mom. It was something I actively avoided. This pregnancy was a surprise and with the wrong man. When I found out, I was almost in my second trimester and very alone. My life changed in a moment. I went from a recent college graduate to a mom. I didn’t want kids, but I wanted that one very much. I was in a place in my life where having a baby was more than feasible. I had a job and was looking into buying a house. Single motherhood was terrifying, but I was in a place where I could have made it work. I was going to make it work. I wanted everything that came with it.  

I never bought the house. I didn’t keep the job. I never became a mom. I lost the baby.

When I found out I was pregnant, something happened. I wanted to protect my baby from the world. My baby would grow up knowing how loved and protected it was. I couldn’t protect it from my body; the thing that was supposed to nourish it, grow it, protect it. My body failed me. Failed my baby.

Standing in the shower has always been the place I’ve felt safest to cry. The morning I miscarried, the water washed away the tears and the blood. It couldn’t wash away my guilt or my grief. It took months to shake the guilt. The grief has dulled but has never gone away.

Being a mom is not high on my list of things I ever want to be. Honestly, I don’t want to have kids. I still want the baby I never got to hold. There is an ache. In the short time I knew I was pregnant, I had so many dreams and plans. I saw a new life. That life never happened. In so many ways, having a miscarriage was the best thing for me. The responsibility of motherhood would have kept me from following the dreams I’m just starting to find. Even though my body knew what was best, my heart still hurts.

Had my body not betrayed me, I don’t know where I would be now. I know I would have done everything for my son or daughter. That baby would have been my life. Instead of writing this, I would be finishing up the plans for a birthday party this weekend. A golden birthday party for my four year old little boy or girl. Paeton Ray. I chose a name the day I miscarried. I couldn’t just think of it as my baby, who wasn’t meant to be. I’ve never said that name out loud. This is the first time I’ve written it. Gender neutral. Similar to mine, RaeAnna Kay.

It’s been four years. I don’t cry every time I think about my miscarriage anymore. I’ll even go days without thinking about it. The pain can still creep in at the oddest times. April 4th has been a hard day the past four years. I can’t watch children’s movies without thinking about watching them with my baby. A year and half after my miscarriage I went to Inside Out with four of my guy friends from college. I ended up breaking down in the parking lot. It was impossible to find the words to explain, to make sense of it. It’s grief. Grief doesn’t go away, and it doesn’t always make sense. We live with it. It’s one thing to grieve a person you knew. It is another thing entirely to grieve someone you love so completely but never knew. I’ll always grieve a life I will never live with the baby who changed my heart.

I was laying on the couch this morning. Beau was on my chest with her head snuggled into my neck. She is the one being I love anywhere close to how much I loved my baby. I had never thought about it, but Beau is almost exactly the same age my baby would have been.