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enough

Everything hurts.

My back is sore; my traps are knotty and tender to the touch. My hips are tight. My neck is stiff. Even holding a pen is difficult after hours and hours of the interminable turn of the screwdriver while I assembled various piece of furniture.

But it’s my chest that hurts the worst. The pain creeps up in small ways, sneaking up on me while I sit in my backyard, at the computer, curled up in front of the TV. I sit in my little house in a neighborhood of little houses and wonder where I am.

I’m filling my calendar with healthy pursuits. Spinning. Writing. Having Friends Over. I’m also filling my calendar with unhealthy pursuits. Wondering where I went wrong. Wondering if I could have done anything differently. Wondering about the 23-year old who’s leaving him MySpace comments.

Wondering about what the comment he left her means.

The internet leaves footprints. I know that I can’t go down this road. This is the road to ruin. Delete, delete, delete. Now the crying starts. It’s not enough.

I’m not enough.

Being female and living in Los Angeles is a constant reminder that there’s always someone skinnier. Someone younger. Someone prettier. It’s not much different than growing up and being constantly reminded that I wasn’t the pretty one, so I’d better work on my other skills. I know that I am not a Unique and Delicate Flower, but I also think that what makes me me is pretty fucking spectacular.

What kills me is that he didn’t want it. It didn’t make him happy. It wasn’t enough.

When he said he was unhappy, I told him he had a nice job to go to in the morning and a nice house to come back to in the evening and a nice car to get him there and back. He was greeted at the door by a nice girlfriend and his nice dog who were thrilled to see him every single day.

It wasn’t enough.

I know that I can’t make anyone happy. But at the same time I wonder if I couldn’t make it work with the one person who was so obviously right for me, what chance do I have?

I said a few weeks back, through tears, that a year from now I’d see him and his new fiancée off. Because that’s what happens when they break up with me. I’ve made them see what they want. I’ve taught them a thing or two about relationships. And then the next girl reaps the benefits. The Slackmistress’ Finishing School for Boys.

I don’t begrudge them it. I’m happy for C. I’m absolutely delighted for L. It just felt like now I had gotten it together and now it was time to apply it. But once again here I am, wondering how the hell I got here.

In spinning class and T. the instructor, was talking about how to spin from the inside, to use your gut to propel yourself forward, in class and in life. A sob caught in my throat. I don’t have any insides, I thought. I just have a gaping hole.

I am not enough.

I feel like a fraud. I feel like something is fundamentally wrong with me. I feel like I don’t want to feel ever again.

I didn’t fight because I knew it was over. I didn’t fight because I knew he’d always believe that the grass would always be greener. I didn’t fight because I knew he didn’t want me anymore.

I didn’t fight because I was so incredibly angry. He was my partner, my confidante, my best friend. When we were having problems, I was willing to tackle them head-on. I took care of him. I was head over heels in love with him. I still am. I should be enough.

But I’m not.