I did NOT just do that...

So, of course the new boy knows I write. He knows about the blog, and about the book in the works. Since he's so amazing and wants to know everything about me (scary, I know...he's already been warned), he says he'd love to read the blog. I explain to him that people I get involved with on a personal level aren't allowed to read this...that they will inevitably end up here, and I can't have those two worlds collide. I don't ever edit what I say here, and I don't want to start now. I also don't want to have to down play my excitement over a new something I think is really great. It is just too messy.

However, in a gesture of introducing him to my writing, I send him the very first post in an email. I am excited that he'll be able to get a taste without biting off too much. I feel good about this decision. So I hit "send" and watch my message disappear somewhere into the WWW universe.

Later that same day, I receive a text message thanking me for trusting him with my blog. I remember thinking to myself: "wow, he sure is grateful to be able to read one of my posts. What a swell boy I've found."

I get home from work and take Ella out. He meets us by the beach and walks with us, and then we walk back and sit on the front porch, chatting about our days. He compliments my writing, saying it's both intuitive and humorous. Then, he makes a reference to "Brit boy." I immediately feel sick. How do you know about Brit boy, I ask. "It's in the blog," he replies. I know I looked like a deer caught in the headlights. This Abbott and Costello routine continued for a few more minutes, until it's finally revealed that the post I sent him was hyperlinked. To this blog. To all the posts contained here within. About addiction. About croatians. And Brits. I actually wrote: "I wish someone would've warned me the Brits were coming." He read that. All of it. I was mortified. AND HE'S BRITISH!

The good news is that he says he's even more attracted to me after reading such candid accounts of my life. The bad news is...everything else. He read it...all. I have no guard. It's all down. It's been stripped. He knows my weaknesses. I lay totally vulnerable. Exposed. My emotions are on the table like a science experiment. Only this experiment has gone horribly wrong.

He's been awesome, promising to not read what I write here. To take a hiatus. In the back of my mind, though, I know. He knows. And with a click of the mouse, will continue to know. What I think of us. Of him. Of my past. Of my future.

Coming to these conclusions, I thought I would be more upset than I actually am. Truth be told, I am more honest with him than anyone I've ever known. He knows how I feel about everything. He knows my past. And I know his. So, with that in mind, I will continue to write here like I always do. And, hope he continues to feel the same way. And, if not, I guess he'll have a really easy way to find out!

Too late for I'm sorry

I feel like I've been through this before. Where I want to have my emotions, my fears, my pain validated. For the past year. For loving unselfishly. For living through addiction. For surviving.

The past year saw tears and pain; anger and sadness; frustration and humility. It has created chaos and destroyed peace. It has left me lonely. And yet made me strong. I used to pray that I would find closure. For me, that meant one small moment of clarity. Of gratitude. For what I sacrificed. For my patience. For not judging. But, of course, these moments rarely happen in addiction. After all, if addicts experienced these moments of clarity, recovery would have much higher success rates. And it doesn't. Addiction is the opposite of clarity. Realizing this, I accepted that the past year was mine alone. I was the only casualty. I had to accept it as a loss. That it would only exist in my mind. My memory.

I was sitting at work the other day, smiling from ear to ear, awaiting a text message from the new adorable boy I'm crushin on, when my phone lights up. My heart skips a beat, wondering what wonderful message "J" is sending me now. I go to my text messages only to find a number without a name. A Rhode Island number. It reads: "I'm sorry for the way I treated you while we were together, and that you never got to know the real me." My heart stopped. What the hell had brought this on? Why now? Why this morning? Because I'm curious, I ask that exact question. Through a series of text messages and one awkward phone call, I learn that he's been diagnosed with a failing liver. This diagnosis has left him re-evaluating his life, and the people he's hurt along the way. Um, hurt doesn't even begin to describe it. And, a text message apology? Seriously? That works well if you've accidentally walked off with a person's pen. Or forgot to say good-bye. Not when you've sucked the life out of someone.

I have to interrupt for a minute. I know there's a history here, and that history and comfort sometimes cause us to make decisions we wouldn't normally make. Or decisions we know are wrong. But, I don't make decisions for comfort anymore. I make decisions for me. And happiness. The entire time I was talking to him, I only had one thought. I want to be happy. I want freedom. From the past. I want to see where this goes with "J" - without anything standing in the way.

He invited me to have lunch this past weekend, so I could meet the "new" him. I graciously declined, explaining that although I am grateful for the apology, I have moved on. And will continue to move on. Because after all the pain and obstacles, I made it. To the other side. And happiness is a sweet, sweet victory. And I don't like to lose, so I think I'll stay right here. And take whatever this journey brings.

Looking forward, it appears as though it's gonna be an incredible ride...

"I MET A BOY!!"

If you're one of my close friends, you recently received a text (or several) with the above message. And, I'm not complaining here, but that message didn't seem to garner much interest. So, for those who like to keep up on my Boston life through this blog, here's the amazing story that has had me smiling from ear to ear for the past week...and doesn't seem to be fading anytime soon.

My new roomie had a crush on our new neighbor. And, despite my immediate "he's gay" reaction, she spent a night at the local bar with him, only to discover that I was indeed wrong. The next day, he sent her a text message asking her to bring me and come over to his place for wine, and to meet one of our other neighbors. We didn't feel like going out, so the tactic was to simply ignore the message. Two minutes later, our bell rings. Due to some awkwardness, I answered the door and invited them in. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw this new neighbor, not expecting a young, attractive man to be visiting our apartment that Thursday evening. This is particularly because I had gone running that night, and was sweaty and gross. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind. As we had already decided we didn't want to go out, we invited them to stay at our place for some wine, and they accepted.

Within minutes, "J" and I were engrossed in conversation. No lulls, no silence, no awkwardness. Just amazing conversation. The best part about it? He's British. Hehe...what are the odds!?! As usual, though, I digress...

They stayed for a few hours and then walked us out with the dogs. I invited him out with us the next night to JP, and gave him my card. The next day at work, I found myself thinking about him quite frequently, hoping that he would, indeed, decide to join us. Every hour that passed I convinced myself that I had read the signs wrong, and he wasn't interested in me. And then, around 2:00 in the afternoon, I got the text I'd been waiting (and hoping) for. He said that he enjoyed meeting me, and that he wanted to grab a drink with me after work at the local bar. Um, ABSOLUTELY! I proceed to tell everyone about the cute British boy I met, and how excited I am that I might get to see him that weekend. I rush home and start rummaging through my closet for the perfect outfit. I can't go too dressy because it's the local southie bar. I can't go too casual because it's me...and it's a date! My roomie had a terrible day at work, so we decide to skip our outing to JP, and just head up to the Quencher.

"J" and I hit it off immediately. For hours, we just sat there and talked. Flirted. Leaned in close. Laughed. Smiled. Seriously - it was like we were the only 2 people in the bar. At around 1:00 (roomie had already gone home), we decided to leave. He invited me over to his place. He made me hot chocolate with marshmallows, and we sat and talked some more. And then he kissed me. There are no words in the dictionary to describe the way this kiss made me feel. He walked me home around 3:30, and kissed me again. I came up to my room and crawled into bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep, thinking about this incredible boy that had just appeared in my life from out of nowhere.

"Are you single?"

I apologize for the lack in posting here. Life has been a little hectic lately - new job, new apartment - I never do anything small. So, needless to say, I've been busy.

I am now living in Southie. For those unfamiliar with Boston, that's how locals refer to the area of South Boston. Think Good Will Hunting. The bar where they hang out in the movie is only a couple blocks away. The people here have wicked Boston accents. It's a little rougher around the edges than Newbury Street. They say things like "pahk," "cah," and "hahvahd." It's like a whole other culture here. And I love it.

Our place is one block from the beach. There are always people running, playing volleyball, having picnics, and walking their dogs. Which is where this story begins.

I'm out with Ella one of my first nights here. And, since the ratio of guys to girls in Southie is like 10 to 1, I'm always paying attention. (For the record, the ratio of good-looking, sexy guys to not is like 9 to 1 - you do the math). Anyways, I'm walking Ella and bump into a guy walking his dog, LuLu. We start talking, and I mention that just moved to Boston, and that I was even newer to the neighborhood. He starts telling me about pizza places, cool neighborhood bars, local stores...then asks me a crucial question: "are you single?" I may have come across too desperate here, when I answered with an exuberant, "YES!" In retrospect, this may have been the problem...

He begins telling me about his fiance, and the upcoming wedding. He proceeds to tell me about his single brother who treats women like shit, and his attractive friend, Dave, who lives across the street from me. "He's the good-looking guy with salt-and-pepper hair that drives the blue BMW"...my ears perk up. "Salt-and-pepper hair, you say?" We walk around several blocks and stop in the local store that gives treats to all the neighborhood dogs. He buys milk and a box of cereal. He tells me about his job. And his fiance's job. And how they got LuLu from the local animal rescue. And that Dave just moved in with his girlfriend. This conversation takes us to his door, where he finally introduces himself. I do the same.

He says it was nice to meet me, and that he'll see me around. I walk away. Stunned. Not only did I walk away from this conversation without the name of a good Chinese restaurant, but now my relationship (or lack thereof) status is going to be a widespread joke at the local bahs. It'll be under the heading "how to get out of an awkward conversation with an overly-eager single midwest girl"

I have yet to see my new friend again. He must be busy with his "fiance". Just like Dave is busy with his "girlfriend". But, that's okay. I've been busy with my courses at Hahvahd anyways.

"There's no puppy in here"

I'M BACK IN BOSTON!!! It feels like forever since I have been in this city I now call home - it feels wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time! I will be so happy when my car is empty, my furniture is in my room, and I can officially call my new apartment home.

I have to say this, though, as I sit on the couch posting this blog tonight. I miss my boys. I miss going home to the roommates that so quickly became my friends. I may not have had a couch. Or gas, cable, or air conditioning. But, we had a wonderful friendship. But, then again, sitting on a very comfortable couch watching Seinfeld with my sweet Ella (puppy), I realize that we can still be friends over coffee, dinner, and nights out at the gay clubs. I rather like this life of "comfort".

The drive back was as interesting, if not more, than the drive to Michigan. Let me set this up. As you know, I brought my dog back with me. So, on Sunday morning, 'K' and I pack up the car with all of my belongings, more of hers, and leave a nice spot for Ella on the back seat. Without any room to spare, and tears in my eyes, we take off. It's about 30 minutes to the Canadian border. We pull up into the line and get our passports ready. We are confident that we'll make it through without problems. Just then, 'K' gives me a look that could only mean "Houston, we have a problem."

"You DO have papers for Ella, right?" she asks me.

My face turns stark white. I don't even know where her papers are. We are 3 cars away from the border patrol.

We decide to just test fate and see what happens. The agent looks at out passports, asks how long we'll be in the country, and lets us through. Without even noticing the dog in the back seat. I let out a huge sigh.

"The problem isn't getting into Canada," says 'K'. "It's going to be getting out."

Here we are, 2 grown women, afraid to drive 1 mile over the speed limit because we're afraid of being pulled over by the authorities. Of course the dog issue wasn't the ONLY drama of the trip - that would simply be boring! After making it through border patrol, I suddenly realized that the notebook I left behind at my parents' house had my updated proof of car insurance. The one currently in my glove box is expired. Nice. And, don't forget the unpaid speeding ticket in New York state. And the expired license plates. And, now, a dog without the proper papers.

We crawl through Canada at about 10 miles per hour. It was brutal. We get to the last exit before the bridge to the U.S. and pull off. I run in to use the bathroom at one of the hundreds of Tim Hortons along the way. I am 6th in line. It's finally my turn. I walk in to see toilet paper all over the floor. And a fly. And the worst thing possible to find in a women's bathroom: those little, thin, toilet paper sheets. You all know exactly what I'm talking about. And you haven't seen them in like 20 years. But, you know the drill. You can NEVER use too many, and it takes forever to "collect" them for use. My tactic? Just start pulling and collecting. I finally finish (thanks to the extensive "TP-collection" time), wash my hands, and exit what I now refer to as 'Hell'.

'K' and I begin re-arranging the car. We move everything from the floor to the seat. We hang the bags of clothes from the driver's seat and drape them onto the seat. Then, we put Ella on the floor and shut the door. You couldn't even see her! I make 'K' drive. I am simply too nervous to be the driver in this particular situation. We pull out of the parking lot and drive towards the bridge. We pass Niagara Falls. Breathtaking. We carefully choose the lane we will be going through. As we pull up, the man in the next lane over is opening his trunk. I begin sweating. Naturally, we start talking about sex, orgasms, and celibacy. It's our turn. The man asks us our citizenship, and why we're in Canada. We explain that I'm moving to Boston, which is the reason for all the clothes. And shoes. He laughs and asks if we have a lot of purses. "Of course," we answer in unison. He then begins to explain how to move furniture and other items through Canada - the forms you need to fill out, how much time it should take, etc. We were talking with this man for about 8 minutes. The entire time, Ella was silent as a mouse underneath mounds of clothing. He lets us through. We cheer. Now, we just need to get through New York.

15 hours after we left my parents' house in Michigan, we arrived in Maine. As we pulled into the driveway at 2:00 in the morning, 'K' turns to me and says: "you must be destined for great things, Kristin, because God sure has been saving your ass a lot lately..."

Laughing...until the end

There's a place a heart goes to when it's been broken. It's a strange place - you can't laugh or cry - you just kinda 'survive'. When you're in this place, the relationship becomes a blur. You're filled with impossible-to-answer questions. Confusion. Disillusionment. Sometimes, you look in the mirror and don't recognize the person staring back at you. For so long, you were defined by someone else. You were part of something. Now, you're just you. Alone.

There's no time limit for this relationship 'purgatory'. It lasts as long as it needs to. To help you heal. To help you find your way out. To help you see the light that's in front of you, and the darkness that's been left behind. To help you say goodbye - both to what was, and what could have been.

I went to visit my best friend this week. Before I left, though, I received an email from Providence boy. I had asked him a question about something I needed to include in the book, and we exchanged a few, short email correspondences. In one of his, he mentioned he was coming to Michigan for his annual golf tournament. I responded, laughing, telling him that I, too, was in Michigan. How ironic, huh? The next email was an invitation to spend the morning with him - pick him up from the airport, have breakfast, and then drop him off to meet his friends. I read the email and literally stopped breathing. Then I started cursing. Screaming. I don't know how to say 'no' to this man. For the past year, I have been saying yes, afraid of what would happen if I didn't. That he would start drinking. That he would walk away. Most of all, afraid that I would no longer be the martyr he came to know. I was terrified.

On my drive to her house, I called my friend. Hyperventilating. "WHAT THE HELL DO I DO!?!" After a very restless night's sleep, and relentless discussions with her, I knew what I needed to do. Actually, I knew right away. I just didn't want to admit it. I responded, telling him how badly I wanted to see him. To see that he's safe. To see his smile. To know he's okay. Alive. I've spent the last 12 months holding my breath, hoping he's still alive. But, there's too much pain still. Too many memories I need to let go. Too much hope. I need the distance. I need to say no.

His response was anything but pleasant. Unfortunately he's not capable of understanding my feelings. He cannot even begin to process the pain and anger I justifiably feel. As a last resort he uses his 'recovery' as an excuse. Always has. And, until he chooses sobriety, always will.

I read his response. And I got angry. For a brief moment. And then, surprisingly, felt peace. And relief.

I drove back to my parents' this afternoon. And, for the entire 2 hours I was in the car, I laughed. I sang. I thought about the ending to my book. I felt proud. In that moment, I realized I did it. I emerged from this place - not only smiling, but laughing. Loud.

And I'm still laughing. It feels good. No, it feels great!