“We walked on wires, through the burning fire.

Just to prove that we belong.

And oh, still in my head, a rising choir.

And it goes on and on and on, singing.”

~ “Something Real” Civalias

I can’t remember the day, but I’ll never forget the moment when her response to my letter arrived in a pink envelope—the sweetest choice of color. “Pink”, I thought. “That’s sooo her”. I couldn’t have been more ecstatic even if I had won the lottery. She even headed it “My Dearest Landyn”, like she did with every letter she ever wrote me. Seeing the pink envelope alone gave me new life, turning my eyes instantly red. Her words were handwritten to me on quality stationary with a painting resembling our beach beneath her words, all in an attempt to replace the picture in my head with the one I should be focused on. Her response was short but thoughtful—just what the doctor ordered and everything I needed. Her precious envelope had two stamps and no return address providing me with proof Jackson forced her into threatening me with stalking and harassment. Anya could never know how seeing two stamps on a letter that weighed a couple of ounces at most released a lot of anguish I was feeling since the last time we spoke nearly three months ago.

Her response to my letter didn’t give me closure, but a silver lining I desperately needed. It showed there still remained a chance for us and that she understood how I felt. The last time we spoke was as bad a day as anyone will have in their life—her response meant a lot. I just wanted to choke and die on every negative thought I ever had about her. After receiving her letter, every day that passed brought us another day closer to being together, and if it didn’t result in that, then maybe I still had a shot at coming out of this alive. Anya revealed in her letter that she was still hurting too by telling me she was taking things one day at a time. I just needed to know I wasn’t alone in feeling this acute anguish—that all this pain was not for nothing.

After receiving her letter, each weekday morning I was at “The Good Morning Café” hoping to emerge from my depression and to decide my next move. But, more than anything, hoping that Anya would be as nostalgic as I was about our past. Instead of reconnecting at Sonoma’s then maybe we could find a way to reconnect at our favorite café—it definitely wasn’t going to happen with me sleeping in until one in the afternoon. I just still believed the Universe’s wish was for us to be together, even bringing a copy of the letter I wrote to Anya to the café with me each day. With my morning green tea, my eyes pored over the words I chose for her, imagining she’d walk in and say hello while I did. It made me feel good to know that she felt comforted by my words enough to write me back. No doubt my therapist gave me sound advice to never send the letter, but my relationship and breakup with Anya was not the nine times out of ten variety. We didn’t break up because one of us fell out of love, we broke up because we couldn’t handle not being free to love each other. Now, with my letter at the very least in her head and heart, there remained a chance of her changing her mind about us down the road. There was no further need to write her—she had thirty pages worth of all I wanted her to know. My letter planted a seed to give me the hope of reaping the benefits of a harvest one day. Now, being out of work for almost seven months, I had to plant a seed a day in regards to my future.

I didn’t know much about deep depressions, but this one ambushed me on a daily basis. Even innocuous movies such as Peter Jackson’s “King Kong” and even the cartoon “Monsters, Inc.” made me emotionally vulnerable. When my depression morphed into manic episodes, I used Vicodin to mask the emptiness inside. The drug also aided in helping me to see Anya’s side of things—the self-induced euphoria giving her an enormous benefit of the doubt. In my mind, this was Jackson’s shit show he put on, and not Anya’s. There was no way a woman who shared all we did would hurt me like that. If Jackson forced her to do anything, it would be malicious of me to go after her for it. All the mental anguish blinded me to things at times, but the Vicodin usually set me straight and calmed me down whenever my thoughts tried to undermine me. I would find myself listening to the CD’s she burned for me to get me through hard days and nights. Some songs she burned for me in particular, like Diana Krall’s “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” would illicit an emotional response in me. The more emotion in the singer’s voice, the more I heard Anya’s, telling me she wouldn’t allow her children or Jackson, the children she told me she betrayed, take our memories away from her. I found hope in all the music she ever burned for me and the bands she introduced me to. Songs like “Surprise Surprise” and “Something Real” by Civalias played constantly on the Ipod she bought me. “Infinite Arms” and “No One’s Gonna Love You” by Band of Horses were every day staples that kept me connected to her. Even Diana Krall’s “Look of Love” had an effect on me, and whenever I listened to David Gray’s “Babylon”, “This Year’s Love” and “The One I Love”, they took me back to the times of my life I was happiest with her. As her favorite songs found their way to me, it made me realize how badly she never wanted me to be disconnected from her. The music she burned for me always had a purpose—no matter what she told me. She knew something I didn’t at the time, and I could only find myself loving her for it.

During our nearly two-year relationship, she considerately burned ten compact discs for me containing hundreds of songs, even buying me an Ipod to keep them all on. And not one time did I ever burn her a single CD. Needing to right that wrong, three and a half months after we broke up, I burned some of the songs that moved me at the time and in the past on a CD for her, even composing a short letter along with it.

Dearest Anya,

I’m glad you received my letter. Thank you. You apologized to me numerous times for things you didn’t have to, so you didn’t have to say you’re sorry again. I know you feel bad about things too, but you shouldn’t. I put you through a lot and I’m the one who owes you the apology. Thank you for not hating me. That was your “thingie” before I even picked it out for you. It was just waiting for me to come get it and bring it home to you.

I’m listening to a CD you burned for me a while ago so I wanted you to have one from me. I just wanted you to know you’re never alone as long as I’m alive on this earth.

Thinking of you as always,

Me

After mailing the CD with a brief letter, I fell back into full survivor mode—trying to live without her. Given my state of mind, I only put three sad songs on her CD with the rest being mostly upbeat. All I had left now was music, a thirty-page letter letting her know my feelings and a little thing called hope. She should never wonder how I felt. There was no room in my heart to find fault in Anya, but plenty of blame to fault her philandering husband. He was responsible for the pain I felt—for allowing his own wife the freedom, the mother of his children, to go out to single bars with her friends because of the way he made her feel. Jackson pressured her to call a neighborhood police official, to install a wiretap on her phone, and for notifying ‘their” lawyer. He truly was the world’s biggest fool—fighting to continue paying for something I received from Anya for free. His marriage to her represented a form of legal prostitution and at most a business partnership—a place love could never exist. In fact, if I hadn’t forced Anya’s hand and held it together emotionally, we’d still be together. If he knew she loved me, how could he believe, after all he chipped away from her after years of emotional abuse, would ever return to him? No matter how hard he tried to keep her apart from happiness, he could never control or have access to Anya’s real thoughts. She could be the actress of the millennium, but he’ll never know how she really feels. If he believed this was a contest for her heart, it was a game I already won two years ago. Apparently, he was so afraid of his competition, he commanded her to destroy me, basically her happiness in life, so he could control his destiny. Only Emperor Palpatine could be so bold—Jackson was nothing less than a Sith who only delayed his eventual overthrow. If Anya had been my wife, and she fell in love with another man who made her a better person, a man who Katie brilliantly pointed out that change was necessary for growth, I’d find a way to make the divorce as amicable as possible. Anya’s heart wasn’t up for contention, she loved another man because of the way he made her feel. If the mother of my children’s well-being is not intact, then neither will the well-being of my children be. Jackson couldn’t have believed in love at all, not for a second if he’d be just fine with her being in love with another man. Either that or he felt this was just a phase she was going through, and once separated, she will see it wasn’t love at all. I really believed Jackson Caiaphas was in for the rudest of awakenings.

Her husband allowed our love to manifest itself so I felt nothing for him—not after all the years of chipping her away with his emotional abuse. He should be thankful out of all the possible men out there, that it was me—a man who truly loved and cared about Anya for who she was and not because I just wanted sex, like he did, or his wealth. Jackson treated the woman I came to adore like a teenage executive assistant more than his wife and the mother of his children. If Jackson ever threatened to tell the kids about me, or us, I’d force him into honesty—making the truth known about why Mom threatened divorce. They can blame me all they wanted, but never their mother who only wanted to be loved.

Jackson surely believed this was something I wanted—he had no idea I walked away from Anya when we first met because she was married. Anya approached me, initiated the entire relationship, even telling me about his infidelities and that I broke her heart. If I had known she would’ve been on the fence after all we’ve shared, I would’ve ran for my life. I never dreamt of being in the middle of another relationship. If he believed for a second that I deserved all I felt because my intention was to break up a family, he was clueless. My intention was never to break up a family, but to end a godforsaken marriage. While he played the role of victim, he ignored the marriage he destroyed because his libido was more important than being there for a pregnant wife. It was never a goal of mine to come in and disrupt the lives of his children, but to give them a shot at happiness one day. Now, the serial philanderer played the role of hero, attacking what he wanted others to perceive as a threat to their family. If Jackson was truly a good person, I knew Anya well enough to know she’d never do all she did with me. The only reason I chose to be here was because I trusted in her love for me. It’s not my fault he decided to cheat on her several times. I’m mad I had to do his job—he made the vows to honor his wife, not me. If he didn’t know better at forty years of age to not cheat on your wife, let alone while she was carrying his child, with another married woman, you deserve me in your life. You deserved a man to come right in and take what should’ve never been given to you. Jackson may have been able to fool Katie with her own horse ranch, and Andrew with an investment account, but his overcompensation will come back to bite him. The man was thirty years old and Anya, all of nineteen years of age, when he met her. Without a doubt Anya was mature for her age, but would Anya want Katie to meet a man like her father at only nineteen? Anya should never tear Jackson down and rat him out to her children, but after a two-year relationship with another man, why did she still give them the impression he’s the best thing since the laptop computer? Sadly, their father was not a man of good character. He even lacked a conscience, was grossly unfaithful and lived life dishonestly. Why keep setting her children up for a major heartbreak by keeping the façade alive? Especially allowing them to go to bed at night blaming themselves for a terrible marriage? Anya criticized me for not being a “big boy”, but how big of a boy is Jackson? Do big boys stay with spouses who were in two-year relationships with another?

As much as I tried to hide my broken heart around my mother, it inhaled me alive like a Komodo dragon. Each time I sat in her room; my eyes searched for her Vicodin bottle—the only way I could keep from unleashing my sorrow upon her. I know she only wanted the best for me, but she had no idea how precariously close I was to the edge of extinction. Reaching for my mother’s pills was the only means to stave off the anguish and anxiety, needing now five Vicodin and even four Excedrin a day, to cool the fire burning out of control within me.

“I’m thirty-nine now. I told her one day. “And I have as much as when I was one.”

“You have a lot more than most.” She replied, shaking her head. “You have a lot going for you, Honey. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Like what?” I wondered aloud. “I lost the love of my life. I lost a career job, one I worked years for by going to school. Not only that, I lost it during the greatest recession in our country’s history—a half million-dollar salary per year with a great firm. I’ve got nothing.”

“You have your health.” she said. “Without your health, everything else doesn’t matter.”

“What good is my health when my mind can’t tell the difference between a healthy man and a diseased one?” I countered. “Well, at least Anya wrote me back.”

“She wrote you back?” she shouted, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“And you said I’d never hear from her again.” I boasted, removing the letter from my pocket and handing it to her.

“I’m just surprised she did—she’s probably miserable at home right now.” she retorted, snatching the letter from my hand then putting her glasses on to look it over. “Did you send her the letter you weren’t supposed to send?”

“It was important to apologize for the pain I put her through.” I explained. “I just couldn’t live the rest my life with the way things ended for us, Mom. We shared too much for it to end so horribly—I know I’m your son, but I was beyond nasty to her that day. What I did caused her a great deal of pain, fear and sadness—I took it too far. I needed her to know that I felt bad about all that happened and that I held myself responsible. It made me feel better she knows that now. Two days ago, I mailed her a super brief letter, not even half a page along with a CD of songs I promised her when we were together.”

“I hope you know the fact she wrote you back doesn’t mean she still loves you, Landy.” She stated, handing me the letter then removing her glasses. “You need to move on with your life--she’s never coming back to you. Look, she even wrote take care. You shouldn’t be holding out any hope—it’s over.”

“I know I need to move on with my life, but I can’t lie to you—I’m still holding out hope she will one day.”

“How could you believe she’s ever coming back to you?” She said, shaking her head. “How many pages was the letter you sent her?”

“Thirty.” I replied, annoyed. “Don’t you…”

“Thirty! Thirty?” She laughed. “And she wrote you back a couple of paragraphs and you still believe she loves you?”

“Well, she never returned my necklace back to me.” I reasoned. “And that tells me she’s holding onto us and me, too.”

“Don’t you think if she cared she would’ve asked you how you were doing or even how I was?”

“Come on, seriously. Considering I mailed the letter to her home, I don’t think she’s going to ask questions that would encourage me to mail her back.” I deducted. “The fact she even wrote me back was pretty ballsy if you ask me. She put two stamps and no return address on the letter because she wanted me to get it and didn’t want anything coming back to her. It’s her husband’s show, Mom. He’s the one forcing her into doing what she’s doing.”

“I just don’t want you getting’ your heart set on somethin’ that’ll never happen.” she said. “I don’t want to see you throw your life away.”

“I know and I appreciate that. I’m gonna still put myself out there, and work on getting my life in order.” I answered half truthfully. “I know I have to live my life as if she’s never going to be in it again, but at the same time, hope she will find her way back home.”

“Can you forgive her?”

“Do you remember the time I told you when Anya asked her son what he wanted for his twelfth birthday and he looked up at her, with his big brown eyes, then told her “My family”?”

“Yes, I remember you tellin’ me that.”

“What else is she to do, Mom?” stating my case further. “Of course, I could forgive her—it’s just the situation she’s in.”

“Okay, Honey.” She sighed.

Removal of the situation would remove our angst, and if this relationship were under a normal set of circumstances, I’d be hard pressed to find a reason to ever argue with her. I always respected Anya, I just never respected her marriage because I knew it was the source of her pain, anger and why she hated her life. The day the one I loved more than anyone on this earth told me she hated her life—it redefined my entire purpose on this earth. Hearing those words broke my heart more than her staying in the marriage for the sake of her kids ever could. My heart was extremely vested in her happiness, and for her to open up to me about the way she felt about her life, upset me more than anything ever could. Regardless of what my mom believed, I felt Anya loved me. Even as all the evidence in the world stacked up against me like a Congressional indictment, I couldn’t accept she didn’t love me. Only Anya and I knew all we shared—we were the only ones in my room when she visited. My mother never saw the look in Anya’s eyes and the agony in her voice when she told me she loved me while we made love. It’s the one thing I would question at times, but the one thing I was unwilling to accept. Even as Jackson spun a web for me, Anya would not allow him to abuse his power to ever hurt me. If push came to shove, she’d stand by my side at the end. As much as the evidence and my mother’s opinions grew, the more I refused to accept them as truth. If Anya still didn’t love me, she would’ve handed my letter to her police official neighbor, and not written me back. If she still didn’t love me, she would’ve returned the necklace. If she still didn’t love me, she would’ve returned the last letter and the CD I mailed her back to sender. She even put her heart into the response to my letter using an artist’s stationary resembling our beach—even drawing a small squiggly line to indicate it’s where she will be in the end. If I meant nothing to her, she would’ve either written it on ordinary stationary or not responded at all. Denise never responded but Anya did—I still believed she loved me.

I didn’t want Anya to lose her kids, but I also didn’t believe she wanted to be around them twenty-four seven. It didn’t mean she loved them less, but her kids didn’t want to be around their mother twenty-four seven either. Anya did want access to them twenty-four seven, as any loving parent would, and this was why I couldn’t take a hard line black and white stance. My mother viewed our relationship as if it were any other relationship and it wasn’t even close. I couldn’t blame my mother for not being able to distinguish the differences—she was a better and less complicated person than I was. It was hard to get sound advice because the relationship was just so different than others. Anya couldn’t just leave—she had kids and employees who relied on her so grey areas consumed our relationship and her love for me. Drawing a line in concrete would never be fair to her, but I was the only one who knew the complexities in our relationship. My only beef with Anya was letting me find out about the challenges after I fell deeply in love with her, and as unfair as that was to me, it was my ace in the hole—knowing all she faced, she still couldn’t help falling deeply in love with me. If she only listened to herself, the decision was easy. Instead, she had others make the decision for her because the truth was too much for her to face. Was that enough to question her love for me? I didn’t have to face half of all she did if she left Jackson. I had to be hard on her, otherwise she’d never listen to herself and that’s who the decision maker should’ve been, not a twelve- and ten-year-old kid who loved their lives. Although she threw me into the fire of inequity, she truly couldn’t help herself because she knew change was necessary for growth. I saw and knew things my mother never could, but there were many things she did know and see, making it harder on me to discount her opinions. And when her view didn’t align with mine, I craved a Vicodin for realignment. My mother wasn’t the reason I used the pills, this inequity of life was.

After visiting my mother, I took my letters, large black binder and laptop to the Good Morning Café. Upon arriving, I needed a Vicodin to build up the temerity to relive the last two years of my life. I also planned to read the thirty-page letter I wrote—to better imagine how she felt reading it. Although my mind should’ve been focused on work, my fragmented heart wouldn’t allow my mind to. In order to move forward, I still needed her in some way, shape or form. For now, I had to throw in the towel on my career because of the recession.

While poring through the thousand-page binder and comfortably seated in the familiar leather café chair with the same color, a blonde woman likely in her early forties sat down in the open leather chair next to me. After looking over when her sudden movement startled me, she smiled apologetically. I smiled back then dove right back into my black binder. I tried to keep an extremely low profile inside the coffee shop because Mitch’s friend, Dave, who told me a couple of years ago that he stuck his head in the mouth of a killer whale and survived to tell the story, was an all too frequent customer. I had to treat Dave like a Tyrannosaurus Rex—hoping he couldn’t see me if I didn’t move. I came to the Good Morning Café only to deal with my heartbreak, while he came to talk to anyone who would listen to him. I was trying to learn a way to breathe without her, and had no desire to make new friends that would only end up letting me down one day. It wouldn’t be right to be rude to people, but my faith in the human race had been shaken to its core. I just wanted to be left alone with Anya in my head, but this day would not be one for the promotion of solitude.

“Are you reading the Bible?” she asked.

“Yes, I just picked up the three-ring black binder edition.” Sarcastically responding.

‘Ha!” she snickered. “You must admit it looks big enough to be a Bible!”

“It’s definitely as voluminous...” I replied, smiling slightly. “But I can assure you it’s not—I’m not much of a believer.”

“You’re an atheist?”

“I’m more on the agnostic side.” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, so you have to see to believe.”

“You could say that.”

“My name is Theresa.” she said, extending her hand out to me. “Nice to meet you.”

“Landyn.” I said, extending my hand to her. “Nice to meet you too.”

Theresa seemed like a very nice lady, but I came to relax and read a bible of my own—she was killing the peace Vicodin gave me.

“May I ask what’s in the big book?” She asked, leaning in a little closer.

“This big book?” I answered, pulling it slightly away from her. “I’m doing research for a book I’m thinkin’ about writing.”

“Oh, you’re a writer?” her eyes widening.

“I wouldn’t say that.” I quickly backtracked in an attempt to kill her interest. “I’m actually an accountant.”

“Are you a CPA?”

“I am.” I said, surprised she made the assumption.

“This is the third time I’ve seen you in here.” she admitted, smiling widely. “Are you working?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Not right now—I’ve kind of been coming here to sort my life out.” I broke. “I’m not sure if I want to work for an employer again or do my own thing.”

“So, you’re not writing a book?”

“Maybe one day, but it’s more of a hobby right now than a career.” I told her, hoping she’d buy the white lie.

“I see. I’m working on startin’ my own business too.”

“What field of work?”

“Behavioral Science.”

“Interesting.” I said without rolling my eyes into my head. “What made you choose that field?”

“I want to help people.” She stated, removing a small white binder from her bag. “Help me understand them and help them understand themselves.”

“Those all sound like noble reasons.”

“Thank you. I’d like to think so.”

After uttering these words, I looked up to witness Dave’s blue eyes peering over the top of the newspaper he held to his face. When his eyes went from Theresa to mine, he quickly disappeared behind it. This kind of thing Dave did wasn’t his only quirk. He always came in with a plastic grocery bag full of newspapers to read as if they were his most prized possession. He’d arrive in the morning and stay until midafternoon—just before the kids from the local middle school infiltrated the café. By early afternoon, Dave would’ve have ripped into, a conservative estimate, of about twenty pink Sweet & Low sugar packets that he left scattered across his table—all for a single cup of coffee. He usually sat next to another guy, who according to a barista, was here at five in the morning when the doors opened. When Dave arrived a few hours later, he hung out with him before bailing to an AA meeting—he was a recovering alcoholic. It seemed like Theresa was a woman Dave took an interest in. Theresa was not a bad looking woman—she had big green eyes, a kind round face with long dark blonde hair. Her skin was creamy white and she appeared slightly overweight but curvy in an attractive way. From the first moment I met her, unlike Anya, I instantly knew she was not my type. Furthermore, even if I had never met Anya, I felt no sparks whatsoever. She seemed like a nice person though and didn’t want to be rude, but I’d find a way to disengage myself even if Megan Fox tried talking to me. Although it made zero sense to come to a place where people were, all I wanted was to be left alone—to escape my apartment to be surrounded by civilization without actually being a part of it. I hoped extricating myself from my miserable apartment would give me some semblance of a life again. The people frequenting the café seemed to have mental issues, but we didn’t have the same issues. Theresa’s reason for coming was to work on her business and didn’t seem to carry any baggage like the rest of us did. I also came to the café hoping to run into the one I loved, but after seeing the place was more of a mental institution, I’ d likely hide in the restroom until she left if she did walk in. Every time Anya and I came, it was generally empty but I underestimated how much the recession affected everyone, and not just myself.

When I got home later that evening, I went online to torture myself—to see if Katie had put up a new profile picture. When I saw it was the one her mom showed me of Katie on her pony when she was a little girl, I found myself so drawn into the innocence of the picture that I couldn’t stop from tearing up. Sitting on that pony was probably one of the happiest moments of her life and her mother sharing that pic reminded me of one of the happiest times of mine. That picture affected me as much as the one with Jackson and Anya did, and I instantly regretted seeing it. It also made me mad at Anya, for allowing me to feel so much for her, just to make me feel by wanting to be with her that I also wanted this sweet little girl to be stripped of the happiness she felt on her horsey. Katie wasn’t my daughter but the closeness I had with her mother, even being told I knew her better than her own father did, made me feel emotions I didn’t know I had—or maybe I just wish I was her father.

I then found myself on their Company website, noticing the site indicated some holiday cheer picture would be posted soon. It relieved me to know they weren’t up, but at the same time knew some future pain was in store for me. With my heart in so much agony, I searched for the answers she never gave me to ascertain the meaning of my struggle—did she still love me or did she not? This internal struggle stopped me from living so I naturally looked for things that could springboard me back into the human race—something that would either give me life or take it from me. Katie did remove the picture of Jackson and Anya after mentioning it in my letter, so it seemed Anya dictated what her daughter posted on Facebook. It was a good sign that at least Anya respected my heart enough to ask Katie to not post pics of them on Facebook—that had to mean something.

As weeks passed without hearing from Anya, my focus remained on that big black three ring Bible I created and the letter I wrote her. While obsessing over my words and her silence working against my theory—I held on to the belief she still loved me. My dead weighted spirit leaving me unable to move forward with my life. What did I do with all I felt for someone who ran out of my life? Using a small white capsule that shot me through a portal to where hope reigned supreme and dreams never died. Without it, there was no strength to work out or to look for work. Just getting out of bed became the most arduous of chores and the greatest of personal achievements. Without Anya, what purpose did I have to breathe? Everything I ever hoped for or believed in was gone, leaving me in the darkest of nightmares; like a banished soul into a circle of hell—the price paid for loving someone more than myself.

Each time I visited my mother, I threw a pity party for myself—until taking a Vicodin or two. After Anya responded to my letter, my mother stopped telling me she didn’t love me, but I think she didn’t want to destroy my belief in love as much as she didn’t want me to destroy hers in God. To be told Anya’s love for me wasn’t real, that it was feigned, would make me soft enough between the ears to scale the bridge. If losing Anya had happened to me in my twenties, there would be a chance to recover, but not as I headed into my forties—this could end no other way.

With all this time on my hands, I visited my parents more, and that only increased the likelihood of butting heads with my father. Being in such a sensitive state to everything around me, my tolerance with his opinions would be non-existent. I never wanted to argue with him, but he aimed to push my buttons on one particular visit, and my mind wasn’t in the right place to take it.

“How are you, Dad?” I asked, after leaving my mother’s room to head home.

“Ok.” He replied, sweat beading off his brow while he was bent down cutting the edges on the front yard grass. “You find a job yet?”

“Not yet,” I responded. “I’ve been lookin', but it’s tough out there right now because of the recession—companies aren’t hiring much right now.”

“What do you mean it’s hard to find work? Aren’t you a CPA?”

“I find it hard to believe too, Dad.”

“Something tells me you’re not tryin’ hard enough.” He stated, digging his clippers deeper into the thick blades of grass bleeding off the edges of the lawn.

“You’re right, I could give it a little more effort.” I told him. “And I will.”

“How long have you been out of work now?”

“About seven months.”

“Seven months? What the hell have you been doing?” he yelled. “You must have a lot of money.”

“Well, Dad. I can definitely say I don’t have a lot of money.” I informed him, a little annoyed. “I’ve actually had two interviews but they both passed on me. I’ve also been seeing a psychiatrist to help me work through some personal issues so I’m mentally prepared to go back to work when it happens…so I guess it’s kind of a blessing in disguise things hadn’t materialized for me yet. I don’t know if mom told you, but I just got off a drug called Zoloft.”

“What’s Zoloft?” he said, vigorously cutting into the blades of grass.

“It’s an anti-depressant.” I replied. “It’s supposed to help correct chemical imbalances. Mom’s on it, actually.”

“What’s wrong with you? Are you whacko or somethin’?”

“I’m goin’ through some things right now.” I told him, trying hard not to be sarcastic. “I don’t feel like myself these days.”

“Goin' through some things? Like what things?”

“Just life, Dad. I’m having a hard time finding meaning in it right now.”

“What are you? Weak?” he questioned, stopping his work to look up at me.

“Being a CPA is a demanding mental job, not a physical one.” I tried to explain. “I need my mind to be successful and if my mind isn’t in order, my life isn’t in order.”

“You always make things up in your head.” He countered. “You want people to feel sorry for you.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“Then what’s the problem, Whacko?”

“There’s been some things that have left me a bit broken.” I replied, fighting myself from the argument he wanted. “I’m just tryin’ to fix myself.”

“That only makes you more of a loser in life than you already are.” He told me, while moving down the edge of his lawn to dig his cutters into other blades of grass hanging off the edge.

“It takes a lot of strength for someone to walk into a psychiatrist office and admit they need help.”

“I went through a lot more than you ever have.” He jabbed. “And I don’t need a drug to help me get through life.”

“You’ve never worked a job that demands your mind and not your hands.” I jabbed back.

“That degree sure has gotten you really far.” he counterpunched. “That’s why you’re a failure in life.”

After years of being told you’re a failure, you eventually start to believe it—especially when it comes from a parent. Here I was at my lowest point, and my father just didn’t care. I had to carve out a path of my own because one was never laid out for me. I chose a profession in which I knew no one that could help me get ahead—it would be solely up to me and that made it an even harder task to be successful. Yet, just five months ago, I was on schedule to be promoted as a partner of a successful CPA firm and now all that remained were insults from my support system. This was the one thing I admired about Jackson and Anya, that although I disagreed with the way they taught their children true values, at least they gave them a road map and put them in the position to be successful in life—something I never had. Any amount of success I experienced was completely done through hard work and discipline. And if I never believed in love, which was a miracle in itself with my father raising me, I would’ve never made it this far in life.

In his defense, my father gave up a lot in life when he married my mother after she got pregnant with me—after his own mother demonized him for making a decision any good man and father would make. His reward for fulfilling his duty as a father was his mother choosing to never acknowledge him again. I never knew my father’s mother, my own grandmother, but I'm sure she at least hoped, if she didn’t try to convince him, to abort me. The fact I made it out of the womb alive had to be a miracle. I never held any bad feelings towards her, but my father seemed to harbor her ill will towards me especially at my lowest points—and I lost the patience to tolerate it. Tobey told me to choose healthy relationships and to get rid of toxic ones. His attack brought me back to the time he wrote “Landyn Does Not Make College” on the blackboard—an education I worked two jobs to pay for. I had to work hard for everything I accomplished with little to no help, or even encouragement from him yet he had the audacity to criticize my decision for going to college even calling me a failure? If I was indeed “whacko”, he certainly had a hand in it.

After my father called me a failure, I walked away and stormed back into the house to avoid saying anything that could escalate things. While trying to calm my mind down while hoping to avoid my mother, she appeared from behind me.

“I thought you left, Honey?”

“I’m leavin’ now.”

“Here.” she said, stuffing a pill bottle sternly in my pocket. “Be careful. Please.”

“Thanks.” I said realizing my mother overheard our conversation. “We were that loud, huh?”

“You know your father.” she smiled, shaking her head.

After giving her a hug, I looked back at her and shook my head. The disappointment in myself and the sadness in her eyes carried a bittersweet feeling only because of the Vicodin she gave me. Before getting inside my car, I waved to my dad as he acknowledged me with a rapid nod. When safely inside, I removed the pill bottle from my pocket noticing she had given me half her prescription bottle. She must’ve reasoned I’d make a few trips over the rest of the week and end up taking half anyway. More than anything she knew how much anxiety my father’s harsh criticism caused me. After losing my career and struggling to find work, my mother knew he had crossed the line in critiquing me. The last thing I aimed to do was make excuses, but this world was a lot more expensive now than it was when my father bought his home thirty years ago. Also, there were a lot more people competing for jobs than there were thirty years ago and if he had to try and make it in today’s world, he would’ve had a hell of a time. The last thing I needed was his negativity—it’s all I’ve ever heard from him. I can’t be around him anymore because of it and that’s a horrible thing to feel for my father. I understood where his discontent came from, but I refused to be his punching bag anymore. My mind needed to get well and if he thought putting me down at my lowest point was inspirational and done out of love, it sure didn’t feel like it. My father’s attacks couldn’t have come at a worse time and without Vicodin, I would’ve easily scaled the bridge. Vicodin and Anya holding onto my necklace were the only things I had in life anymore. Most fathers wanted their kids to believe in themselves, but all mine did was teach me how to never believe in myself. Most of the time, I didn’t even feel like a human being around him, only encouraging me to achieve nothing better than mediocrity in life. I think his worst nightmare was to see me become more successful than him. He thought of himself as the measuring stick and anything else would be a failure. A parent was supposed to instill confidence in their children, not rip them apart. If I was a junkie, or a criminal, then he could rip me to shreds, but to call me a loser and a failure because I’ve had some bad luck? Everything I ever did in life was with great passion. I worked super hard to be a partner at my firm—I never expected to be betrayed by a trusted co-worker and lose my career fighting for love. My father’s words removed me even further from the human race—I didn’t even feel worthy of being loved because of his issues. My father was supposed to be my support system, not the reason for my demise. If Anya’s love would lead me to climb to the highest point of a bridge, then my father’s words would be the hand that shoved me off.

The brain is the body’s most powerful organ—the central command center. When the mission control center is disjointed or disabled, the entire human experience is threatened. After leaving the house, I soon found myself outside “The Good Morning Café”, contemplating whether to go inside or to put an end to this miserable existence. My birthday was just days away, and thirty-nine felt more like seventy-nine. After a half hour of serious contemplation, I swallowed a Vicodin then tucked my large black Bible of heartache under my arm. Before entering the cafe, I noticed Theresa was seated outside, and Crazy Dave and his sidekick were in their usual spots. Quietly slipping in, I slid into the usual black leather chair and buried my head into the binder; trying desperately to avoid any social interaction. While attempting to stave off my father’s words and the stress to remain anti-social, the anxiety forced me away from the chair and back out to my car to take another pill. After allowing a few more minutes for the second Vicodin to kick in, I gained the strength to walk back inside the café. Before I could clandestinely return to bury my face in the binder, Theresa was now seated next to me. I then heard paper rustling, as Crazy Dave’s blue eyes peered over his newspaper before disappearing behind it after meeting mine. Although this caused me great anxiety, I tried to be a good sport about it.

“How are you?” I greeted Theresa unenthusiastically.

“I’m super! How are you?”

“Great! Thanks!” I replied, attempting to not let the word “super” bother me as much as it did.

“How’s the book research comin’ along?” she asked, turning her body towards mine.

“Huh?”

“The book research?” She reiterated, touching my binder. “You told me you were thinkin’ about writing a book?”

“Oh. Well, to be honest…I’m not really researching right now.” I explained, trying to disconnect with her. “I’m more reflecting on the things in here.”

“Reflecting?”

“I broke up with my girlfriend four months ago.” I admitted with a bigger purpose in mind for sharing.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. This actually might sound a bit crazy, but I kept a journal every day we were together. I decided to print them out and throw them in this big binder.”

“Wow! You’ve done a lot of work.”

“It’s a lot of writing, but it’s fun for me.” I explained. “My ex and I used to talk about me writing a book about our relationship—she even gave me some titles. Of course, it was all in good fun at the time—I never thought we’d ever break up. Anyway, I printed my journals out so I could look at them to see how I could write the book.”

“You must be heartbroken.”

“Terribly.” I nodded, hoping she would receive this as disinterest. “It was a very special relationship.”

“I’ve had my heart broken too.” she revealed, her eyes falling to the ground and away from mine.

“Just recently?”

“No, it was two years ago.” She said, bringing her green eyes back into mine. “I still have a hard time getting past it.”

“I get it—there’s a reason I’m toting this Bible around.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

When she asked me if I wanted to talk about it, she seemed to be looking for a way to connect with me—the last thing I wanted. Although I’m sure she still struggled with her loss even after two years, I couldn’t find trust in her reason for wanting to know the details of mine.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, but today’s not a good day for me—I really need to get some things done while I’m here.”

“I understand.” she said before handing me her business card. “If you’d ever like to talk, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you.” I answered, briefly looking at her card before putting it in my pocket.

Could I ask you for your number as well?” She asked, a pen suddenly in her hand.

After remembering she was trying to become a therapist, it didn’t seem like she was interested in dating, but rather looking for a lab rat.

“Thank you, Landyn.” she said after writing my number down then putting her pen back into her bag. “I have to get back outside—I have a client comin’ by.”

“Oh, ok. Good luck Theresa.” I told her, relieved. “Have a nice day.”

“You too” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder before leaving.

Theresa made me feel safe, and by giving her my number, maybe it would be good to get someone else’s opinion who also went through a hard heartbreak—a like-minded person who could provide unbiased opinions and advice. Now that she knew the contents of my big binder, she was unlikely interested in dating me, but rather more focused on building a clientele. If she knew heartbreak for two years and counting, she also knew how unavailable the creator of the Bible binder was.

I went home that evening, on a rainy night, and opened my bedroom window to listen to the rain fall from the sky and into my heart. As it pelted my window and the leaves of the trees outside, it brought my sadness into such sharp focus, I swallowed two Vicodin. While lying on my bed, peering out into the shroud of what used to be, my mind took me to where she wasn’t—with me. Remembering those days her love for me was so real, days we looked forward to now morphed into fantasy, leaving behind the most horrific sorrow.

When the Vicodin made me feel as if Anya was with me, the internet beckoned me. I first visited Katie’s Facebook page yet again, noticing her own father was not a friend, and that all of her pictures were no longer there. I then searched for her father’s Facebook page, and even his profile was missing—which explained why he didn’t show up as one of her friends. This prompted me to visit his Company’s website and even all those pictures were down. Not knowing what to make of it, I reined in my inner cyberstalker to focus on the harsh words my father had about me being a failure in life. If Anya were to ever come back to me, I needed to figure my life out first. Spending my free time high on Vicodin with my nose inside a three-ring binder at a coffee shop wouldn’t cut it. I was a certified public accountant with ten years of experience in both public and private accounting. The only way I’d be able to control a partner’s salary ever again would be to do this on my own—to never work for another employer ever again. Why rely on someone else for income when I could make more money and even have more time if I worked for myself? I still had enough money saved up to give it a shot but needed one client to build my business up from there. If my business failed, like I often did, what would I have to fall back on? If I decided to do this, it was all in or nothing. It wasn’t about being rich but feeling rich inside—there had to be intrinsic value in this for me. If I was successful, but my clients weren’t, I could never feel right about that. This CPA license had to be used to help others, not to only benefit myself. I’d still look for work in the meantime, but if my job search the last seven months has taught me anything, it’s that being your own boss was the way to go.

It wasn’t long before my thoughts brought me back to the missing Facebook profiles and pictures. Maybe Anya removed the pics because I told her that their marriage was used as a marketing tool for business purposes? Or maybe she told him she didn’t want the pics up there because she didn’t want me to see them? If he wouldn’t allow her to be with me though, then I it’s hard to believe he’d allow her to take their pictures down off the company website. When Valentine’s Day arrived, I thought Katie would certainly have posted pics of Anya and Jackson on her Facebook page—but she never did. Not only was I surprised, but thankful—there was only so much more I could handle. Maybe she had the pics removed because the CD I burned for her meant something? She never wrote demanding me to never contact her again, so maybe she was having a change of heart? Allowing myself to hope was something I needed in order to breathe because I missed her so much. Her laugh and smile—the way she loved the same things I did. I longed for the way she loved me—the way she touched me. The way she’d look at me before she kissed me—how she’d run her fingers through my hair. The way she kissed my chest and brought her body into mine. How’d she’d cuddle up to me, lay her head on my chest and just fall asleep so easily. Even holding her in my arms brought meaning because I knew she loved being in them—missing her just murders me. It was never about making love, but about making once in a lifetime moments together. The pure enjoyment of the little things is what made it such a special relationship. If Anya wanted or planned to work wholeheartedly on her marriage, she would’ve at least kept a pic of them up together for the world to see somewhere, and not have them taken down.

I stayed away from my parent’s house and even the coffee shop for a few days—opting to be depressed at home instead. After landing an interview, I was once again rejected during those three days. Knowing my father wouldn’t be home, I visited my mother to see how she was doing. I didn’t hate my father, I just didn’t need his pessimism right now, I carried enough on my own. When I walked into my mother’s room, she was pleasantly surprised to see me. After she teased me for not being around for four days, she made the mistake of asking me how I was doing. With Anya on my mind twenty-four seven, there was no way around talking about how much I missed her. My mother at this point, whether it was because she wrote me back or she knew how heartbroken I was, would let me have the floor. Of course, eventually, I’d take the wrong turn and need a Vicodin to deal with her difference of opinion.

“I just get so mad at her husband.” I told her. “I don’t wish death on him or anything like that, but he disgusts me.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“What did he do? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m curious what you think he did to you.” She wondered.

“It’s not just what he did, but what he didn’t do.” I stated, annoyed. “I’m not Anya’s husband—her heart wasn’t my responsibility.”

“Well, you took that responsibility on by seeing her.”

“That would’ve never happened if he didn’t let his wife feel the need to act like a single person. If he wouldn’t “allow” her to be with me, then why is he allowing that? Why did he cheat on his wife while she was pregnant? Why did he cheat on her with another married woman?”

My mother just looked at me, not knowing what to say.

“You know, I may still be alone. I may still not know what love feels like, but I’d be okay with never knowing all of that.” I continued. “He basically gave her the freedom to break my heart because he didn’t give a damn about hers, nor anyone else’s! That’s what he’s done to me! Please don’t defend that marriage wrecker—cheating on his wife while’s she pregnant with another man’s wife because she’s not in the mood to have sex with him is bullshit. I don’t deserve to feel this anguish, he does.”

“I wasn’t defending him. I was just askin’ the question.”

“The way you phrased it rubbed me the wrong way.” I stated, trying to calm down. “You made it sound like I had no right to feel the way I do about him. Like he’s this innocent bystander and loving hubby—he’s far from.”

“No, no, you have a right to feel the way you do about him.” She told me. “I was just tryin’ to say that maybe you should be mad at her, too?”

“Anya didn’t have to write me back after sending her that letter. She could’ve written me back to tell me to never contact her again, instead she thanked me for the letter.” I pointed out. “I believe she’s in love with me still and she always will be. I don’t want her to be alone, to suffer, or be sad for the rest of her life. Divorces take a couple of years to iron out anyway, and people don’t stay in two-year relationships to end up with someone else. I still have to mean something to her.”

“When you love someone, you can’t stand being away from them.” She countered.

“I couldn’t agree more.” I replied, exhaling deeply.

“Landy, Doctor Halmann, my Oncologist, told me my cancer is starting to advance again.” She broke. “I have to go back on chemo starting next week.”

My mother’s news left me in a state of shock. What did her Oncologist mean her Cancer was advancing?

“When did he tell you this?”

“Yesterday.” She answered, bringing her hands to the top of her head. “I was just startin’ to grow my hair back, too.”

My mother’s head was covered with gray hair now and it broke my heart to hear the disappointment in her voice. It broke my heart even more to know that she spent time trying to reason with a broken mind that wouldn’t allow her only son to fully understand all she communicated to me.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I said, sitting down next to her and rubbing her back. “Did he sound optimistic?”

“He did.” she said, nodding her head then reaching for a tissue. “We just have to go back in there and kick its butt one more time. I’m just…well, I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“I don’t know if I wanna keep fightin’ this thing. I’m getting tired.” She told me, looking into the tissue she brought to her lap. “I’ve been fightin’ this for twenty years now—I just don’t have the same energy anymore.”

For the last twenty years, my mother was a fighter, not a quitter—it was the first time I ever heard her sound even remotely defeated.

“You’ve been kicking Cancer’s ass for nearly twenty years, Mom.” I reminded her. “You’re even the longest known cancer survivor on the drug, Femara.”

“I think I just told you that—I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

“Regardless, they told you that you wouldn’t make it past five years and it’s been seven now.”

“That’s true.” She nodded. “I remember my mother when she got lung cancer telling me she was tired and then she was gone. I feel the same way.”

“Grandma was “tired” because she smoked for nearly her entire life and her body couldn’t fight back.” I retorted. “But you’ve never compromised your body like she did and I know it’s strong enough to beat this thing again. Like Dr. Halmann said—you just gotta go back in there and knock it out one last time. It’s just one more battle, Mom and you haven’t lost one yet.”

My mother smiled at me and laid her hand on top of mine.

“You’d tell me if there was somethin’ I didn’t know, right?” I asked.

She then turned to face me.

“I told you I would.”

“I just wanna make sure you didn’t forget.” I told her. “Knowing would help me, not save me from being hurt.”

“Nah, I’d tell you.”

“Okay good! Then I know you got this!”

As we sat there in silence, my mother’s bedroom door slowly opened before my father’s head appeared through its opening.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked. “Hi, Son.”

“Dad.” I acknowledged with a nod.

“Everything is fine. What’s up?” my mother asked.

“I was thinkin’ about grabbing dinner?”

“Ooooh! In-N-Out sounds good.” My mother said.

“Landyn?” my father asked.

“In-N-Out sounds good to me, too—a number two please.”

“I would just like a hamburger.” my mom said. “and a strawberry shake.”

“And five orders of French fries, and a hot fudge sundae and can they make the sundae animal style?” I teased her.

“Stop it, Landy.” She said, raising her hand to slap me—like she did when I was younger that always made me laugh.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” My father said shaking his head.

My mother then took her remote control and pointed it at the television.

“Well, I guess you two are back on speakin’ terms.” She said, as her television screen came to life.

“I guess so.” I said, smiling. “In-N-Out never fails.”