Natalie Portman in a Pink Wig & A Love Note on a Jiffy Lube Receipt

I’ve heard London is cloudy all the time, but November is especially bad. 

More than one person told me this when I spoke of my plans to travel Europe in the late fall, but every time I would smile and say something like, ‘yeah but we have fun no matter the weather.’ And this is true, but I wasn’t counting on the particular clouds I am currently experiencing.

It’s 5pm and I’m just waking up. My sleep schedule isn’t normally very regular, but spending the last week in Amsterdam solidified me as a nocturnal creature. Just moments I’ve been conscious and I’m already filled with dread and longing.

Fuck. I’m so depressing.

I stir in my bed. My dark cozy sanctuary. I stretch and feel my way around the sheets. I push my arms out and spread my legs as far as the bed will allow, making sure to capture all the fresh cold corners of bed. My muscles thank me for the routine. It gave my mind a moment of reprieve and – dare I say joy? A simple one, maybe, but still… 

Two quick vibrations indicate my phone is hidden somewhere in the mess I’ve made of my bed. I toss and turn, flipping over the comforter, the top sheet, then finally each pillow, finally finding it wedged between the mattress and the wall. I have two unread texts from Bailey:

Text #1: Fancy dinner tonight?? Ideas?? - 3:43pm

Text #2: You awake?? - 4:21pm

I am awake but I don’t want to leave this bed. Not now, not ever. I push my face into my pillow and try to take a deep breath, straining my lungs. I let out a low groan with my exhale. 

“Don’t be a little bitch,” I whisper to myself before moving to a sitting position. I flip on the light and flinch as the light seems to physically hit me in the face. I have a hard time standing up, I must have slept for ten hours at least, I shouldn’t feel as fatigued as I do. It’s either the molly or the depression. 

Even though my suitcase has been reduced to a soupy mess of discarded unidentifiable black garments I’m somehow able to piece together an outfit that will work for tonight. A black turtleneck and a pair of vintage black levis that make my ass look way higher and tighter than it is. I’ll throw a leather jacket on over it. It’ll be cute. And maybe if I look cute enough I’ll forget that my heart has broken into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

I place my hand on the door knob and take a deep breath, slap a smile on my face and push. Before the door is fully opened I’m greeted with a loud, clear, and resounding:

“Oh hello!” Bailey stands in the kitchen, scantily clad in just panties and a baby tee, holding a glass of rosé. Her dark curly hair tightly framing her face, still wet from a shower. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you!” I sleepily hobble over to her and wrap her up in a big hug.

“Sorry, I’m all fucked up after Amsterdam,” I say and manage a lazy smile. Bailey giggles and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, that molly was wild,” Bailey smirks as she leads me deeper into the kitchen, “I’ve prepared some breakfast for you that, I think, will get you in the right mood to go out.” Bailey, as though on The Price Is Right, revealing the one hundred thousand dollar prize, gestures to a shot of vodka, a glass of chilled rosé and two lines of cocaine. 

“Yeah that is going to help.”

***

The Londoner Hotel is a work of art in and of itself. Outfitted with several upscale restaurants and bars, and situated just next to the Soho district of London, it was a perfect choice to start our evening. 

We walk in, dressed in all black. Not matching but close enough that we feel like the hottest people in the place. Honestly this is probably true, Bailey is one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know it was possible, but she embodies both a bombshell and a girl next door. She’s a wonderful girl who is just as special on the inside as she is sexy and unique on the outside. 

I’m sure the restaurant is beautiful but I’m not paying attention because I can’t hear anything over the screaming going on in my head telling me that I’m not worthy of being here.

Once we are led to our table, carefully situated with two black leather couches facing striking views of the London skyline that I will never remember because I’m too in my own head, I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I make it across the dark chic restaurant to the bathroom in less than four strides. I, as calmly as I can, bust down the bathroom door. As soon as I’m inside the bathroom, the toilet lid is down, an eight ball is broken open, and as I crush it, I can’t help but wonder… am I chasing a high or just an escape?

Life has this funny way of reminding us that we’re not that special. We meet someone and believe that this feeling that you have with them is unique and different, something that no one else has experienced before. When in reality, most everyone has. It’s that thing that people write songs, novels, and movies about. It’s not unique or special or different at all. But it’s not until it ends that you’re reminded you’re just like everyone else. When you’re left alone, unspecial, non unique, completely indifferent. Just the same.

Nature has a cunning way of finding our weakest spot.

There’s something so special and degrading and humbling about heartbreak. You feel so horrible. So broken. So truly devastated that it’s hard to believe that so many other people have been through, experienced and gotten to the other side of that cascade of emotions. It’s hard to believe that it’s possible to be happy again. 

You feel like maybe you shouldn’t even be feeling those things. It’s so pedestrian to feel heartbreak. It’s funny because love is supposed to be so special, but everyone at some point in their lives feels love, and by extension, heartbreak. 

It hurts.

It hurts and you’re ashamed. 

It hurts and you’re ashamed. You’re not happy anymore.

It hurts and you’re ashamed. You’re not happy anymore, because someone chose not to love you.

I’ve always been someone who feels a little too much. I’ve developed a method of protecting myself against my emotions by putting up as many walls as I can when I meet new people. I hide behind my best weapons, sarcasm and cynicism. I keep an arsenal of quick wit and quippy comments that keep people from feeling too close to me. This keeps me from getting too attached. But every now and again one slips through the cracks.

Once in a while I let someone in. Normally because they intrigue me in some way. They make me wonder what they’re going to say next. They have a way of being that is similar to mine but still different. I click with them in the way that most people do when they find someone that they want to stick around with for a while.

I’ve fallen in love. I’ve fallen out of love. Both hurt the same.

Nothing lasts forever. Thousands of people on this planet, all moving, all changing, all growing. This moment, that moment. It’ll never happen again. It’ll never be the same. You can try to recreate a second, but it’s just a ghost of what was.

What’s worse about heartbreak, and some might disagree, but no matter who you are in the equation, the one who did the breaking or the one who was broken, there is no good guy and there is no bad guy. There are a thousand reasons why people hurt other people, and most of them are justified. It is the largest non-crime with the highest number of non-victims.

Who teaches us how to love?

Our parents? Maybe. Maybe they teach us how not to love.

The movies? Or maybe we see it on TV. What we’re watching is someone elses interpretation of love. Entertainment, but still a fantasy.

Wherever we learn it. Whoever is teaching us. They’re doing a shitty job. 

We all want to feel less alone. That’s our goal when you boil it all down. We want to relate to another person, we want to share thoughts and feelings, all in an effort to feel validated. But at the end of the day, we are alone.

Why is it that when the people who are closest to us aren’t anymore they need to be enemies? 

Is the absence of love, hate?

I wipe tears away from my eyes and beg to some nonexistent higher power that I could be rid of this horrible feeling I have inside. This unrelenting pain that’s eating away at my insides. This feeling of absolute loss. I want to be rid of it but at the same time, there’s a part of me I know is hanging on.

Hanging on because I know that once the pain has subsided it’ll all be over. Once that’s gone, I won’t care about any of it anymore. The memories of the happy times will mean less to me, and I’ll look back on it with indifference instead of the love I have now.

I don’t want to not care. But I know I won’t.

Why is happiness so hard to achieve? And why, once you achieve it, it’s so hard to keep? No matter how hard or how little you try it inevitably leaves. 

What sustains happiness? 

It has to be love, but don’t get me started on that.

Suddenly, I remember where I am. I look at the toilet seat with the pile of white powder and I look over to the mirror, a tear stained version of myself looking back at me. I snort one line and remember the good friend I have waiting for me just outside the bathroom door. I wipe tears from my eyes and remember that there’s endless love I’m capable of achieving. 

Unlike London in November, I have hope of sunny skies.