Self Love

This morning, I pulled up photo albums on my iPhone. For one of the first times since your death, I began to scroll through recent photos we took together. I looked at the photos of us dressed to the nines in eclectic gear at Burning Man – in love, in feathers. I smiled at the image of us pointing out our twin bandaids from immunizations before traveling to South Africa this past summer. I saw the looks in our eyes as we were candidly caught sharing a joke at a recent wedding – wide-eyed, laughing, and mid-dance move. There was the photo I stole of you asleep – peaceful, naked, and with your slender arm draped across Kira. We shared gleeful grins and showed off custom hats at a summer theme wedding. There was an image of the two of us at the Chihuly exhibit at the Botanic Gardens – glorious smiles in front of beautiful artwork, right before we got rained on.

I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.

Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.

Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.

As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.

I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.

I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.

I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.

My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.

I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.

As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?

I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.

When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.

And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?

I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.

I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.

Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.