and though she be but little, she is fierce.

Added to on 6 June 2019:

I don’t want to push him away. I don’t understand why he thinks I’m trying to “destroy” us. There’s nothing left of us to destroy, because he destroyed it first. I don’t get why he just can’t give me what I want so I may find inner peace. I know I deserve to be at peace. I decided, after this initial post was written, that I wasn’t going to continue to hold onto hope, contrary to what I told him after we’d played tennis. I told him that over the phone. I don’t think he liked hearing it, but I have let go of any hope…because I will never be happy with myself if I don’t.

I miss him so much. I miss his words, his smile, his arms, his kisses…everything. But I don’t know just how much he might miss me. In all honesty, (and there I go assuming again) my heart and my mind tell me that he doesn’t miss me one bit. He can’t even give me some reassurance that yes, maybe, just maybe, he does.

It’s breaking my heart to let go of that hope, since I was the one falling hopelessly in love. It, however, must happen.

I know I said I wouldn’t use this as a platform for my failed romantic endeavors, but…

I’m brokenhearted. Again. So it goes. I need to vent.

I had so much faith in him. So much. Is there such a thing as too much faith? My Catholicism has led me to believe that it is okay to have faith.

The better question is: Should I hold onto faith in him?

I honestly am in love with this man. I am. I fell, hard, and my heart is shattered. I thought…wow, after all this time, God has finally given me this blessing of this wonderful, handsome and intelligent man. This man wants me and my imperfections - his affections are mine.

How stupid I was to believe in his words. They were empty promises. The actual events leading up to the break-up are too much to go into detail. Reader’s Digest version: he got upset some guy hit on me at a bar, he was drunk, and he blamed me for letting the dude flirt with me (I really, really had no idea how to fend the guy off). He left me in the parking lot after I asked him if he was okay - he just brushed me off like whatever. I was so worried he would hurt himself or someone else by drunk driving. I texted him to make sure he made it home…

And he ripped me a new one. He told me horrible things that really made me start to doubt my mental state. He made me feel like everything was my fault and I spent a week, burrowed in bed, crying my heart out, wondering what did I do to ruin everything? That I was crazy for daring to believe someone like him would ever want someone like me.

He finally wanted to talk, after I’d sent him a pretty candid and honest letter about my feelings. He called me, surprise, surprise, on his way into DC on a Friday night, ready to cut loose, have fun, and forget about me. I had to pull over, because he was literally breaking up with me before going to do this. Probably thought I was just a weight off his shoulders - once the task was over, he could think clearly and enjoy his life again now that my presence was gone.

The man in question started to apologize for his abysmal behavior at the bar. He told me the situation was stupid and he didn’t think I did anything wrong to try and offend him. He apologized for his reactions and told me nothing was my fault - that I wasn’t crazy or emotional.

He then decided to say that the reason he’d been so distant was because he got scared. He, based on his word, decided he was catching feelings and was not emotionally ready to have a relationship with me (or anyone) because the divorce he’d gone through still had him hesitant about embarking on one. He let his guard down, for a second, with me - and then realized he could not be with me because of his emotional baggage. Again, he repeated, it was not because of me.

I can’t…I can’t help but feel like it was, even though he keeps telling me not to make assumptions. I can’t help but feel it’s my fault because he made the decision to leave. I’ve always struggled with feelings of inadequacy. That I’m never good enough for anyone. That my flaws are the reasons I’m twenty-seven and still single. That I’m nerdy, weird, prudish, ugly and unworthy…

So when a babe like him showed me attention and claimed that he wanted me, I really did struggle believing that he thought me beautiful, intelligent, and lovely. I hesitantly started to believe in his words. When he decided it was over, my doubts emerged once more and I just assumed he didn’t want to tell me that he decided I just wasn’t good enough.

I told him that I felt like I was losing him, despite his pleas not to blame myself. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere - that we should still get to know each other, take it slow, and be friends. That we could still go and play tennis together (we did, just yesterday, and I was a jerk, but I needed him to know I wasn’t about to be peachy-keen around him right away) and just have fun.

Which really, was how things should’ve started between us when he returned from Colombia in April. Instead, we jumped right into everything (and I mean everything) and I genuinely started to fall in love with him. I did.

So, can you blame me for wanting to blame myself? All of a sudden, he went from calling me his “beauty” and his “princess” to not wanting to even look at me. He told me he was so blessed to have me in his life - that I gave him “joy and peace” - to barely tolerating me this past week. Does he still have feelings for me, and now he’s doing his best to keep them in check so he can worry about himself? Or, did he stop liking me weeks ago and is now using what he told me on Friday as his “out” for this relationship?

I told him, after we’d played tennis, that I was still going to hold onto a little hope. A little faith. For my life, and for him.

He texted me later: “maybe you shouldn’t.”

That hurt. Again, is it because he doesn’t have any feelings for me at all? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to wait around forever? All I’ve wanted to do is talk rationally to him, but he won’t let me. I need closure. I deserve closure after the hell he has put me through. I cannot wait around for the rest of my life - I know this. What I also know is that I was willing to see where he and I truly could’ve ended up had we had been given more time to just be with each other.

My heart hurts when I picture him already, forgetting about me and flirting with other girls…he’s so handsome, he could have anyone. Why did he even want me? Did he see a vulnerable girl who has “self-esteem issues” written all over her face? Did he take pity on this history nerd and wonder why he decided to take a chance on her when she really was not the girl of his dreams?

I told him today that I was starting to fall in love with him. That all I wanted was just to see him happy and be by his side as he continued to fulfill his goals and aspirations - that he’s done so much already that he should be proud of. That I won’t hold onto my faith forever, but that he cannot tell me what I can and can’t think because he is not the one trying to hold onto the pieces of a broken heart right now. I wrote this all on a note that I stuck in a book - one he had recommended I read. It was called “Hopscotch” by the Argentinean writer Julio Cortázar. Cortázar was influenced by the James Joyce stream of consciousness writing style, so I was immediately hooked and wanted to check it out.

I decided I couldn’t read “Hopscotch” anymore without my heart aching over him. I have a strong connection to books - see my “All Things Must Pass” post - and “Hopscotch” is ruined for me now. With the note folded into the book, I left it in his mailbox outside of his classroom before he arrived in the morning.

He hasn’t said a word. Not one.

I doubt he will.

I’ve said my peace.

I hold onto a little faith.

For now.

Because I have to worry about me.

Me, and only me.

This is my journey. He could’ve shared in that journey and had my love for the rest of his life if he’d wanted it. Maybe I’ll find someone who won’t take my love for granted. Maybe he and I truly are destined to be - that we really are written in the stars and we will happen algún día. Who knows what the future will bring us?

I wish him the best. I want nothing more than for him to find some peace of mind, because his soul deserves to be fulfilled and at ease. He will always be in my prayers. I will always let God know to help him have a blessed day. That I will always be here for him, and carry a bit of him in my heart for always.

For now, I worry about me and succeeding in my life - the right here, right now. I take flight on my journey and make it wonderful.

Stay tuned for my post on my DC Monuments at Night excursion!

Many happy returns,

-Kate

musings.

Unexpected poetry writings by me, after a heartache filled long weekend:

Hindsight

those bright brown eyes
a flicker of love, a spark of affection
just a second of hope
now, gone for good
eyes cold and desolate
forever frozen in time
filled with contempt and the choice
to never look back at me
I should’ve guessed it wouldn’t last
just based by my luck in the past

Never

she was never the beauty
she was never desired
she was always pushed aside
in favour of someone better
so when he called her his beauty
she fell for him
and his lovely words
but then he broke her heart
oh, to quote kurt vonnegut,
so it bloody goes

many happy returns,
-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate