Why I’ll Never Settle

I can never settle, I will never settle. I’ve had the best of the best and know what true love really is. I can never accept anything less, even if it means living alone for eternity—because in reality, I still have that love and always will.

It was 10 years ago today but it still feels like it was yesterday. That wrenching pain searing through my gut—it gripped my entire body and knocked me to my knees, begging for it to be a mistake, a lie, a sick twisted joke.

The phone call, the feeling that told me he was gone before I ever received the call. The dreams I had afterwards, the nightmares that woke me up at three in the morning screaming and sweating and begging for it to not be true.

I still wake up sometimes and forget for just one delicious minute. I wonder where I am and how I got here. I can still feel his touch and the butterflies I would get when he walked into the room. Being together was like the most amazing dream come true. I couldn’t believe I met someone so perfect, so on track with evolving the same way I wanted to, filled with the qualities that mattered most to me. It wasn’t perfect, nothing is—but it was as close to perfect as anything I’ve even dreamed about.

It was all about these specific moments. I always tried so hard to be good and do the right thing, but I had to break someone else’s heart to make our dreams come true. All it took was one split second to make the decision and go with him instead. I didn’t regret it then and never will. From then on, all there is to remember are the moments of elation, challenge and growth—and there were so many of them. I am so blessed to have had so many.

We were in London one night sitting on a rooftop, like we did in every city we visited and in every city we lived in. He told me to take a photograph in my mind and freeze that moment, to remember that perfection until the end of time. He did that always, reminded me to be present and savor each moment. Make time stand still, because life moved so fast—if we didn’t, we would lose it entirely. It would be gone forever.

It was exactly what he was doing in that one specific moment when his life was taken.

Why did he have to go when we still had so much to do together? Or were we already done? Why was I the one chosen to stay here and live through the aftermath? I can’t help but think what would have been if I’d been there, how different everyone’s lives would be. I would have three kids by now and I would love them so much. I would throw everything I had into making their lives so perfect. Maybe I would be a boring soccer mom instead of a crazy writer. Or maybe one specific moment would have destroyed our unjaded love in a way I could never have predicted. Maybe I’d be selling oranges by the freeway and wondering how I got there. Instead I am right here in this specific moment—and I’m okay.

It was the worst suffering of all, but once I let go of that, I realized nothing can ever take away that love. It’s still there, whether he’s here or not. I will always feel it. And now I refuse to settle for mediocrity or be afraid to experience those beautiful, specific moments that make life so amazing.

But I won’t lie—I still fall to my knees and beg for it to not be true.

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Cookies, a fat sack and the ladder to hell

How I got over it

I decided to get really real for this post and not focus on the things I get paid to write about, like my beloved little zombie friends and apocalypse beauty tips. I think it’s an important part of the purging process, especially when you keep things inside for a long time. We all know breakups suck, especially when they drag on and on, or if you’re part of one of those on-again/off-again roller coaster rides that are so satisfying yet, at the same time, gut-wrenching and bloody.

When the ex-love-of-my-life called to say he missed me and was thinking about me, I was a little surprised. I received that same phone call from him many times in the past, but this time, he’d just gotten married—the weekend before. Did I mention our last attempt at a go-around was just six months prior? And that the grand finale absolutely shredded my heart? While my husband calling an ex wouldn’t be my ideal scenario for the first week of marriage, I won’t give in to speculating about whether his is a happy marriage or a sham. I sincerely want him to be super happy and live an amazing life.

Truth be told—up until this phone call, I really thought I was over it. But there are always those vestiges that linger, even when you move on and are with someone else who’s better for you. I don’t think that’s a bad thing really; when you truly love and care about someone, you’re always going to have traces of feelings for them. That’s what love is. But even though my life is amazing and phenomenal, it still felt like someone dropkicked me in the stomach while wearing cinder blocks for shoes.

This time, I concocted the most amazing formula to get over it. While I did, of course, indulge in the cliche marathon phone call to my best friend, I’m not trying to spend weeks reading self-help books and hitting psychoanalysis, so I figured out my own decadent approach for cheering myself up. Read on.

1. I baked myself cookies. I never just bake for myself, so this time I made my favorites—classic chocolate chip cookies and red velvet cupcakes—and had them for dinner. And breakfast.
2. I bought myself a sick pair of Jimmy Choos, an equally sick pair of jeans, a hot minidress and a fat sack of weed. Not in that order, but all within a 24 hour period.
3. I went for a run in nature. The canal by my house counts as nature, right? Anyway, I don’t run—I actually abhor it. And that’s the first time I’ve ever said, let alone written, the word “abhor.” While I hate running with a passion 364 days out of the year, when you want to zone way out and squeeze every last ounce of emotion out of your body, it really does the trick.
4. I climbed the ladder to hell. Okay, not literally, but “Jacob’s Ladder,” this ominous treadmill-ish machine at my gym. You climb up it with both your hands and feet, and the faster you go, the more difficult it gets. I climbed that evil thing until I was seriously about to purge my cupcake breakfast all over my fellow gym rats. I had to go sit in my car for like 10 minutes afterwards, but it still felt amazing.
5. I had a dance party by myself. Not the usual stuff I would dance to in a bar, like hip hop or house, but old school punk rock that makes you want to thrash around and jump in a mosh pit. I fell into bed exhausted after this step—it may even be a better workout than Jacob’s Ladder.

Don’t be sad because it ended—be happy because it happened.
—Dr. Seuss

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5150 and proud of it

I admit it, I’m crazy. But here’s the thing—I like it. I won’t be doing anything to change it.

I’m not talking the full 72-hour-hold type of crazy, the I’m-going-to-slash-my-wrists-the-right-way-in-someone-else’s-bathtub kind of psychosis. I’m talking the little bit wild, free-spirited, different thinking, kinda awesome type of crazy. The kind that fuels incredible, gut wrenching works of art, inspires amazing novels and films, and gives you the fearlessness you need to leap over anxiety-inducing obstacles. The incendiary kind of crazy that reminds you that you’re alive.

This delicious but volatile state can drive a relationship to the fiercest places imaginable—that tumultuous rollercoaster ride they call crazy love. We’ve all taken that journey at one time, evolving into that lunatic of a girl that an angry or overwhelmed boyfriend deems crazy. Boiling bunnies and ferrets aside, yes, women may be a little bit crazier than men. Is that really such a bad thing?

Ultimately, we’re often classified as loca simply because we’re different from the opposite sex—we are so completely disparate in the way we act, think and love. We often wear our emotions on our sleeve and may sometimes act on them irrationally. Yet how boring would our world be if we all just upped our testosterone and jumped into the boxing ring when we were feeling emotional?

It’s easy to understand why a crazy episode can scare a man back into the cave that he came from. How can they comprehend a flood of emotions that grips your entire being? The kind that makes you disappear into a blur of white flashes and adrenaline rushes, sticky sweet one moment and pure scalding fire the next. That wave of lunacy that pulls you out into a deep, invisible ocean where you ride wave after crashing wave, until you suddenly wake up and no longer recognize yourself.

If you haven’t experienced your crazy side, you’re truly missing out—or you’re in denial. If I didn’t embrace mine, how else would I give birth to the twisted screenplays that pay my bills, write deviant reflections on life and devise innovative ways to publicize the other writers and clients I represent? How would I creatively solve business problems that require more abstract, out-of-the-box thinking? Where would I escape from the tragedies and danger that life confronts me with? How would I be able to fend off the zombies that attack me in an apocalyptic quest to consume my scrumptious brains?

Life is just too short to bottle it all in. I’m not saying bust out the machete and let loose on the neighborhood—just that it’s not so bad to indulge your inner lunatic every once in awhile. Who cares what anyone else thinks? The opinion of some random truly has no effect on your life—only you can give them that power. What’s most important is what you think and what the ones you love think. And if they love you too, I guarantee they will accept you for all your craziness. They might even like it.

The next time someone calls you crazy, psycho or loca, smile sweetly and thank them. Then go ahead and flash them that deranged glint in your eye.

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