On Nipples and Limerence

And the baptismal waters of the YMCA

My dear friend,

I was looking through my journals a couple days ago, and I found these pages. And I HAD TO SHARE THEM WITH YOU.

The incredible thing about journals, is that they trap the writer in time. It’s kind of like a window of who I used to be a couple of years ago. And, holy moly. Was I ever a bit of a character back in the day.

This entry in particular is from a VERY INTENSE period of my life. I had recently gotten separated from my ex-husband after 12 years of being together.

I call this stage “The Walking Wound Stage”. Because, as I used to tell my friends: “I don’t have a wound. I AM A WOUND!”. I felt such anguish, confusion, terror, loneliness, guilt and overall inner distress that I was pretty unreasonable in those early days.

I had firmly decided not to date anyone for a long time, just to get me, and my girls back on our feet!

But in a twist of fate, after a hot yoga class, I met a guy with whom I started a super emotionally charged emotional affair. Let’s call him Goldy.

Should I mention, though, that this torrid affair was conducted mainly by email? In fact, I trace back on when I developed a true discipline of writing for at least one hour every day, and it all started because we used to write insanely romantic, mile-long emails to each other every-single-day! And this went on for months!!

After a while, I decided to stop writing him emails because I realized he was emotionally unavailable (a form of man of which I seem to be a frequent customer).

So, in order to stop this unhealthy relationship, and to continue my budding good writing habits, I started writing him letters in my journal. And never sending them to him!

This is just one of them:

“Hey Goldy!

Did I ever tell you, which one was the moment I realized I was in love with you? Did I tell you?

If I didn’t, well, please allow me to tell you the story…

At the time, I had only seen you that one time, in the forest on top of the hill, where there was a bench perfectly suited to hold our kindred butts, one of the only times we spent together.

At the same time, you had been writing a lot, and I had been writing to you as well, so, the process of my heart cracking open like a dam, letting its waters spill the entirety of their weight, of their violence, had already started.

I was one day, swimming at the YMCA and teaching my little Elodie how to swim (of which I’m really proud!)

At some point, I noticed a guy, a man, who was taking a break at the edge of the pool. He was just relaxing there.

I was just floating around in the deep end of the pool with the water up to my lips, looking at this man with the curiosity of a foreigner trying to figure out a new language.

The same water that was licking my lips, that chlorinated and smooth water, was also gently slapping this man’s nipples.

This image made me think of you so hard that I just wanted to weep!

When we sat at the bench, I could see your tiny, hardened nipples, stiffing up like little M&M’s against your distressed, thin t-shirt.

The nipples.

YOUR nipples.

Nipples I’m fond of.

And then, you had described the place you have in the country where you get to see the lake rippling and dancing and spanking the curves of the shore. How delicious. How fucking delicious it would be to be at a lake, at any lake, with you.

With your darling nipples.

How happy that would have made me.

All of this in an instant.

I entered that pool feeling smart and free. Happy to have a cool and sweet pen pal like you. Happy to know you.

But when I left that pool., I had to admit to myself that my smarts, all my smarts that have been trying to keep me away from you, had all but abandoned me.

I morphed into a deer at the YMCA’s communal waters.

Like a baptism.

Of acceptance.

I surrendered to the feeling.

And a brand new stage had begun for me”.

---

After a while of this insane practice of writing imaginary love letters, I wrote this:

“I am starting to wonder if this writing letters to you is a good idea. Ain’t I wasting my time and energy again?

Imaginary letters to imaginary Goldy.

I find them to be a nice and productive writing exercise!

But, don’t these letters prevent me from distancing myself from you?

Do these letters help me heal? Or are they keeping me attached to you? Painfully so?

Should I stop?

But I enjoy them so much!

I enjoy so much being in love with you.

Even if you don’t even really exist. Even though the image I have of you comes mostly from my imagination”.

---

You can tell, however obsessive and out of reality I sounded… that there was a piece of me that was actually pretty aware of what was actually going on.

It makes me feel a bit sad, because,

I guess after many years in a lonely marriage, I was just starving for love!!

And I thought I had found some. And I was trying to cling to it.

After another little while of writing letters, I wrote this little note:

“Dear Goldy.

All this writing.

I thought it would make YOU more real.

But in turn,

I think, it’s making ME

More real.

At least to my own eyes”.

---

A couple pages after that,

I wrote this:

And after that page, I never wrote letters for Goldy ever again.

Which was very healthy, I think!

YET, I continued writing.

Which is even healthier!

THAT was actually, when I took a very serious discipline of writing every day.

Now, writing has helped me and accompanied me through so many up and downs. Including a very lonely global pandemic as an immigrant single mom.

Writing has been nurturing and healing. A way to connect to myself and to the universe, and simply, a way to survive!

And it all started,

With a failed email romance

And a nice man

With some remarkably noticeable nipples.

And for all that,

I’m grateful.