Lanagan

I can’t do it.

I can’t change her name in my phone.

Dana’s name has been every other letter is an A for seven years. For seven years, I have called her “Naganalanad.” Before that, I called her Bana Damberger. It took me longer than it should’ve to realize that when she was saying my name, she was switching the letters in her head, too…… they’re just THE SAME, dumbass. It is embarrassing how much I love her. Just embarrassing. I am not shy about shouting it from the rooftops, and never have been. I am slowly coming into my own with her, though, because there are times when I can separate my grief from all this madness and stop ruminating in sadness and enjoy her for the little time we have left. At other times, I feel like attaching myself to her pant leg, knowing that she can still walk out if I do, but it’s fun to pretend I could stop her, anyway.

Last night was the best night we’ve had in weeks. Dana likes my Bluetooth headphones, so she offered to buy me a new pair and take me out to dinner. I wasn’t hungry, but I went anyway, because hey. New headphones. As I sat and ate my chicken schwarma (Fadi’s Meyerland, HOLLA!), I just flooded out in silence. Dana is not a person. She is an event. I can remember and see all the way down into our history, and it stays with me like an open book with pictures. Most of the time, I don’t write about Dana. It’s not to protect her confidentiality in the slightest. It’s that those feelings run so deep that I cannot access them…………… yet. #prayingonthespaces

Dana’s chord to me is the biggest one I’ve seen of them all, second only to Diane because we’ve known each other longer. There are 15 years more history with her, because she’s known me since I had permed hair, mall bangs, and an insatiable desire for preppy clothes that looked just like hers (I am not releasing my inner INSERT NAME HERE, you jackass! Sorry, inside joke. Talk amongst yourselves for a second while I smack Argo on the ass. [I love you. You complete me.]). There’s a reason that for me, Oxford shirts and Doc Martens are sentimental and nostalgic.

Speaking of which, that’s a great story. I was talking about the aforementioned INSERT NAME HERE with Argo, and said, “she doesn’t show enough cleavage, and I believe it to be a flaw in her character.” Isn’t it wonderful just wondering what the punch line was? Come on. I gave you the only two letters that matter in our entire relationship (:P), and the setup to a great joke. I’m not giving up any more, but please let me assure you that in our relationship, I only give the assist. She’s the forward. It is just ball and net all day long, she never hits the T-bar, and that’s what I miss the most. Knowing that she put her boobs trust in my hands and I wasn’t responsible with it kills me to this day. I want her back, but I do not want our dysfunction. Auna said that my blog is a good way for her to judge whether I’m healthy enough to interact, and maybe she’ll drop me a note when wanting her has faded into nothing. Don’t count on it, Argo. People don’t get over you, and anyone who says they have is fucking lying. You’ll have to dig into that one on your own, but know this. You are one of those million dollar packages, too. Auna isn’t the only one, because you don’t just get one in life. You get lots, but only if you’re paying attention enough to know what you’ve got. I am sorry for all of those moments when I treated you like a blender when you were the winning lottery ticket, especially when you laugh.

Auna and anyone else who might date me needs to know that you have NO idea how high my standards are for a significant other considering Argo’s only flaw is that she won’t trade penis for a live-in personal chef. It’s a pity, but what are you going to do?

You’re going to find someone else who makes you feel like she does. It will never be a comparison, because Argo and anyone else is comparing donuts to Chevrolets. There’s just no way to do it. There will never be another Argo, and there will never be another relationship like ours. But I hope that my next girlfriend has some of her amazing qualities, with a passion that ignites my soul. I am not in love with Argo because she’s in love with me. Loving her changes her in plenty of other ways that do not include her breaking me in half in bed. 🙂 Loving her also changes me. It makes me a better person, makes me believe in myself when I’m at my lowest. Sometimes I can’t hear my voice, but I can always hear hers. What it says is that I am Christ in the world, just like all Christians. So what am I going to DO WITH IT? Stop fucking around with darkness and get with the program. She talked. I listened. I changed. I didn’t change for her, though. I changed because she was articulating things that I knew intimately but didn’t have the words to explain. She thinks I have an inflated sense of who she is. I think she doesn’t believe in herself enough.

But I digress. This is about Dana and my absolute refusal to change her last name back to Bamberger in my phone.

Even after spending time with my thoughts about Argo and Auna Rose, I cannot disconnect from my feelings about Dana enough to hit Edit. I am sure it will come with time, as I dive into the wreck. I cannot stop saying that line. I am using Adrienne Rich as a lifeline. She’s so fucking good at it.

I take my solace in writers and poets, because my girlfriends might change, but their words do not after they are put in print. I am turning inward. Reading The Wounded Healer by Henri Nouwen and Jesus and the Disinherited by Howard Thurman. Taking my time. Using my bubble. Creating the greatness that God has given me since I was a little girl. Even then, I knew I was powerful. The river is running. All I have to do is step into the flow. I am almost ready. But don’t talk to me. I have to sweat blood over what I’m about to do, in all cases, really. I don’t look at Good Friday as a bad thing this year. I desperately need to repent and reflect on all the things I’ve done, and all the things I have left undone. I have certainly not loved my neighbor as myself. I have been an arrogant jackass most of this year, because I got tired of not having a voice. I got tired of everything happening to me. I got tired of being stepped on all day, every day, because I was too meek to get anything done. Now that I have tapped into my power, I am not so much letting things happen as making them.

My parents don’t have to worry about what will happen after they’re gone. I’m going to be a well-respected author and theologian way before that. If they don’t see it, that’s not my problem. I do. I will stop at nothing. Two things. I am this smart and capable. I CAN do this. I am 38. If I am going to do this at all, I better get started.

Please, dear Jesus, let my ministry explode with our agreement. We made it when I was a kid. We have so much talking to do that I am practically buzzing. Let’s do lunch. I’m free Tuesday.

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