The Making of King will chronicle my experience starting from this time of last year when I first found out about my unexpected pregnancy to King's birth and the physical, emotional, and spiritual aftermath of being a new mom.
Playing with fire, July 4th.
By the end of summer 2009, there was the beginning of something new with Patrick. We had been dating for almost a year already after meeting at our corporate jobs and we were past the honeymoon phase of our relationship. The phase where he could do no wrong, where I was his precious queen and holy muse, and where every moment of free time we had must be spent together. The phase where coworkers at the office were still interested in us, our story, in the “train wreck” that they predicted would happen because, you know, I was the green intern that liked to prance around and Patrick was the manic sales guy that was always seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In our reality, however, we were never as exciting as others imagined us be so the something new was that the newness wore off in our relationship both internally and externally and we had settled into something a little more comfortable and sustainable.
As a spectator of the San Francisco Marathon.
And in the “more comfortable” we started to discover cracks in ourselves, in each other. Coveting a new writing position at our company, I ramped up my work ethic and began putting more hours and energy in, hoping to prove to my boss that the only candidate need they consider for the position was, well, me. Around this time, my sister Carly also moved into my studio apartment and after countless nights of contemplating what on earth we were going to do with our futures, we decided on the logical and launched our own business together. These changes in my life revived this fire in me and no sooner had I proceeded to burn the candle on both ends did Patrick begin to burn his own candles and fade into the background.
During the beginning of our end.
Fade he did because while I was out promoting my business, going to clubs with friends, and traveling around the country for my summer holiday, Patrick retreated into himself and developed an addicting and reclusive habit of videogames and cigarettes. We didn’t know that we were indeed unraveling in front of our very eyes and before we could even start saving “us,” we had already lost each other in the process of losing ourselves. And by late August, the end was looming and imminent with every spat, every argument that would erupt out of menial events, out of nothingness. The nothingness culminated during a night at the bar with too much alcohol and too little understanding when words were lashed out and things were done that neither Patrick nor I could take back. It was Friday, September 18th, and for the first time in many months, we ended up spending the night alone at our own apartments and not with each other.
I woke up that Saturday expecting frenetic missed calls from Patrick to tell me that he was sorry, that we will be fine again, like all the times before when he would beg for me back after a stupid dispute. My phone blinked once, or maybe twice, with the time (11:35 AM) but no missed calls. No text messages, no nothing. My mind went to so many bad places and three agonizing and befuddling hours of silence later, I finally forced myself to dial his number.
To be continued.