The Dalema

Finding The Woman I'm Meant To Be




Happiness, hope, grief or pain
The people, the places, weakness or strength
Reality, reflection, optimism or imaginary –
Everything is temporary.

  • The Dalema. January 10, 2017.

© Photo credit Brittany Hensel Photography

Measurements Of Time

60 seconds in a minute
60 minutes each hour, too
24 hours in a day
I can’t stop thinking about you

In a week, there’s seven days
In most months, only four weeks
52 weeks, three years in a row
We left things incomplete

Three months in a quarter
Four quarters in a year
Eight hour shifts at work
I still wish you were here

48-hour weekends
On the last day, I get sad
Monday’s seem to last so long
I miss everything we had

Five work days each week
This year, five days vacation
Six hours of sleep at night
I wanted to make you complaisant

Two hour phone calls – weekly
63 days of getting to know you
9 weeks of pure happiness
You aren’t here to hold on to

29 days to break a habit
14 days since our last kiss
Time apart is immeasurable –
Please don’t give up on this.

– Danyle L. M. (9/19/16)

Anyone’s Anybody 

There are a million thoughts that go through my head each day. Lately they’ve all been the same; do I cross your mind? Are you thinking of me? Have you wondered what could happen if we tried to make this work? Is there a missing space in your life because I haven’t been in it?

Maybe I’m a dreamer but I’m not the only one; I want to be somebody’s someone. I want that person to think (and know) – without me having to prove it to them or talk them into thinking it – I’m worth the distance, the time, the effort and the patience it’s going to take to be with me. And guess what? I’ll think – and know – they’re worth it, too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be putting in any effort.

I meet a guy, we start to date and I’ll get lost in the idea of ‘us’. Overthinking, over analyzing, and over-dreaming every scenario that you can imagine. It’s sad really – but it’s also romantic. Why can’t I have an adventure – a fairytale? With you I was realistic – cynical actually. I didn’t become obsessed or infatuated with you. I didn’t fall in love – but I wanted to. I did something worse actually, I let you become one of my best friends. And now I’m losing that friendship and it’s hurting me.

I know you say it’s not me – I don’t know if I believe you. I can’t tell if you’re being too nice to get this over with or if you really mean it when you say how wonderful you think I am. I do know that you’re not choosing me. I do know that you’re letting me go. Whisk me off of my feet! I know you have it in you. You won me over by being open and honest from the start. You won me over by making me feel beautiful; not just physically but in mind. You were one of the first men to actually care – and admire – my writing. You listened to me, you let me trust you, you let me give you precious parts of my time; at a time in my life when I was making myself the happiest I’ve ever been. You became a part of that happiness – and I don’t want to lose that.

You could ask me to walk down this healing path with you. You could say I’m enough and you don’t want to be without me either. You could tell me to keep moving slow with you so, at the end of the healing process, I’m the one who gets to be with you. We could still make plans – spend time together – nothing has to change. You just have to tell me when you need space. You have to try and let me in. You have to want me.

But you don’t – you won’t. Thinking, even for a second, you would fight for me was that hopeless romantic part of my imagination that I had thought was shut off before I met you.

Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m addicted to the idea of love. Maybe this has been one sided and I’ve built this into something it isn’t – it’s all in my head. Sure, you’ve enjoyed getting to know me. But I think you know if you wanted to be with me, even a little bit, you would be. You aren’t damaged – you’re broken – and since I’m the master at being broken I can tell you that you’re fixable. You’re worth the walk down the path of healing. But so am I. Did you realize that I’m broken, too? Did you stop and think maybe I’m fighting so hard for this because I’m fighting for us to save each other – I’m fighting for myself, too?

Life isn’t a fairytale – life isn’t a romantic comedy. When you walk away you stay gone – you don’t show up on my doorstep with flowers a month later and tell me you missed me and don’t want me to be with anyone else. You don’t ask me to spend romantic weekends with you or take me on sporadic adventures. You won’t do the little things – the things that become the big things – like make me a priority in a world filled with other options.

No, I’m not the girl who gets the fairytale. I’m not the woman who men fall in love with – I’m not the woman men choose. I’m the background music. I’m the reality. I’m the unhappily ever after. I’m the woman who ends up alone at the end of the night watching Netflix and drinking wine while wishing a man, wishing you, would love me as much as my dogs do. I’m the woman who jokes with friends about having a house on a hill somewhere filled with Yorkies.

I’m the over thinker, the ‘fixer’, the relationship overachiever – the old fashioned, hopeless romantic who wishes they could turn off their feelings. I’m the new generation of women. And I hate it. For decades women have fought so hard to teach the generations after them not to need a man – to be more than just the ‘other half’. Yet here I am, wanting to be the girl who gets the guy – wanting you to pick me, choose me – love me. Being loved – that’s success to me – I’ve always wanted love more than anything else. Yet I feel unlovable. What’s the point of everything else in life if you don’t have someone to share it with? Somebody’s someone – that’s who I want to be – not just anyone’s anybody.

– Danyle L. M. (9/13/16)

Put The Knife Down

Our deepest wounds
cannot be seen
cannot be heard
or identified –

Our deepest wounds
cannot be found
cannot be stitched
hidden with lies.

Our deepest wounds
beyond our smiles
beyond the tears
behind our eyes –

Our deepest wounds
have no scars
are hidden behind
no reason why.

Our deepest wounds
are poked and prodded
smothered with ‘I’m fine’
and most of the time –

Our deepest wounds
don’t get to heal
don’t get to mend
They’re self-inflicted.

  • The Dalema. May 18, 2016.

Unwritten Pages

We were just a few pages
in the first chapter
of our story.

Suddenly –
you stopped reading.

We didn’t even get
to the best
parts –
you closed the book.

But here I am,
wanting to read the rest,
craving an ending
I’ll never get.

– Danyle L. M. 5/8/16

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