Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
You can also find Monica's writing here:

Chasing Vulnerability

On the contrary, his abrupt departure has only emboldened my heart. Right there, when I said on the contrary just now at the beginning of that first sentence, I was responding to the voices in my head. On the contrary is when you're fixin' to respond to someone telling you some shit you ain't buying and I opened with that to hush the voices in my head telling me I shouldn't have been so welcoming to his knock on my door. Ignoring the peephole I went right for the deadbolt, cranked it like I was escaping a home intruder, flung the door wide and invited him in. "YOU. Come in! Come in! Sit down! Stay awhile. It's like I've been waiting for you and I didn't even know it until just this second. Here you are! Finally."

I'm so glad I answered his knock. Even now.

Because as hurt as I am by the ending - depriving me of his personality feels like the worst punishment - I am better for knowing him. This is a truth I keep returning to when my mind spins out. I had it bad. The rate at which I melted is almost amusing. It will be amusing, eventually. Dude rolled up out of nowhere, lit my fire faster than a boy scout earning a camping merit badge and fanned the flames until they threatened to burn down my house while I stood, starry-eyed, reveling in the delicious heat licking my skin.

I was On. Fire.

I still feel fiery just knowing he's out there existing and thinking those excellent thoughts he thinks and being all him and shit. Told you I had it bad.

"Guard your heart," someone warned in response to my disorienting heartbreak. A mental Rubik's Cube, I keep turning the phrase round and round in my head, studying it from all angles: guard your heart. It sounds sensible, doesn't it? Seems like sage advice to offer one suffering heart sickness. Thing is, I've spent years guarding my heart. My body is an overstuffed dresser of emotions I've hidden away in my effort to remain vigilant against pain and heartbreak; you can't close the top drawer for all the fucking underwear and socks crammed in there. Old sweatpants peep stealthily from the bottom drawer as if trying to make a break for it but I just keep jamming shit in like an overzealous prison warden.

The voices, they are loud and they speak often. But they aren't jagged, masochistic shouters anymore. They are softening as they age with me. Conversational, curious, friendly, they hash over the things that happen to me Algonquin round table-style. They crack jokes, pour another drink, talk shit, comfort each other, light a cigarette and wax poetic. They have their own personalities. This voice is reasonable, that one is confused, this one is scared as hell and, yeah, that other one can be kind of a dick - calls me stupid sometimes - but another voice almost always chimes in to comfort me and tell the agitator to get lost.

My mind borrows trouble. It incites anxiety riots. It sparks unnecessary worry. It informs me that I'm stupid. It tells me to feel embarrassed that I opened the door and let him in. But my response isn't going to be to chain up my heart because it might happen again.

We all have a belief system about the future; about whether good things are going to happen or bad things are going to happen. There is no proof one belief is more accurate than the other belief. But if I believe I need to guard my heart because I'm afraid of heartbreak I'm going to see a lot of evidence that I am correct and my personality will meander down that path until I'm an old, bitter woman who collects heartbreak as proof positive of my belief.

But what if I believe that maintaining an open heart will set me free? That all the painful heartbreak waiting for me in this lifetime will only enhance who I am and who I'm becoming? Joyfully collecting heartbreak as proof positive that I lived the fuck out of this life and let myself fall... Hard. Over and over and over again. As many times as I possibly can. Because that? That's where it's at.

Gazing at You Like Calculus

His shocking vanishment from my life was not unlike his unexpected entrance. One minute I did not know him, the next moment I couldn't imagine not knowing him. And then I didn't know him again.

I want to shut this whole thing down, he wrote. Unplunge: The title of the email I've read over and over again until the words haunt me when I close my eyes; floating shapes behind puffy eyelids like lazy cigarette smoke rings in a dark bar. An email, his medium of choice for the ending, denying me the pleasure of hearing his voice one last time even if what he was saying was painful. Not allowing me the satisfaction of his response in my ear when I asked the one word that permeated my system: Why?

Perhaps he did me a favor with the unwanted electronic missive, saving me from myself. Maybe the email, although certainly less personal, allowed me to retain some small bit of dignity instead of pissing it away as I unraveled during a final phone call. It doesn't matter. The manner of ending isn't as important as the ending itself. Welcoming anger at trivialities like when or how it ended would be all too easy right now but that would just be digression from the fact that what I'm really upset about is the why.

To dig someone so much, be so intrigued by another human being, so fascinated by the thought process behind the intoxicating words that come out of their mouth that you want to crawl inside their flesh and live life as them for a spell just to better understand what it's like to be them or, fuck, just being inside of their themness, a sensual collision that even the best sex doesn't stimulate. This is YOU. I'm inside YOU. Experience me seeing through your eyes, feel my tongue in your mouth, your thoughts are my thoughts are your thoughts. Your bones are my bedframe, your flesh is my pillow. I'm you and you're me.

All of these feelings happening to you just as you had accepted life without them, convincing yourself that you could finish your days without love, that it wasn't necessary for happiness. And it all felt like magic.

In the beginning, when I expressed my usual flurry of doubt and fear, he deftly brushed it away like tucking an errant hair behind my ear. He eloquently explained that worrying about what might happen would take away from what was actually happening and look how rare and beautiful this all is so enjoy it while it's happening! Love makes your chest hurt, he said, and it's scary and you think about all the shit that could go wrong but you can't avoid disasters and the only way to find some semblance of relief is to just kind of leap right into the disaster.

So I leaped.

Something clicked inside of me and for fucking once I was starting to allow myself to fully enjoy the ride without my brain going crazy with what ifs. And then he went and fell victim to his own admonishment. That's what he told me, anyway. Stuff about an inevitable bad ending due to geography and minimizing devastation now is way better than forging ahead. It could be that. It could be a million other things he's choosing not to say for reasons I'll never know. In the end, and it IS the end, it doesn't matter. All that matters is he chose to unplunge, to break our magnificent fall.

We should suffer it out now instead of later when it will be a way bigger mess than it already is, he wrote. But you asked me to fall forever and never hit the ground, I thought.

Romantic Egotism

Sometimes, usually as a result of the inbred nature of Facebook, I stumble onto my ex-husband's words about me, our marriage or divorce, and it sucks me into disorientation. It's hard to move forward when you're constantly yanked back into another existence.

First song lyrics, and now these articles, his written words have always been my weakness. Better than the reality, usually. Oh, sure. I absolutely believe he loved me so much he'd die for me, open a vein and bleed out right in front of me if I needed, as he vividly phrased it once. Threatened it a time or two way back in the day, even. Theatric more than threat, it was still scary as hell for a twenty-something fresh from Mormonville trying to make a go of it with a stranger in the Big Apple. That first year of marriage was wild. Coupla crazy kids who didn't know each other abandoning reason and following pounding hearts all the way to Brooklyn, New York. I still believe it's one of the best things I ever did.

"Young hearts need the pressure to pound..."

The intense love for me that painfully bangs around inside his heart and mind has never been in question, and that's the love he writes so eloquently about. Who wouldn't want to be the object of such passion? It's how that love manifested in everyday living that led, in part, to the wreckage of a nine year marriage.

"How can you leave someone who is so clearly in love with you?"

Something got lost in the translation from heart and mind to action and speech. Intense love can translate into opposite actions if someone feels frustration and then spite. Sometimes, beneath all that authored sentiment, I smelled the opposite. The rancid breath of resentment whispered sourly in my ear.

Resentment is the foundation of hatred.


F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of my favorite authors. The love story between him and Zelda has fascinated me for many years and I've looked at all of their exchanged letters. While reading their frequently penned missives you're routinely taken aback by their frenzied intensity and inevitably find yourself longing to be a participant in such a passion-filled relationship. But then I began to wonder how much of it was based in reality and how much was two dauntless writers masturbating with words. Their relationship took on a darker filter.


The realist living behind the prose begins to wonder how much of the fervent sentiment is woman specific and how much of it is something the romantic needs in his life, regardless of object of affection. Was our love extraordinary or did the power of his words make it so? Is there a difference? Does it even matter?

When married he clothed himself in the intensity of our love and upon divorce he dressed himself in the heartbreak. But maybe that's what the romantic requires to feel truly alive. Maybe he was always writing for himself and not me. Maybe it was never really even about me.

And then the pendulum swings and I wonder if I've given up on the one man who will love me in the way that true, passionate love demands, regardless of the day to day manifestation. But those moments always occur after reading his words about "me" and perhaps that's my own mental masturbation happening regardless of writer. It's worth noting Zelda ended up in a mental institution...

Check Engine Lights Are Bullshit and Other Stories

I got a flat tire on the way to work today. It was the universe's way of letting me know who's boss in the immediate wake of finally managing to clean my car yesterday. I munched on weeks-old McDonalds fries from car seats and melty Easter candy I found in Violet's cupholder as I Armor-Alled vinyl that looked the exact same when I was finished.

Clean car, huh? Flat tire, bitch! Do not get cocky, I will destroy you.

I kept on driving in the face of the telltale whappity-whap-whap which delivered the bad news to my ears. Just pretended I didn't hear my tire angrily slapping roadway. That right there says all you need to know about my boredom with car drama as well as my tremendous capacity for denial and improper automotive care. Flat tire? I don't think so. Imma just keep on keeping on. What flat tire? Rush hour do-gooders were pulling up next to me mouthing and miming F L A T T I R E in all kinds of entertaining ways and I just thumbs-upped the good samaritans and turned up Prince. Dig if you will the picture...

I just didn't feel like pulling over. Fuck you, flat tire. I will drive until fiery sparks explode from my blackened rim before I let you win.

I eventually eased my rig off the road because, you know. Flat tire. It's getting fixed now.

"As long as I've gotta be here take a look-see at that check engine light that's been harassing me for months now," I told the guy.

Check engine lights are bullshit. I told the guy that too. I've never had one come through for me. They get all up in your face all the damn time just to mess with your slippery grip on peace in this world, force you to drive all uneasy-like, hands at ten and two, butthole clenched tighter than an inmate's while showering for the first time. And just when you're like, "OK! Fine! You win, I'm calling the mechanic," they go off for a spell. Then POW. Guess who's back, asshole? But they never indicate checking anything.

I used to take my car in whenever the Eye of Sauron glowed fiery from my dash and they'd look at it and say "Welp. Can't rightly see what the trouble is. Could be your gas cap wasn't screwed on right? I'll just go ahead and reset the light for you."

Gas cap? Go fuck yourself, check engine light. How about a light that says "Hey, your gas cap is loose, dumbass."

*I wrote this while waiting at the hospital for a transvaginal ultrasound with forty ounces of water sloshing around my body. Peeing is verboden. Quite a Monday I'm carving out for myself, people.

Shit: It Never Gets Together

I glimpse a black coat lying on the floor next to my bed as I walk from my bedroom to the kitchen and my heart stutters. For just a second I think it is Milo. But Milo is fucking dead. I'm mad about that. He was young, it wasn't his time. But that's the way life goes, I'm learning.

For the longest time I believed in God and then karma or some kind of universe shit that organized good and bad happenings and a mystical system which dealt them out accordingly. You've heard religious folk say some bullshit along the lines of God not giving us more than we can handle, yes? Your Aunt Cheryl probably has it toll-painted onto a piece of wood hanging next to her Live, Laugh, Love wall decal.

But I don't believe in that for two seconds. Sometimes people get dealt shit hands, it's just how it goes. There is no guy in the sky monitoring who's dealing with what and muttering to himself about how "Monica has had enough so I'm gonna move on to testing Johnny down in Alabama" or whatever. It's all some fantasy shit we tell ourselves so we don't freak the fuck out when horrible things happen to good people, forcing us to contemplate death and ceasing to exist and whatever it is that keeps you from sleep at two o'clock in the morning. Everything happens for a reason, we assure each other. It's all part of God's plan, we say. But we don't really know. Nobody knows. I sure as hell don't know. And the only people I jive with are the ones willing to admit they don't know either.

All this to say that life has been kicking my ass lately. But it feels like life is always kicking my ass. If it's not one thing, it's another. I've got my eyes peeled for some blue sky but it's been stormy for a while now. Is this perceived ass-kicking all up in my head because I have the wrong mentality? Or maybe the guy in the sky really is messing with me so's he can finally determine how much it is that one Monica Danielle Butler Bielanko can handle before turning his spectral gaze to Johnny in the Deep South? Regardless, I'm struggling to get my shit together. But therein lies the rub. I am realizing that, contrary to what I assumed when I was 19 and trying to get my shit together, there is no specific life benchmark at which point my shit will magically coalesce. Not adulthood, motherhood, not marriage, no job, no relationship will mean my shit is officially united... I've attained all those things and I'm still stumbling around like a toddler learning to walk.

Thing is, there will always be something. Life is a continual struggle to get our shit together and then we die - shit decidedly not together. That is to say that shit: it never really gets together so chill out and enjoy the goddamn journey already because in a blink we'll all be dead. Put that in a meme and Facebook it.