And here I am again
Months of bliss.
Month after
Month after
Month after
Month after
Month.
Months full of pinching ourselves and playfully toying with the notion of forever. Playing house.
Everything, together. Grocery shopping, studying, carpooling, entertaining guests, sleeping, not sleeping, watching tv, fixing the tv, cooking, doing the dishes, ambling through the neighborhood. Together, together together.
And my eye might of wandered once or twice. My mind might have entertained little “what if” fantasies here and there. But it was always a flash and then it was gone.
And then… because there is always an “and then”….
Our closely intertwined paths, unknit themselves and diverge for
Three
Long
Weeks.
All of a sudden, there I was. Not together all the time. Not grocery shopping, not studying, not carpooling… entertaining guests?
Guests? Which guests should I entertain? Here I am… alone. He is miles away. And that self-destructive sentence comes back out of its several month long slumber.
He would never know.
There I was. Alone in my apartment. With three or four numbers I could dial. Four different combinations of numbers that would all lead me to the same heated exchanges, the same brief moment of impassioned, exhilerated utterances, giggles, and touches. Only to be followed by the aftershock. The guilt. The feelings of failure and self-loathing. The deep longing to carefully turn back around and tip toe in my own muddy footprints back to the cleanly paved path. The constant wondering if he knows. If he can tell. Watching his every move and analyzing his every word to answer the one question: Does he know? Does he know? Does he know? Which twists and contorts, a living breathing concept, does he know does he know
does he know, he does know (the concept begins to snarl)
he does know….
he… is he? has he? if i can hide it, so can he. so can he. so can he. (the teeth begin to gnash)
he can hide it. he is hiding it.
who. who has he been with.
who is she?
who is she?
who is she?
And there I am in the mirror, asking myself again and again, who is she, who is she, who is she. Looking into those same lonely, self-tortured eyes.
But… it’s different this time. This man deserves better. I respect this man. I want to give this man my life.
I lock myself away in my tower. No numbers are dialed. I wait and wait and wait for him to come back. Hoping I can just…hold… out a little… longer.
And finally the tension is released, all is well. He never has to know.
But he has a friend who has a lingering eye. Who has a penetrating stare. Who has been sent here from that dark and muddy swamp to torture me. I will not give in. He is just a boy. He has nothing to offer. I’m happy. Everything is perfect. Why won’t he stop looking at me like that. God I love the way he stares at me. I feel so desired. So wanted. If only he’d stop looking. No. No. No.
We are together again, he shares my bed night after night. But… not… every… night.
And those are the hardest. I sit in my cold and lonely bed… and I send a text… just one…
He responds…. one more…
I stop…
And then another night… one text..
he responds…
We are both trying to find time alone. No one is saying anything honest. No one is saying why.
No. No. No.
I should tell him so he can help me stop myself. He should know. This is different. He should know I have a slight addiction.
But then… what if I want to pursue this…
No.
I tell him. I tell him I have a problem with wandering off and finding myself in the middle of harmless dalliances.
I tell him the truth. I had the craving. I tell him.
The Papa Bear and the Kitten
The winter chill sucks the air out of my lungs and replaces it with daggers of ice. And then he pulls me closer.
Don’t be cold my kitten.
I want to squeal. The same gutteral squeal that escaped the first time he accidentally blurted out the three most powerful words in the English language, months ago. This arm pulling me closer, to this body, has the power to replace my heart with the propellers of a helicopter.
This man is my future. The days of orgasm-less nights praying he’d just hurry up already are over. We tumble, and pant, tumble, and pant. I’m always begging for more. Please, again… and again… and again… I look at him and I turn into a child pleading for a cookie before dinner… just one… or two… one more…. I see him in public, from a distance, and I swell with pride. He loves me, that one. I will follow him anywhere.
But life is not all sunshine and happiness and cuddling and eskimo kisses and pet names.
We break down. One small harmless lie. I fall apart. Anything but that. Anything but a lie. Please, God, not again… not another neverending cycle of catching a little lie, and scolding, and watching the trust just crumble to the ground in big shapeless chunks. And my strong, passionate, independent, cocky papa bear cries. For the third time in his life. We’re both hurting. And we fall asleep in each other’s arms and hold each other even closer in the morning. We work hard at making the next day a good one.
But as we continue to trudge through the following days, the wounds have not healed.
And so we go to our place. Inside the fire-heated ale house our insecurities and shields of self-preservation mysteriously slough off. We stare into each other’s eyes as the oaky wine gently pulls my shoulders down and releases the tension in my back. He takes my hand. We both look down at those hands together. No one says a word, we’re both reminding ourselves of how very lucky we are to have found each other and how carefully we must guard it. And we laugh. And giggle. And kiss. And tumble into the folds of the cool linen in a candle lit room.
Everythings coming up…
Roses.
1 month of so much belly-shaking laughter. Of so many hours spent tumbling between sheets and limbs, kissing elbows and collar bones and belly buttons.
Take care, don’t let go of those handlebars. Can’t get hurt again.
Bottles of wine clank in a pile of their empty peers. Sloppy kisses, slow kisses, giggly kisses, biting kisses.
He holds me closer every day.
And then my family. It breaks. Into a billion pieces. And I don’t want him to get cut by the shards so I try my best to sweep it under the rug before he notices.
The moon is rising and his arms bring me in closer. Wet softness on my shoulder. I feel it starting, from the bottom of my stomach, rising faster until I barely catch it in my throat. I have to leave. I have to get away. H can’t see this part of me yet. I’m strong. Independent. No on likes a damaged girl. No one buys the broken china doll.
I rush out, grab my shoes. “I have to go.” He comes after me, takes my hand. “But I don’t want you to go.”
Those words ring in my ears for the next two days.
He tells me he thinks he might love me someday.
He describes Oregon as if its a members only club. A place everyone wants to go. Everyone wants to get in to Oregon. He grew up there. He wants to return there.
He wants me fall in love with Oregon.
We map out a road trip. Our fingers trace lines on laminated paper.
I feel inspired when I’m with him. I’ve started taking pictures again. I’ve started looking around me in search of perfect images. I want to learn another language. I want to travel more. I want to be better.
Not for him. For me. But he inspires me to find new things I want to learn.
I’m falling so quickly.
And it feels right.
River of Lies
I don’t know why I do this.
Time and again.
I have no interest in him.
Less than no interest. The thought of being intimate him makes me cringe.
And yet…
Zach: are you in class?
- Ewww…
- I’m physically repulsed by every word I’m saying. Setting little fires….
I sabotage myself. I’m attracted to self-torture like a moth to a flame that he lit himself.
Fire # 1
Overanxious and impatient. Weekend trip? In a couple weeks. Just us? It’ll be fun. Romantic. Bed and Breakfast. Wineries. Hole in the wall restaurants. Come on. It’ll be fun.
It would’ve been cheesy anyway.
Fire # 2
Drunk. And Tx…Te…TT… T_E_X_T_I_N_G….
“DrNk and hoRNy “
“Well good luck trying to get laid. I’m going to bed, like a responsible law student.”
“come oN, Dnt make me dRunk dail you”
……
Drunk. And. D_A…D_I_L…D_I_A_L_I_N_G.
“Congrashulashiooons! Thiss is yer firsst drunk dial from me! YAY! Are yousssleepin;?”
“I hope to very soon.”
“WHYYYY? You know i drive riight passtyer exit on my way home! Wanna have a little fun?”
“I have a big day tomorrow. I’m going to sleep. Wait, drive? You’re not really going to drive home like that are you?”
“Oh pleeease, I’m not thhaaat drunk. I wasjis kidding!”
“Don’t be dumb.”
“I’m not! I have to go.”
………
Fire #3
I have his password. It’s the only way I can find out what he’s doing now. What he’s been doing since… well, since the spring.
Login.
Inbox.
Heart drops. Heart stops. Stomach flips. Spine shivers. Am I breathing?
I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this…
Really? He’s moved on… he really said that to her? He used to say that to me…
That was
Our Thing.
I shouldn’t be reading this, I shouldn’t be reading this. I. shouldn’t.
But I did. And as much as I like to pretend it doesn’t.
It hurts.
One day. Three Fires. Why do I do this.
I want to be as mature as people think I am. I want this new fresh start to be a good one. I want to develop good habits. I don’t want to manipulate, and lie, and play games… only to be left with nothing but a password and regret.
Growing hurts.
Changing Seasons
The curtain of spring’s rain shut on seven years of my life. Seven. Long. Years. Full of whispered good mornings with his taste still on my lips from the night before, full of lazy afternoons spent watching meaningless television, full of long nights spent twirling round and round stuck on neverending sadness-go-round arguments, full of loving hands wiping away tears, full of mundane conversations about nothing, full of headaches and regrets and secrets.
The summer’s heat bore down on my back as I trudged through the garbage and muck and regret and fear and anger and jealousy of one-ness. Lost in a sandy, dry identity crisis. Who am I if I’m not his? How long before the vultures circle the abandoned carcus whose arms once made me feel whole and safe? Frantic panic attacks. I shouldn’t have let him go. I shouldn’t have let him go. I shouldn’t have pushed him away. I’ll be alone. I’ll be alone. I’ll be alone be alone be alone be alone. Forever. A long, dry summer, the tears of spring dried up and gone.
And then… the fall. The beginning of fall. I awake to a chilly nose, pull the covers up over my shoulder. Alone in my bed I provide my own warmth. I don’t miss him. I don’t miss man. I’m focused on me. My needs. What I want and who I am and who I want to be. And where I am, right now. In my own bed. I don’t care where anyone else is. I’m happy to know exactly where I am.
I tell my friends. I know what I want. I want a man… who will challenge me. Who won’t give me everything I ask for. Who will love me passionately at the right moments. Who can make me laugh one moment and have me moaning the very next. Who knows what he wants and pursues it. Who will respect my independence. A man I respect. But I don’t want that man for at least a year.
You know what I’m about to tell you, reader.
You know what happens next.
I meet him. The man I’ve been describing. Within weeks of speaking him into being. And now…
Olive Branch
I sent Mr. Z an email. Email? I know, but I rightly deleted his number from my phone last time I woke up to realize I had sent him a pathetic text message in a drunken stupor the night before, begging him to let me come over and blow him. I’ve never been so embarrassed. So email is the only way I have of communicating with him, which is probably better.
Anyway, the email:
So I would be calling you to say this, but I deleted your number from my phone after I woke up one morning, mortified to see I had sent you a really embarrassing text message the night before.So I’ll just throw it out there for you in an email and you can do what you want with it.We promised things wouldn’t get awkward and they definitely did. I’ll take the resonsibility for that. Things just got really insane with XXX and I and… then exams. And I don’t think I was as ready as I thought I was to deal with going to that level with another person and as much I tried not to let it affect me, it really did. Don’t worry – what XXX and I are going through has absolutely nothing to do with you. I just mean that it was impossible not to feel like a complete whore after everything. So it’s not an excuse, but I think that’s why I got all freaked out with you and stopped talking. I was really ashamed of what I’d done and I wanted to blame it on you, so that’s where the anger came from. And then when I thought you lied about that stupid pro day I just felt like you were trying to distance yourself from me, but I was offended that you didn’t think you could just tell me straight up that you didn’t want me around.I tried my hardest just to forget you and move on, but the truth is, as much as I hate to admit it, I miss hanging out with you. And with the rest of the group. I’m sorry I let my little mini emotional break down get the best of me and I totally understand if you think I’m some kind of psycho at this point – I was actually wondering there for a second. But, the truth is the stress of exams, being completely dissappointed in myself, and potentially ending a 6 year relationship really brought out the worst in me for a while. I’m working things out now and looking back I’m more than embarrassed at how poorly I handled all the pressure.So there you go. I’m not expecting you to respond and I’m sure you’ve already forgotten any kind of fun we had together, but I wanted to explain myself. If you ever want to hang out again you know how to get a hold of me. Otherwise, have a good summer and good luck with work.
Regret, regret, go away…
Stopped at a red light on a rainy Tuesday.
My mind wanders back to his bed.
The first time I gave in and begged him to let me… and then stretching to bring him in.
My hand immediately goes to my forehead, as if I could massage the memory away like a headache.
But I can’t. The memories never go away.
And then I remember the chilly woosh of air that raised the hairs on the back of my neck as he rushed to the door behind me at school, without even a glance in my direction.
I clench my teeth in anger. Rage. Hatred. I want to scream at him. I want to pound my hands on his chest. To feel the electricity of my hand slapping that smug face. That same face that begged me never to regret him. That promised things would never get awkward. That kissed my shoulder as he held me throughout those nights, hand in hand until our feet hit the cold morning floor.
I want to tell him this:
You made me promise not to ever regret what we did together. You never wanted to be another mistake. Another one to add to the pile of all the others you begged me to tell you about. And I did. I promised. Reluctantly. And I told you why I was reluctant. I told you how the story always went. I meet boy. I make friends with boy. I make boy laugh until he wants me. I take boy into my bed. I push boy out of my bed because the one I’ve always been with always wins. Boy and I never speak again. And I lose that friend forever. I told you all the times I should’ve learned from my mistakes.
But I have to say. I will never ever make that mistake again. Thanks to you.
And you said
But I don’t want to be another mistake. We will always be friends.
And somewhere inside I knew better. But I forgot to shut the door all the way, and little wisps of all that smoke you were blowing managed to get inside.
And guess what happened, Mr. Z. Guess what happened when the time came for the sleepovers to stop. You started avoiding me. Made up lies and excuses. We stopped talking. Then stopped making eye contact. And now. Nothing. Again. Another mistake. But bigger than ever, because you convinced me to let the walls down, you convinced me to let you in.
And now I’ve never regretted meeting a person more in my life than I regret even speaking in your direction. I regret everything about any shred of contact I ever had with you. And I will never ever stop being ashamed of having anything to do with you.
You broke your promise. Things did get awkward. You did stop talking to me. You forced me to break my promise too.
It would feel so good to let him know all of that. But here’s the wrinkle: I don’t want him to know he had the power over me to make me feel anything as intense as the anger that I have at a low simmer on the backburner. I want him to think I shoved him in a box and tossed him into the river.
But I also want him to think about me.
And about those nights.
And miss me.
Maybe someday, when my anger has dissipated, and I look back at this whole mess and feel nothing, maybe then we could be friends again. Talk it out. Laugh at how ridiculously we behaved.
But somehow… I don’t think so.
Thank god for running.
A hard night alone and other thoughts…
So it’s been only 4 days since I’ve stopped speaking with him and made the decision not to allow myself to run into any set of arms willing to hold me through my insecure times. Last night was the first time I actually had to exercise self control. I was looking hot, new hair cut. I felt sexy. Met a (girl)friend for dinner and drinks. Feeling confident.
Then. I walk out of the restaurant and get into my car… alone.
Slightly tipsy. A little horny. I want someone to validate how good I think I look. Because that will make it true. Stopped at a red light I instinctually start scrolling through the names on that little tempting screen. I realize what I’m doing and put my phone down.
No. I don’t need to call a man. I am going home alone and that is perfectly fine.
As I drive past my favorite bar my foot taps the break… No. No stopping to flirt with Mr.Bartender, mixer of excellent free drinks. I keep driving. Home. By myself. A good thing.
The sound of my keys hitting the table as I kick my apartment door closed behind me seems to reverberate in the silent room. Another reminder that I’m not stumbling in, awkwardly tugging someone’s clothes off.
My high heels clunk on the floor as I toss them to the side one by one.
Into the bedroom. As I pull my shirt off, then my jeans, then my bra, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, then pause. I really look at myself. Proud. Of my running. Of my boxing. Of forgetting what fast food tastes like. I turn and pose a little. I know I’m sexy.
I want someone else to see this. To agree with me. To tell me how good I look with their hands, their mouth. I want to see my image reflected in a hungry gaze below me.
I climb into bed. Silence my phone and lock it.
I close my eyes and imagine that mystery man I’m so desperate to find… not him. I don’t think of him as I guide my body towards a deeper relaxation.
The man I picture:
Tall, dark hair, passionate eyes.
Slightly arrogant.
Athletic. A runner, a climber, a something.
Opinionated. A Thinker.
Aloof. Independent
Intense.
Hilarious.
Hungry.
I am so desperate for him to find me. But I know. I know things need to happen first. Time needs to pass. We need to end officially. I need to truly become at peace with feeling complete without any male attention. When I come home alone, horny, and tipsy without immediately running through that old list of names – I’ll know.
Counseling Session #2
Well, second day in counseling and I think… to be perfectly cliche… I had a break through.
I am not sexually attracted to him and therefore our relationship is doomed.
As independent as I am in every other area of my life, I still need a man’s affection to feel attractive and loveable. So although I can’t remember the last time he’s given me an orgasm and I don’t respect his intellect and feel that he is not driven or passionate about anything in life, I have continued to stay with him because I have a fear of being alone and never finding another man who will love me as completely as he does.
And it is totally true. No wonder I have continuously looked outside our relationship for physical fulfillment. No wonder as soon as I feel insecure I find myself dialing those old dependable phone numbers that connect me to voices of men who I have no real interest in, but who all dote on me and make me feel pretty.
So, what was the doctor’s prescription for this illness? 6 months free from any kind of romantic/flirtatious attachments to men. No communication with him at all. 6 months free of all men. No testosterone in my life until November 5th. No sex until November 5th. No kissing until November 5th. No late night phone calls. No dates. Nothing for over 180 days. Half a year. Alone. Over 180 nights without anyone’s arms around me as I sleep. Wow.
Panic. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Loneliness. I could already feel, smell, see, hear every emotion I would be flooded with over the next 6 months. But would they last the entire time?
I can’t count all the times I’ve gone on and on with my friends about how independent I am. How little I need a man to feel complete. Isn’t it time I walk the talk?
So I call him and tell him.
6 months? We haven’t gone over a week without speaking in 6 years. How in the hell are we supposed to make it 6 months without any contact?
3 months?
3 months is still a very long time for us. Why can’t we just go a month?
A month. Ok. 1 month and we’ll see how things go from there.
And then we said I love you, I love you so much, I’ll always love you, don’t forget how much I love you. Good bye for one month.
And I cried. Because I knew. I knew what will happen on June 5th. On June 5th he’ll call me. And he’ll have missed me, and he’ll think we’ve done our time and we can start all over and be together again and everything will be perfect. He’ll have counted down until June 5th.
And I’ll have been ok for that month. Happier maybe. Proud that I could make it 31 days without relying on any kind of male attention to feel sexy or confident or compete. I’ll want that feeling to continue. I’ll be at peace with the end of us. I’ll be even more certain that his perfect person is the stereotypical kindergarden teacher - loving, kindhearted, gracious, simple….and my perfect person is someone challenging, ambitious, driven, intellectual, competitive, passionate, intense, assertive. And I’ll feel perfectly comfortable and content sitting back and waiting for that person to come into my life, enjoying my time with my friends and dedicating myself to the eight billion activities and organizations I will have committed myself to outside of work.
And his heart will break. And I’ll cry again because no matter what I’ll always love him so deeply and I’ll never want to hurt him. But I’ll be strong enough to recognize those will never be good enough reasons to stay.
But until that moment comes, it’s time to really dedicate myself to being happy with just myself for at least 31 days.
So goodbye skin and sweat and groans and moans and whispers and teeth grazing salty necks and sheets being winded and clinched and clinched and clinched…. and then siiighs and giggles and smiles and gentle kisses and holding…. and holding… and intertwining hands… and waking up to lips gently resting on shoulders and “are you awakes”….
