Already?
So here I am, trying to work stuff out and take advantage of this time apart from him to really grow as a person and take care of some long-standing issues. Resolved not to get involved with anyone for a while, and certainly not to find myself in another committed relationship for a while.
And then. Mr. New York.
Mr. New York and I have been friends throughout the year. We’ve flirted, but I’ve always been in a relationship and he seemed dissinterested in me aside from a girl to flirt with. Then he found out. That we’re taking time apart. And he made it very clear, I am not just a girl to flirt with.
We spoke for three hours nonstop. About nothing. About our pasts. Goals. Habits.
We laughed and teased.
And then he made a proposition. Tomorrow, since we’ll both be studying in the library, why don’t we relieve some stress in a private study room?
I’m blushing and intrigued. But I know better.
So today in the library, I see Mr. New York. Hidden on my laptop where no one can see he reminds me of last night’s propostion. I want to. I’m craving physical contact. A really intense make out session could definitely fill that void.
And then something different happens.
A lightbulb goes off. And I’m reminded of my fresh mistakes with the other. The one I can’t even look at or talk to anymore. The one I so recently swore off, and continue to secretly long for when the sheets rest on top of my lonely body instead winding among two.
Not this time. I’m honest with him. I tell him I don’t want another “just for fun” guy. I apologize and tell him I’d rather get to know him better, take my time.
A pause. I nibble on my fingertips, staring at the screen, waiting on his response. He thinks I’m a prude. He thinks I’m weird. He’s never going to talk to me again. I’m thirteen again.
Then Mr.New York says – “you know, that actually turns me on even more. can I take you out to dinner tonight?”
I’m shocked. I’m blushing. I’m muffling a pre-pubescent squeal of giddy excitement.
And so he does. He takes me out to dinner. And we talk. And it’s great.
And it hits me. This is what dating is. I’m dating.
But already? I wonder what my therapist will say about this on Monday.
The Waiting Room
My first counseling session of my entire life starts in 30 minutes. I feel like at this point I have so many issues there’s no way we can make any progress in one hour. I’m assuming I’ll pretty much just be spending this time telling her my background, why I’m there, what I think is wrong with me and why I think it’s wrong and how it got to be that way. I wish I could just give her a copy of my moleskin journal and come back after she’s read it. That would at least give her almost two year’s worth of my issues.
Is there going to be a couch I lay down on like in old Bob Newhart reruns?
Will I end up breaking my no-more-crying-about-this rule?
Will I see right through her questions and insight?
I’m scared, but happy to finally make a step towards making some progress, even if it’s not even a step but a shuffle.
We have been officially separated for less than 48 hours and I already miss him desperately. I see things, eat things, think things, smell things that make me want to call him. I already broke down and emailed him, to let him know my parents and a couple mutual friends know about us already. No response. My heart physically burns when I remind myself we’re not together for God knows how long… maybe forever. I’ve been swallowing tears, clenching my teeth, biting my lip and pulling those little droplets back in almost hourly.
I saw the other today – at school. Made it through two entire classes with zero eye-contact and zero-conversation. I secretly want him to try to initiate something so I can shoot him down and tell him he was a huge mistake and we will never be anything, friends or more, ever again. And I told him so. I warned him from the beginning. But he didn’t listen. I wonder what the doctor will say about that.
Why am I so afraid right now?
Goodbye…for now
Empowered and optimistic, after finally severing myself from the other, I drove the short distance to the one.
Hopeful. Determined to restore giddy playfulness and appreciation. Determined to be happy with him. Determined to start all over.
And then it started. The arguing. The bickering. Like a play we rehearsed time and again. We said our lines. The same as always… such a habit. No voices raised. No tears. Just bored conversation. Repetition.
And then a pause so wide and deep I could climb inside and get lost for hours.
He said, “Maybe we should take some time apart. Just stop and work on things and see what happens.”
Silence.
Agreement.
And then the tears. The shuttering, gutteral sobs. The fear. The longing that we would not have to lose each other to make things work in the end. The guilt at feeling relief mixed in.
And then he left. The reception. He had no choice. He was to explain that I wasn’t feeling well.
My eyes were swollen and tired. But I couldn’t sleep.
He came home. We worked hard at enjoying the last night of each other’s company for a long long time. Ice cream. Our thing. Even in high school, ice cream was always our band aid. A comedy. One of our favorites.
In bed. We held each other all night. Like a well-rehearsed dance. Every movement and shift was connected. I didn’t want the sun to come up.
But it did.
I sit up and as soon as my feet touch the floor. The tears come again. The shuttering. The gulping sobs. This is goodbye.
He holds me, reminds me he loves me, only making things worse. I finally manage to get control of myself long enough to make it down to my car.
But then he pulls me in for that final hug. That wet kiss on my forehead. It’s all I can do to dive behind the wheel and pull out of the drive way, only to pull over a couple blocks later.
I have no idea how long I sat there, sobbing and sibbing. And wishing I could just pull myself together for the drive home.
As I let out the shaky sigh marking the end of that breakdown, I promised myself I would only allow the one and a half hours between his home and mine for the sadness. After that I would devote myself to exams. To my case. To staying as busy as humanly possible. And, for the first time in my life, going to counseling.
As I stared ahead at the miles and miles of flat pavement, I decided to let go of the other entirely. Even as a friend. I would not tell him what happened because it is none of his business and he has no right to know.
And so, I said goodbye to both of them.
Only the important one’s goodbye is just for now.
I hope.
The Spotless Mind
If there were ever a movie that proposes a completely fantastical premise, which i wished beyond anything were real, it would be Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
If I could erase a person from my memory completely. Erase all ties. All connections. It would be him. We never would’ve crossed over. He’d still just be some friend at school who I occasionally went out drinking with in a group of friends. I would still have trouble remembering his name. We would never spend time together alone. He would never be attracted to me.
Just another person. Just another friend.
I would look back at the last few weeks and all that time I spent laughing with him, feeling his arms around me, enjoying him… all that time would be this black void or a foggy dream.
I would not remember the first time I felt the the entire earth shake, wrapped in his arms, and unafraid. “What was that? What just happened?”
“Haven’t you ever felt an earthquake before?”
Yes I have. I have felt everything solid beneath my feet shift. I have felt the terrifying, exciting, and uncontrollable sensation of falling between the cracks. But worse, I have felt the cold, lonely darkness at the bottom. Isolatoin. Regret. Fear.
It is only right that I was with him when it happened.
But I wish I could forget.
I wish I could meditate him away. That I could take a pill, fall asleep, and wake up to a world without him in my life.
I wish I could fall back in love with the other man. That I could be excited and giddy. Hopeful and optimistic. Doting.
But life is not a movie. What happened was real. And it will not go away until I really sever the connection. It will not go away until I pick up all the debrit around me and destroy it completely. It will not go away until I rediscover why I have been with this man for more than one-fourth of my entire life.
I am proud of who I am in so many ways. But this part of myself brings me nothing but shame. The kind of shame that shifts your glance from that foreign face in the mirror. The kind of shame that makes you swollow a rock when the man you plan to give your life to holds you close and tells you he loves you.
The kind of shame that makes you wish a movie based on pure fantasy were real.
In the upcoming months I will do everything in my power to remove every bit of that curdled, rotting shame and restore myself to who I was.
Every day I’ll come closer to that woman. Who had only shared herself with one man. Who had nothing to hide. Who had a clear view of the future and genuinely looked forward to it. Who never felt weak or taken advantage of. Who did not play games.
As much as I try to convince myself there is no connection between sex and emotion, everyone knows the truth. Even those who sell it know that. It’s a part of the human condition that I refuse to hide from anymore.
And so the dark, dredgery of getting back to the beginning begins now.
May I never look back.
The day after “I hate him”
“Come over”
I look down and see those words, surrounded by friends, at the first barbeque of the season. It’s 10pm on a Wednesday. Everyone’s sitting around the fire pit, laughing, sharing stories.
The moment I look down and see those words glaring at me through the tiny flourescent light, I’m isolated. My blood rushes. I’m tipsy and I want nothing more than to have some fun.
No, ignore it. Don’t respond. Just that day I went on an hour long run to sever him from my system. Every step of that last heart-pounding, lung-crushing sprint was motivated by the words “I am done with him I am done with him I am done with him.” No. I’m over him. It’s finished. I slap my phone shut and take another pull from my beer, rejoin the genuine laughter and thoughtful murmurings.
Again. “I want you. Come over.”
Something catches in my throat. I can imagine him nibbling at my neck, holding me down. I can hear his whispers. I can picture his eyes, so hungry, focused so carefully directly on me. I bite my lip as I remember that feeling, those first few seconds of letting him in. The way he makes my body move.
And so I go.
The bed creaks under our weight. I’m playful, giddy. We tumble and roll, bite and scratch, then slow down and feel each other’s breath on our skin. And then it’s tumbling and rocking all over again.
Exhilerating.
And then, as we settle into each other’s arms to drift away into separate dreams.
He asks what’s wrong.
I take a breath and let everything out. “Ever since we crossed this line you have excluded me from your daily life in ways you never would have if we hadn’t started doing this. It’s like the price of this new level of interaction was sacrificing the fun we had as drinking buddies with the rest of the group. I didn’t know going to this place with you would remove me from three other friendships and that’s not really a fair deal.”
He has no answer.
No excuses.
No explanation.
“I got you on that one. You know it’s true”
He stares at me. “There’s nothing I can really say.”
He goes downstairs to get ice water.
Again, intertwined he asks about him. About us. Curious about what impact he’s having on that other part of my life. I tell him, in complete honesty. No impact at all. That will never end because of you. I will never end that because I want you more. This will never interfere with him (inside I say because you will never be half the man he is and I’ll never be able to love someone like you.)
He mocks satisfaction. Goes on about how he doesn’t want to break us up.
I laugh. Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, if we ever did break up. This thing between us would end immediately. This will never be more than fun on the side. It feels good to be honest. I’m trying to hurt him a little, too.
He shifts the conversation to the same complaints he voices daily about her. I ask him how they met. What he liked about her back then. He continues to complain. She never wants to have sex. She never wants to spend time with me. I tell him stop bullshitting. Tell me something good. He repeats the same two sentences “We get along ok. Plus, she likes my friends.”
I think of us. How we make each other laugh from the very bottom of our bellies. How we make each other so crazy in the dark. How good we are with the group. I wonder. Does he think about that? Does he really think I could be somewhere in his future?
Poor thing. He doesn’t think I’m serious when I say we have no future beyond laughter and fun.
The hate has evaporated and all that remains is the residue of pity for how pathetic he is.
So, yes. I am done with him. Mentally. Emotionally.
But why not have some more fun now that it’s completely safe?
He has this way
I hate him. Really I do. He’s annoying and strange. But I can’t tell if he’s as manipulative as I give him credit for.
When you tell a man
“ you are nothing but a piece of meat”
and late at night, while holding you he says
“tell me more about your feelings. i want to get closer to you. i love spending time with you.”
and he says
“you can always come here to this bed, no matter why or what we do.”
and when you pull away and tell him no more intimacy because it’s wreaking havoc on your real relationship, and he invites you over
“just to hold you”
Is that manipulation?
If physically, he’s getting what he wants. And he has someone to fulfill his emotional needs, why is he so dedicated to breaking through those walls i’ve carefully constructed around my most sensitive place.
why does he beg to see my insecurities, beg me to prove i’m not as tough as i act.
why is it that in that bed, when the lights are out, he wants to hold me and begs me to stay in the morning.
but in the daylight he hardly acknowledges me. he makes excuses.
i hate him. i hate him for chipping away a piece of that wall i worked so hard at building. i hate the way he thinks i want more from him. i hate the way he constantly reminds me “we both know what this is.”
Yes we do both know. You are a piece of meat. This is purely physical. I don’t need you. You are merely a momentary distraction. Stop pretending you have anything to do with my real relationship. Stop begging me to let you in.
We would never have a future for so many reasons. I know that, I know all the reasons. Do you?
1) I’ll never respect you enough to love you because you are not just cheating on your girlfriend, but you are bringing another woman into the same bed you share with her on the weekends.
2) You are spoiled and completely insecure about everything superficial. You have no idea how to appreciate complete and total independence.
3) You have no spirituality.
4) You are destined to be with some mindless upper-middle class debutant who will do nothing but pop out mini-versions of you.
5) You whine about everything and always have excuses on hand.
6) You don’t make me feel nearly as beautiful or valuable as he does.
7) The shape of your mouth really annoys me.
And that’s not even all of the reasons. I think about them daily. Every conversation I have with you, I discover more reasons I would never consider legitimately being with you.
And yet daily you so humbly ask to make sure you’re not getting in the way of my real relationship.
No. You’re not. And I’m done with you.
I don’t need you. Or your bed. Or your kisses. I don’t need another man to open up to. I needed a little stress relief, and some fun. But as much as you talk, you clearly can’t handle that.
When did men become little girls?
I hate him.
Around and Round We Go
From nothing to everything, all at once.
Hate, Joy, Passion, Pleasure, Anger, Distaste, Admiration
Curiousity
In 3 years…
And then I remind myself. No. It’s not what he’s here for. That’s not what I want out of this. Different backgrounds, different futures. He is not that person.
I have that person. Same backgrounds, same plans for the future. Not total and complete happiness at all times, but those bright shining moments make up for that.
He’s just enough. Not everything, but enough.
And then I feel him, and I laugh with him, and he looks at me. And I go right back to wondering.
I’m teetering at the edge of a giant canyon. I look down and I see beautiful, golden rock fading into dark nothingness. I crave that rush of falling, that heart-pounding excitement and fear. I want to dive in head first. But what’s waiting for me at the bottom? Land as solid and comfortable as what I’m standing on now? Something better? Quick sand?
We keep comparing. And stop. Comparing. And stop.
No, it’s better because it’s new. It’s more fun because it’s new. You’re better because your different.
In three years…
He tells me to open up. To let him in. To tell him things. But why? Where does that go? If a gorgeous man were standing outside my door and asked to come in, while I knew full well that his only intention was to break every scrap of property in my apartment, would I let him in if he promised he would leave as soon as I told him to? Should I?
I am no prophet, but as things are now, I see exactly where they’re going. Pain. Rejectment. Self-hatred. Disillusionment. Regret.
So why am I even considering letting him in? Why am I even asking myself, in 3 years…
Nothing.
In three years, nothing.
So what in the hell am I doing?
Nothing
No lust. No excitement. No passion.
Just anger.
At everything. And I have no clue why.
Neither of them have done anything wrong. He still loves me and the other still wants me.
But I feel this swelling rage,
I find myself wishing I could fall for the other. Closing my eyes and forcing my mind to picture us really together. But it arouses nothing in me. That little voice of pragmatism speaks up – he is too immature, not driven enough, you’d complain about him just as much.
But oh can he make me laugh.
I tell him piece of meat, but I don’t even want him in that way. I’m addicted to his entertainment value, not his body. He’s attractive and he makes me feel wanted, but aside from that – it’s the laughter I find myself craving when I think of him.
Laughter is the only thing that replaces that quiet bubbling anger these last couple weeks.
But why. What is there to be angry about.
My jaw is sore at night from grinding my teeth all day.
But I don’t know why.
It scares me. Where is this coming from, how long is it staying, why, where is it going?
I want to scream at someone. I want to sob and cry. I want to let all my excess anger devour someone.
I just wish there was some other feeling there. Some kind of lust that I could make disappear so easily.
But I’m alone with nothing but this festering boil.
Clueless
This relationship. 6 years. Comfortable. Predictable. Boring.
Nothing exciting.
Nothing new.
No heart-pounding nights spent sweaty and panting beneath sheets.
And the other.
My new other. Him. He suffers from the same. Three years. Beige. Sleepy.
I tell him, out of my own need to protect myself, this is nothing but physical. We have no future. Nothing will come of this but brief moments of shuttering sighs. You are nothing to me but a piece of meat.
I reiterate this time and again.
But in those moments when he forgets. When I feel his cool lips on my forehead. When he tells me he misses me. When he changes his routine to see me again. In those moments I’m happy he’s forgotten.
And then I close my eyes and wonder. Could we. Would we be just as bored five years from now. Is this worth opening that padlocked door, just a crack.
I go back to that warm night in high school. In the humid, Memphis breeze. That first real conversation. I remember how he helped me discover that small door I keep closed so tightly to this new man. How I just knew. How I realized what people mean when they say you just know. I remember my heart beating as my mind repeated again and again. This is him. This is him. This is him this is him this is him this is him.
My chest does not pound those three words any longer. I don’t catch myself smiling at nothing when he interrupts my thoughts.
And the same goes for the new man.
So why am I standing at that little door, gazing at him through that small peephole?
Lust Overcomes
I’m here again. Back in this room filled with pools of light divided by sharp dark shadows. He was nobody. A friend. A drinking buddy. In a serious committed relationship. Off limits. Of course, so am I.
It started with one comment. One suspended moment over lunch with friends. Those words peeled the skin off my eyes to show me for one brief moment.
“It’s so cute when you wrinkle your nose like that”
I knew, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, didn’t want to get myself excited. But still at that moment, my eyes were open. I looked at him differently, focused on his features and manneurisms like those foggy close-ups in old black and white films.
That night, midnight. Text message. Something banal and school related. But a first. At midnight, nonetheless. I smiled to myself in the crowded casino. The loud chatter, ding-ding-dings, and squeals all faded into the background for that brief smile.
The next night. Eleven. Another text message. And another. And another. And another. Joking, flirting, half-serious but still guarded. We test the limits. Make suggestive comments and then protect ourselves with (just kidding). We are standing over that line together. We are ambling closer and closer to it, occassionally touching it, then stepping back. That night it’s his hands I channel as I guide myself into my dreams.
The next day. Text messages. He wants me to come over. For dinner. He wants to cook for me. I can’t turn down a good meal. I know what I’m doing when I say yes. I have visions of stumbling into a corner and letting go of ourselves, but I reign myself in. I wear an old sweatshirt, jeans, and my chucks. I want him to want me even in my duds.
And he does.
I watch him cook, watch his hands. I want those hands to shake, I want them to sweat as they nervously glide over every curve.
I am alone in my own bed. Text messages. He demands that I come over the next night, and orders that I drink heavily. He is so afraid of rejection. He is so vulnerable.
The next night. I’m there. We’re drinking with friends. He pulls me aside and asks me to stay longer than everyone else. I patiently wait for them to go.
We drunkenly trip over akward mumblings of “this is wrong” “i just can’t stop thinking about you” “i don’t want things to get akward” “i just like you so much”
kissing
tongues
teeth
croons and coos
a strong hand takes mine and leads me up the stairs
a bed
rolling and kissing, scratching and biting, moaning.
“fuck”
“i want you”
“what are we doing”
“i want you”
I can’t tell who says what. He wants me to stay the night.
I leave him wanting more. Always leave them wanting more.
And here I am again. Back in that old familiar place, with a mixture of excitement and misery.
Dark clouds are rolling in, but the lightning is so much fun.
