Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Embers of a Scar Reignited

I have so much to do, but I’m distracted because I need to get something out. I can’t complete anything with a sound, quiet mind lately. Even in my post-op return to yoga yesterday, I found myself turning my head and losing my balance, almost busting my lip like the kid I got to do yoga in an Atlantic City elevator lobby two weeks ago. (I’ll share that story next time.) But strangely, I don’t know exactly what it is I need to get out.

Could it be that the year is winding down, this year I have been told since 2011 that I would meet “the one”? I’m beginning to call poppycock on all these psychics people - my hope now in question. The year is winding down with 13 days left, some of which are truly provincial days: cooped up in a house with 11 other people, including a three week old, a six month old, two year old twins, a four year old, and, from that, a very unsettled 64 year old man who becomes anxious when his structure is rattled. I’m so excited to see my family and meet my new niece, but I am apprehensive about the energy all of this might bring into quite a modest little home. Last year, with just 9 others, it turned into a catastrophic train wreck - from which I learned to not stay more than five days – so I’ll be there for a short four day holiday tour and then back down to DC, to lead again my very single life. Wherein, I can go home, shut the door and only process my own needs. No parents. No husband. No kids. No responsibility. Which on the one hand is fantastic and on the other, a mildly annoying reminder that it's just me: No significant other: That’s right, psychics, you twits, I’m still just me. 


My past came back this past weekend…again. He proposed: “brunch this weekend?” at 3:16a on Friday night via email. (I still can't decide if I should be flattered or offended that these men think of me late at night, two sheets to the wind. Presumably, the latter.) After being mostly quiet for the past three months, I actually thought he meant brunch. Go figure. That is, until 1:24a on Saturday when he asked where we were going for brunch “tonight/tomorrow” and I was drunk and all well hell, why not clear up this dry spell and finish what we started three and a half months ago. So he came over after meeting me at my metro stop at 2am (and watching me give my number to a guy who was trying to follow me home. (But this is another story for next time.)). We spent Sunday in bed together and then, 17 hours later, I dropped him off at home after a 5pm “brunch”.

Again, this situation confuses me. While I realized yesterday that (for me) any situation that falls into a category of casual banging is likely doomed to be locked into that box (puns?), something about this bothersome. Like the Pink Elephant, I don’t think you can take that kind of plaything affair and turn it into something more because if you start – or restart – there, then where is there to go? (There is no courting. Yes, courting. And I want to be courted.) So logically, I'm pretty sure that the bother isn't that I want more from him. Although, arguably, neither case has been purely plaything, as I was drawn to both of these people beyond reasons that I can articulate, but a significant person should want you for you, not just it.

You know, it, sixth grade we-can't-say-"sex" it

Historically, it seems, these situations often arise because a man wishes he could love a girl; as in he does want her for her and not just it, but doesn’t have the balls to tell her or the emotional capacity/readiness to acknowledge it (until it’s too late) and, thus, comes across as a dick. Alternatively, the guy might just be a dick: He falls into power trips of silence, instead of being open and saying, "I just want it", he might go quiet for months to prove a point: You don’t matter. While I hate the latter, I’ve dealt with both before and they're not a particularly big deal: We all play the game in exchange for satiating our needs. However, in this situation I'm finding it difficult to balance the complicated rumblings of a lady in waiting with the simple need of having someone to warm my winter bed, and this time, by someone who once mattered.

HG is a memory of something that I once was so sure of. I’d never thought so much of anyone so quickly or been so blindsided by the fact that I knew I needed to let him go. I had never fled to the other side of the Earth to escape my own heartache. And now it’s lying beside me on a Sunday, making me laugh and keeping me warm. He remains something I never quite had; a reminder of what I wish for now; a reminder of  how, thus far, the psychics have been wrong - the hope their prophecies provided, nearly expired. 

(I know, self, read this. But...)

These things in front of me, these are the things I want. I’m drawn to him in that way that I just can’t articulate, but, while he reminds me of the things I want, he doesn't provide them. He is at once both a temporary fix and an infuriating reminder. I want him there and I want him gone, for the void he fills, he also digs. In the moments together it’s good – great, even – but in the days that follow, there’s a sense of turmoil that lingers like a burn; the embers of a scar reignited.

Even after all these words, I'm not really sure what it means. Our time together is wonderful, but the hangover, wretched. In the stark silence of fresh absence, I lose a little sense of self-composure; feel a little too insignificant; get a little lost and honestly, I'm not certain as to why, what feelings these are, and thus, how to process them. After moving past September, I thought that was it: I had detached completely and all the confusions were gone for good, but they're back again. Perhaps it is a memory that hurts a bit too much to relive or it's the unjust sting of an ailing hope - nay, patience. It isn't necessarily bad, nor good, or even inextricably linked to him, it's mostly just strange, new, and confusing. I guess that's what I needed to get out. Now what do I do with it? 'Cause if it doesn't stop, I'm probably going to make him date me or punch him in the head. (j/k.)

(Barely relevant, but I like it:)