Ever since I had the stomach flu three weeks ago, things have been on an uptick. There's just something about sitting on the can, voiding both one's bowels uncontrollably while simultaneously vomiting into the bathroom trash receptacle to really, I don't know, purge all the badness from one's person, both literally and metaphorically.
There was even a moment we could call religious, where, realizing I had but a moment to get back to bed before I was going to pass the fuck out, I wound up flopping, just barely, onto said bed, only to wake up I don't know how much later, face down in my blankets, legs half off and nearly touching the floor. Even in my sickly torpor, I laughed at the situation I was in, and crawled up to my pillows to fall back asleep. Three hours of this, about every twenty minutes to half an hour, and the worst of it was over, but it would be four days before applesauce, saltines, Sprite and bananas weren't 90% of my diet. I tried ravioli on the third day, it was a mistake.
I feel good. The weather seems to be, as of yesterday, in the mood to be more of a summery spring than a wintery one, and as can be expected, it's done wonders for the moods of everyone. I'm wearing a flimsy tank top today. I have a cardigan in my bag, but I don't need it. Praise Jesus.
I am continuing therapy, even though I am now feeling stable and content and like I can tackle shit without the bolstering effect of someone impartial to talk to. Mostly because, despite this stability, the problems are still there, in theory; I need to learn how to be better in a relationship. Less anxious. Less tense. Less nitpicky. And I need to learn that keeping some things to myself, in terms of the intensity of my feelings, can be kept to myself, for weeks, even months at a time, without it being "lying." This is the point we covered last session, and when my therapist laughed at me, I laughed too, and quite deflated in my chair. It's the simple realizations that cover the most ground, and it kind of floors me every time. Not being forthcoming about EVERY thing that I think doesn't mean I'm lying to someone. Bah.
This came about after I told my therapist about a friend who went on a date with a fellow she'd liked form afar for some time. Their date went very well, and basically from that moment, she was like, "He's the one, I'm done," but she didn't say that, for, I think, FOUR MONTHS. And now they're married. Had she said it in the first week, or first month, like I do, he probably would have freaked and ran. But she didn't. And she wasn't lying to him, she was smart, she kept it to herself, let him catch up to her. Why can't I do that? It's one of the many little things I do to sabotage my relationships. Every time. We came up with the obvious metaphor of letting things stew for the other person, letting them feel out the full flavors of me and the relationship before I dump the intensity of my feelings on them. DUH, really, Sarah. And in the meantime, I might find that my feelings are infatuation, or that I don't really like them all that much. But the way I do things, I dump out all that's in my head and expect the other party to be comfortable with that, and also put myself in a position to be overwhelmingly attached to them because of the word LOVE. But they never catch up, not to the level that I found from the beginning. Other women are smart. I need to be like them. A little mystery, girl.
In other news, celibacy and emotional distance are still the name of the game. I had a very handsome, charming, 6'5" college football coach hitting on me in a very adult and gentlemanly way at a literary event last week, but while the first meeting was purely charming, and mildly piqued my interest, when I ran into him at another lit event this weekend, it was determined that he has crazy eyes. Also, dad jeans. Dad jeans, unfortunately, are unforgivable at this stage in my life. I am too old to be teaching a man how to dress. Which is good, because the night I'd met him, and gave him my number after he asked, I woke up at 4 a.m. in a full blown panic and could only get to sleep after I convinced myself he'd never call. He did text the next day to say, adult and gentleman like, that it was a pleasure to have met me. And when I ran into him Saturday, something was off. His charm was now plasticine, his eyes a bit shifty. None of us who had borne witness to the charm four days prior could pinpoint what had changed, but the change was there, nonetheless. I am relieved. I am not ready to date, or even think about it, as is evidenced by my 4 a.m. wakeup in fucking heart pounding fear mode.
But I do have a pleasant, harmless crush that helps me pass the time. We play Words With Friends games and chat about Morrissey. He is too young, too slight of build, and too much the brother of a friend (and too much, again, living in another city), but it is so safe, I can use it as an experiment, and have been. Not a whisper of seal has been broken on the crush. Our talk is very vaguely flirtatious, but no admission of any attraction or interest has been broached in the least. I've never done this before. It's been a month, and I am proud. In fact, I sincerely doubt, when I see him again (given he lives in the city I'd like to relocate to in the fall), that I'll allow it to become anything else. Too young, too slight, too brother. I see those red flags, y'all, and they are not worth the trouble it would be to put another notch in my bedpost. Land sakes, might I wind up with a friend that I find attractive, who finds me attractive, that I never engage in physical activity with?
The mind reels.
4 years ago
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