Fail on the way to win

It is taking some adjustment to be in a happy, healthy relationship. Joey accepts me, unconditionally. He is patient and loving. With him, I am not pushy, or intense, and when he tells me he's eaten some horrible food covered in cheese and I chastise him, he tells me to push harder because he wants to be healthy--he's got myriad seasonal allergies and has a shit immune system and I'm trying to help him eat better, and he loves that I care and give him helpful suggestions of things he can eat that are healthier. With him, I haven't experienced any anxiousness at all, at any moment, aside from the anxiety and frustration I feel that he is so far away from me and there's not much to be done about it right now. It's been three and a half weeks since I last saw him, and my finances are currently in a shambles (it's the 7th and I have $0 toward rent, so rent plus other bills and debts I'm behind on total $2574.39, all due before August 5th. Normally, that would be totally doable, but my work has slowed to a crawl, and I'm transitioning into other work that so far is also proving to be a bust. It seemed like this new job would be something that would really open me up to getting squared financially and starting some savings and finally being on my way to buying a house, but it's been completely disappointing thus far. It is something that can potentially pick up, though, so I'm going to persevere. And quit the other job to devote more time to this.

So, the happiness and excitement I felt initially when I began this work has resolved itself as the image of a brick wall, again. The wall I've seen for the last year, the wall that says, "Sarah, you're almost 35, and you're a failure."

Today, I realized something important, though. I realized that having someone like Joey in my life does not make me a failure. I have had people love me, care for me, be patient with me, but not like this. He is a natural caretaker of the anxious and the neurotic. His actions are preemptive. I never react badly because there's nothing to react badly to. He curtails my usual fears by simply being himself. Instead of being frustrated that we haven't seen one another and that our next meeting is uncertain because I can't afford to get there (he's got a 9-5 M-F job, so coming to see me doesn't make much sense, especially since flying is several times more expensive than me traveling to him by bus), he just says that everything will be okay, that he'll be there any time I can get to him. He tells me he misses me every day, but his patience is contagious. It's okay, it's all okay. Three weeks may feel like a long time, but by October 1st, which is two months and three weeks away, I'll be living there, and I can see him all the time.

Yes, I'm moving to Louisville. I will be getting an inheritance of $5,000 from my grandma's estate, and it should arrive within the next month or so. I had really hoped I could piggyback another few thousand onto that and buy a house, but I will have to wait. It is what it is, and it is what I have to accept.

I am learning how to make sense of someone good. I am feeling my neural pathways reset. To stop craving extremes, and to accept that being with someone so even-keeled is going to mean being bored or not wholly stimulated all the time. I am going to have to learn to be easier going. And I am.

What's most noticeable to me is how I perceive the world around me now. I have always made excuses for bad behavior because I understand it. One of my first therapists always cautioned me against this behavior in myself, and while I took his advice to heart, I was never able to act on it. I find myself doing it now. There are so many things about Chris and our relationship that were destructive. From the first hours. Within the first 24 hours, we had gotten into two minor fights and he'd made me cry by being insensitive and rude. We had an intense connection, and we got on famously in so many ways, but looking back on that, that kind of constant intensity and tension, it frightens me a little. He is not a bad person, but that was not a good relationship. It pains me so much to say that, and to acknowledge it, and I find myself feeling angry with myself and at him. I know what I could have done to be better, but I also know he needs a lot of help to be better himself. I am also seeing how I have been an enabler to so many of my lovers and boyfriends and friends. Chris is a mean drunk. And he IS a drunk. I made excuses for him, when he told me he was an alcoholic, I told him that it wasn't true. But it is true. He doesn't get through more than a day or two without getting drunk. And he is rude, and unpredictable, and he blacks out when he drinks, and so much of our fighting happened in those situations, and yet I always encouraged us drinking a bottle of wine together, or him drinking when we were out. I, and Chris, and Lindsay, have been operating in the mindset of drinking = fun. But I'm finding out that's simply not true. I go out and don't drink or drink half the amount I used to, and I am still having a ton of fun. I'm just choosing much better people to have fun with, these days.

I may have curbed Drunk, Slutty Sarah a while ago, but Drunk Sarah remained. A friend is going through AA. She's really together and amazing now. I was an enabler to her as well, and I'm ashamed. She is far more fun now than she ever was drunk, but yet I always encouraged her drinking, even though I knew she didn't know when to stop.

Things are changing. It's so good. Every day is still a challenge, but I am surrounded by the love and support of my family and friends and a man with a tremendous heart. I'll be a winner yet, by gum!

Baby Steps

I'm trying not to over analyze, let things happen. Try some thought processes I've learned in therapy, and avoid other behaviors that have found me feeling and reacting too intensely in the past.

Yesterday, Joey and I made plans to meet in Chicago next weekend, to stay with friends of mine in their lovely new house, where we'll have our own room. Feeling a little panicky after we talked about it, I told him I needed him to come into this not really expecting anything, that I have to approach things conservatively. I'm not freaking out, I'm just feeling cautious about it. Sex tends to be how I get to know people. It's how I see them vulnerable, it's where I gather and sort the most data, in the spreadsheet that makes up the whole of who they are.

That's another thing we talked about in therapy, that I'm very logical and rational and I want hard information, but yet I am also incredibly emotional. These things, obviously, fight against one another.

Mostly, I don't want to feel pressured. I want to see him, and feel comfortable with him and ease into spending time with him.

It always amuses me how problems in my previous relationship for the other person become something I'm suddenly feeling myself or hyper aware of in the next relationship. I do work really hard to see things from other peoples' perspectives. It's just not always an instantaneous thing. Sometimes, years later, something will happen, and suddenly I'll understand everything that someone was upset with me for or criticized me about. It's like hearing a song you've known all your life and suddenly hearing the lyrics clearly, whereas before, you just mumbled along. Or thought the words were something else entirely.

I observed a lot of these things while with my family while my grandma was dying. Certain things my mom's side of the family does that I had had an inkling of an understanding of, that I now "get."

For instance, arriving at the hospital, to see my grandma, my mom, sister, father and I sat around her bed, talking to her. I wrote about this before, we tried to get her to eat. She did, some. Not enough, but some.

Then, my uncle and aunt came in and we left. When we all were back at the house, one by one, my mother and her brothers voiced some way in which they were special. "We got her to eat!" "Oh, she always takes my calls, no matter how tired she is." "She got really emotional while we were there." It's never said with a tone of celebration, it's all subtle, passive-aggressive one upsmanship. And it's gross. And I see how I do that in my day to day life, trying to prove that MY contribution to a person's life is somehow more valuable, and that ultimately, they are successful or somehow achieved something because of me.

And it's not quite as gross as that, because it does come from a place of caring. Mostly, I think it's part of the abandonment issue schematic; I have to prove why I'm valuable to you so you can't leave me because you'll realize you can't do this without me. With my mom and her brothers, it's a little more sinister.

In my life, it's also something that drives people from me. I see that now. I am not responsible for them, or their success, any more than they would be responsible for mine.

Baby steps, in any case, with Joey. LOL. Joey. Baby. Joey, baby kangaroo. It's bad enough that he's 26, does he need to have a child's name, too!? Oy.

Baby steps. I suppose my biggest fear is this will be something that fizzles fast for me, that it will function as rebound, and I will hurt him. I don't want to keep him at arm's length, I don't want to move too fast, and I don't want to write checks I can't cash. There's a happy medium in there, and I think we're doing pretty well in that frame.

11 Hours, 4 Cats

So much for celibacy.

I went to Louisville. Steve and I had a fun drive down, we are great traveling companions. We arrived at Joey's, I produced the bottle of Malört I'd asked Steve to acquire (a rough-tasting, wormwood based liquor found only in Chi-Town) for Joey, and we immediately did a shot and then sat down to play three rousing games of Scrabble. Joey kicked our asses every time.

Steve and I retired to Joey's room, where I'd take Joey's bed, Steve the futon. I went back downstairs to grab my water, and in one easy movement, went from hugging Joey goodnight, to kissing him.

It was a decent kiss. Mostly, it made me feel safe.

I went to bed.

The next day, the presence of Steve meant Joey and I stole touches on the sly, a squeeze here, a kiss on the forehead there. Pheromone-wise, all of the right things were happening. Again, I felt safe. A glance from across the room made my heart flutter. I felt defensive, I'd gone there with the intention of distance, but he is sweet, earnest and kind. Defenses dissolved. He can't hurt me. When I first reached out to him the next day, it was especially nice, he seemed to breathe more easily knowing the kiss the night before wasn't because we had been drinking.

His Morrissey night was fun. We spent the night at the bar as he DJ'd, and mostly, it inspired a lot of conversation between Steve and I about relationships. The fact that masculinity has been bred out of men almost everywhere in the US. That women like me struggle to find someone dominant enough to handle us on a day to day basis, who understand what it means to be dominant enough to subjugate us sexually in the bedroom without being crass and disrespectful, and yet respect us fully all of the time. Instead, we settle for men who can fuck us, who are assholes, who are misogynists, because the biological need for fulfilling our sexual appetite is stronger than the biological need for fulfilling our need to be taken care of. Ultimately, we can take care of ourselves, even if that's really not what we want. What we can't do is bend ourselves over in front of a window at three in the morning with a storm raging outside and get fucked from behind while rain water soaks us and the floor, and then half way through get picked up like you weigh nothing and thrown on the bed to get fucked some more. So we sacrifice, and we take men home who can do that, who treat us like shit otherwise. Because men who were raised well in this day and age can't navigate their desire to dominate, or that desire has been neutered. Andy was a walking Women's Studies/lame feminist girlfriend disaster. He didn't even look at porn because an ex had convinced him it was a really awful, demeaning thing. Good christ. A little tweaking, and he was able to let a little of his manhood out, but there was always a hesitancy. Not so with dudes who never got that education... I like to think an upcoming generation of men will be inspired by Don Draper of Mad Men to be both gentlemanly and viscerally masculine, but who knows how long the damage of feminist extremes will prevail.

Anyway. In the midst of these conversations with Steve, as I sipped a whiskey water that seemed to be doing nothing for me, Joey would look at me as he DJ'd, I'd be singing along, as he'd be singing along. It clearly made him happy. It made me happy too. Mirroring. Connection.

Morrissey happened to me when I was 17. I'd say I was mostly through that phase by 23. But it was a strong obsession. Morrissey (namely the Smiths), Depeche Mode, and the Cure dominated my life for the bulk of those years, with a two-year dalliance with Japanese rock like Luna Sea and L'arc~en~Ciel in there in the middle. Revisiting this with someone so deeply into it is charmingly nostalgic. His interest, while an obsession, is only one color of his musical palette, thankfully. He appreciates music at the same level as I do. We have already had some really great conversations about music, and it's something that's very important to me. A lot of people I know are into music. Really into music. But there's a special level where it enters definite nerdery, a field I've been playing on my whole life. Encyclopedic knowledge, and an expansive openness to new things. I don't get to spend much time with people like that, like me, except peripherally. Andy was very into music, but also closed-minded and judgmental about what makes something good. Chris loves music passionately, but his interest is more sponge-like; he invests himself in music that comes to him, is around him. He doesn't seek things out, he doesn't go to shows. Joey is like me. He is invested in the scene in Louisville, and writes a popular Louisville music blog with some friends.

After Moz night wrapped up, we returned to Joey's. Attempted another game of Scrabble, but I was beat. I went upstairs and Joey was close behind, to grab his pjs and brush his teeth. Steve stayed downstairs, and I knew he had all his things with him. We'd talked earlier in the evening that it was possible I might like to sleep next to Joey. I figured Steve was smart enough to figure this would happen without further discussion.

Joey and I kissed, as he held his shorts in hand, clearly prepared to head downstairs, assuming nothing. I fidgeted on the bed, looking at my lap, unable to look him in the eye. He continued to lean in to kiss me. Eventually, I looked up at him, and I said that it would be nice to sleep next to him, but I didn't think I could handle any more than that. He assured me that arrangement was more than acceptable, and we each went to brush our teeth.

After kissing a while, he was touching my back, and it tickled. I asked him to touch harder. Instead, he squeezed me really hard, seemingly everywhere at once, with his entire body, and I felt myself sigh into it, I allowed myself to just be there with him, and I felt the fear bubble burst.

And thus, more than kissing began.

I am trying to figure out where I stand here. Being with him helped to snip the last tethers of strong emotion I was tending the knots on for Chris. I was able to unblock Chris on fb yesterday, and don't have any urge to go spelunking his page as a result (I haven't looked at it at all, in fact). It feels like a big step. Seeing a new photo on Lindsay's Instagram of him doesn't make my heart shoot up into my throat. Today, I received the package of Kickstarter prezzies from Chris's comic project and didn't dissolve into a puddle of tears, as I know I would have a week ago. Instead, I just felt an ease, and pride. He is so talented, and I want him to succeed. He is his own worst enemy on that front, and his business sense is myopic at best, so I fear for him. But, for the first time, I don't feel like any of that is something I should have my hands in. Those tethers are gone. I am sure if I saw him, if he knocked on my door right now, it would be a terrifically conflicting battery of emotions, and I feel pretty sure love would be amongst them, but there's a joy in knowing that isn't going to happen.

I can just focus on Joey now. There's nothing I can do about Chris.

So, another chapter in my love life begins, with another long-distance entanglement. My therapist is kind of excited, the pleasant weirdo. He likes that Joey is a kind, easy-going guy, because he feels like I can focus on him without getting into intense emotion territory and can use some of the lessons and information I've gathered since we started therapy in January to make this involvement function better than others have in the past. But, there are still the giant issues of distance in play, albeit marginally less insane, as Louisville IS a day trip away, not two, by bus or car, which is about 4,000% less a logistical and financial nightmare. I can easily bus to Chicago, spend the night with friends, and then bus the rest of the way without putting myself out in any way. Plus, his sister is in Chicago, and she goes there often, so we can get to spend more time together and bus down too.

Joey, too, is badly allergic to cats. So he can't come stay with me. 11 hours. 4 cats.

I get now something that both Chris and Thor struggled with. I looked at our relationships and our distance as something we simply had to accept, and treat accordingly, but they complained about not being able to get to know me face to face. To go on proper dates. That to see one another basically meant living with one another for a week at a time, when we weren't ready for that level of interaction. I honestly didn't think much of it. I tend to accept circumstances that cannot be changed. Except now. Now I'm pissed and I'm frustrated that this lovely person is 11 hours away from me (11 hours driving like a bat out of hell, that is), that I can't bike over to his place and go to a bbq with him after we go out to his favorite coffee shop and then head back to my place for the night. That it's an all or nothing contact situation.

At the very least, I feel rational and in control here. I think because when I met Joey, I was still pretty thick in heartache and thus didn't entertain the baby crush I immediately had, and we had a month and a half to let a connection brew long distance, and become friends, that there's nothing to make me get super heady about this. I worry this also means I may not develop stronger feelings for him, but something tells me this is a curious new frontier for me. My involvements grow healthier with each new one, and the intensity I normally feel is not particularly healthy.

I'll take it as it comes, I guess. And I guess this means planning another trip to Louisville soon.

Thoughts on An Uncomfortable Dream

Time will tell if anything does bloom again with Chris. I never had happy dreams about Andy after we broke up, because, even as I held on to the love for months afterward, I already knew he didn’t love me as much as I did him. I already knew there was too much about him that wasn’t compatible with me, that the level of insecurity he made me feel for not being smart enough, well-read enough, interested in the right music enough, was never going to make me feel comfortable and safe. Those were things I never felt with Chris. I worry he felt that from me, though. There were several instances where Chris had little outbursts of insecurity, citing me being “cooler” than him, already knowing all the right books to read, all the interesting music. And honestly, I don’t know where he got that, except to say it was already there. I don’t think it was coming from me. I don’t think I was fostering that insecurity, and if I was, I sincerely don’t know how. He introduced me to music I now love, to books I now own, to ideas and topics of interest and movies. He was my equal partner on all fronts, in my mind. So much so, it was exciting in just the simplicity of it. A partner, on the same level as me. 

But, he wasn’t all sunshine and kittens. Far from it sometimes, but I love him in spite of this, because that’s what love is. Chris has a persistently dark persona, in spite of the love and kindness he wants to project. Corner him, he’ll lash out with cruelty without a thought. Fight him and he’ll insult you. Do something he doesn’t like, and he won’t be constructive in the way he tells you. He called my hair frizzy several times (hey, sorry bud, years of bleaching and dyeing have given me some damaged hair, and it being long for the first time in over a decade, I’m having to relearn how to manage it. Plus, the whole time we were dating, I was using an “organic” conditioner that didn’t do shit for me other than dry my hair out and make it feel weird. I’ve since moved on to something cheaper, and vastly more effective, but thanks for making me feel defensive about it). He essentially told me I give bad blow jobs (but condescendingly told me I “make up for it in other areas” after I told him that was a shitty thing to say), and insinuated others had been lying to me when I told him that was malarkey as every dude I’ve been with in the dozen years before him writhes with ecstasy and remarks loudly and often that mine are the best they’ve ever experienced (and, notably, a couple of exes have literally asked me to give tutorials to their exes, who are mutual friends; weird, but actually, not as weird as it might sound, since ladies do really want to give great head). The fact is, he likes the kind of blow job other men don’t, in my experience. No variation. Just up and down on the shaft, consistent, with increasing speed, preferably no coming up for air or giving the jaw a break (claiming that because he goes down on you for such an extended period [and with a skill level I would say is precisely on par with my blow jobs, if he actually liked the kind of blow jobs I give], you should happily return the favor, not understanding that licking a pussy is a different beast, where you can easily take a moment to swallow and close your mouth for a moment, than having a solid object between your teeth for minutes at a time). Essentially, a porn blow job. Which is what all girls start doing (and usually hate doing, for good reason), but quickly learn is not what makes a man happy. Variation, incorporating the hand, licking, teasing, taking the balls in the mouth, kissing the inner thighs, wending the tongue around the head, sucking, and yes, at the end, consistency, briefly, to the finish. But instead of accepting my assertion that he was the anomaly, he told me other men must be lying to me. Right. 

I mean, that’s fucked up. Really fucked up. He has a cockiness, an arrogance about his sexual abilities and his art-making that are borderline nauseating. Pair that with the previously mentioned insecurities, and it’s often difficult to know how to navigate him, because if you compliment something he knows he’s good at, he’ll just smugly say, “I know,” but tell him he’s awesome at something he’s insecure about, and he’ll make you feel like you’re lying to him.

While this is a big thing, it’s also something that can be rewired with the right conversations and patience. He either doesn’t get, or isn’t interested in, the fact that this behavior is incredibly off-putting. And now, even though I don’t think any man has lied to me about my blow-job giving abilities, I feel insecure because I realize it’s now possible I could run into another man like him. I am basically afraid to get physically intimate with anyone at all, for several reasons. 

And so I won’t. Because right now is very firmly about rewiring several things about myself, and understanding why I do them. Therapy, friends, drastically reduced drinking, and avoidance of the more obnoxious, “party lyfe” sector of those I know.

Tonight, I’m having a ladies night. The new Ryan Gosling flick, A Place Beyond The Pines. Then dinner. Then maybe something else. I’ll only have a couple of drinks. I’ll laugh and hug and cheek kiss my ladies.

Even that, in and of itself, is a marked change from a few months ago. I am not constantly on the prowl these days. I don’t look around for the cutest dude in the room. And if I do sniff out the cutest dude in the room, it doesn’t really matter. In Louisville, I spend quality time with my friend’s brother (seriously, friends, stop telling me to date your brothers), who is patently adorable, big of nose, hairy, music-obsessed and smart and kind and interesting (also, a baby of 26, natch, which likely has a lot to do with my physical disinterest. In a recent conversation with a friend, we posited that we’ve gotten to an age where younger men must SMELL different, because there’s an honest aversion to them, no matter how attractive they are). I value his opinion of me, and wish to get to know him better, but I didn’t have anything more than the acknowledgement of his attractiveness as a response. I didn’t flirt, touch him unnecessarily, though I feel sure it would have been well-received. I just enjoyed getting to know a new person, as we sat on the couch together, showing one another YouTube videos (introducing him to my favorite Pulp song, Death II, which he’d never heard, despite being a huge Pulp fan, and following it up with live Pulp footage that convinced me Pulp wouldn’t exist without early Scott Walker, and then showing him the videos for Jackie and Montague Terrace in Blue, which thrilled him because the music is great and he recognized I was right about Pulp) ‘til 4:30 in the morning, and smiling to myself as every couple of minutes, he inched just a little closer to me on the couch. Instead of letting anything happen, I bid him goodnight, and went to bed.

In short, I’ve got work to do. And I’m doing it. As for the dream, Andy is not a part of my life, I don’t wish for him to be, and if we ever meet again, I hope it’ll be nice, and that we’ll hug, and we’ll continue our day, appreciating that we still have affection for one another, but that is all. I once told Andy, in the dregs of our breakup, that I hoped we’d find one another at a sunny 4-way stop at some point in our lives, and we’d nod at one another with respect, and see what happened afterward. I still want exactly that, knowing that to “see what happens” is only to see if we can be friends.

I never had happy reconciliation dreams of Andy after he and I broke up. This is the fifth or more I’ve had about Chris. Some people treat this love as if it’s no different than others I’ve had, now. They tell me I’ll move on, that something else is on the horizon. And maybe it is. During some intense girl talk recently, though, a friend that met Chris said she sniffed out that they have very similar, “artist” temperaments, and, comparing him and me to a relationship she had last year that terrified her and caused her to push back in fear with distance and not a little anger, treating him like he was acting “crazy” and too intense, ending it and subsequently sleeping around for the rest of the summer... Now she’s in a “stable” relationship that isn’t ultimately all that interesting to her, and in the last couple of months, she’s been considering that previous relationship that scared her, realizing how much of a connection she has to him, and that there probably is yet something there to be explored, when they’re both single again. She says maybe I should keep Chris in the back of my head. Move on, as much as I can, but keep the love, if I can. Because, if he’s like her as she suspects, he just needs a great deal of distance from everything that frightens him about me. Namely, that I love him as I do.

That was always the plan. Until it’s not. The world will find something else for me if that’s what’s to be, as it always does.

An Uncomfortable Dream

Saw Danny Boyle’s new film Trance last night. I want to talk about it because it pissed me off, but I suspect anyone reading this likely also wants to see the movie, and literally anything I might have to say about it will spoil some aspect of it. It is a movie that can’t be talked about with anyone who hasn’t seen it. 

In any case, the movie infiltrated my dreams, but mostly through set pieces, in a grand meld of the three main characters’ homes. And also, I suppose, through Vincent Cassel’s seductive vigor. I swear, you can get a nose full of his pheromones from the movie screen. He is, despite being many things I don’t normally find attractive (small mouth, aggressively masculine face, narrow head), probably the most potent symbol of masculine eroticism that I can think of. 

So my dream was set in a large, spacious, heavily tiled, modern home, like the homes in the film. Dark, but inviting. Lots of slate, glass tile, subtle lighting.

It was Andy. We were lying in bed together, fully clothed. He’d slimmed down a bit, lost the borderline too much doughiness of his midsection and accompanying fat deposits in the chest region (that were never actually too much, especially when he’d lay on his side and get furry cleavage. I always found that to be quite a lot of fun to stick my finger in, and we’d laugh) in favor of more toned musculature. I was enjoying feeling his form through simple jersey, he was solid, and warm. We had just reconnected, I was unsure of what I wanted, scared that becoming physical would be too much for me, but he suggested we take a shower together. I went downstairs with him, to the enormous, fully slate tiled bathroom, with two stairs you had to walk up to get into the glass-enclosed shower, which had, tellingly, multiple shower heads. He stripped down, and I admired his ass, but felt too shy to disrobe myself. Feeling frightened, I made an excuse, and nervously talked to him as he showered. I thought about his large, straight, prettily-perfect cock that always got so hard I’d joke that one could crack a tooth on it, just as he made some reference to it, trying to entice me to join him.

And then, by some dream trick, he wasn’t there any more, and I was alone in the room, steam from the shower still lingering. I called out for him, but there was no answer. I opened the still-closed shower door, but he wasn’t there. His clothes were gone, he was gone.

I sat there a while, my heart racing, feeling abandoned. I left the room, and went upstairs. He wasn’t in the bedroom we’d been in before. But the house was quite big, and there were many other rooms to investigate. All of which made me nervous, because I knew there were other women in the house. Perhaps he’d given up already, and didn’t want to give me time to figure out what I wanted. Maybe he’d moved on to another woman. 

All of the women in the house were immediately beautiful, in the right light, and this house was designed to always present that light. Women who worked as strippers, as escorts, as erotic masseuses. That wasn’t his type of woman, I knew, Andy prefers intellectual, academic, music-obsessed, earthily plain-pretty girls that you’d never notice in a crowd. A physically unfettered woman, who wakes in the morning the same as when she went to sleep. While I am quite intelligent, I am not academic, and while I am music-obsessed, it was never the right music, and while I am pretty, my prettiness is altogether too unusual to be his type. 

Conversely, the women in this house were over-sexed sea hags, who wake in the morning groaning like kracken, yawing sharply until coffee, cigarette, and thickly applied makeup were had, but one never knows what might draw a person to another, so I entered each semi-darkened room, afraid.

The women were fucking one another, viciously, animal grunts and growls, processed over-styled hair and too much perfume putting out puffs of product that made me want to sneeze, and by the third room, I’d found only one man in bed with them, a man I didn’t know. They all tried to get me to join them, even after they complained that I’d interrupted them.

Defeated, tired, I went down to a room I knew to be sex-free, a basement rec room, with florescent lighting and tan carpeting, where people were putting together puzzles, playing board games, drinking beer and laughing. It felt like a last resort, and even as I knew it was more likely I’d find Andy in the rec room, I needed to abate my fear by confirming he wasn’t with any of those women.

The room had about a half-dozen men in it and only one girl, who wasn’t one of the terrible women, and all parties were lazing about doing the aforementioned game-playing. There was a big, tan brick fireplace all the way at the back of the room, the kind one finds in crappy suburban homes built in the 90s. My eye was drawn to it, as I stood in the middle of the staircase down into the basement. No one looked at me, and I scanned the room, again looking to the fireplace, which wasn’t lit.

And that’s when I saw him. Not Andy. Chris. Laying on his side, on the floor, just in front of the fireplace, wearing a polyester patterned shirt that was white, with blue and red print, clearly from the 70s. He was idly flipping through a magazine, which, if I’m not mistaken, was an issue of Highlights. Yes, the kids magazine. There were other books strewn about him, and they too seemed child-oriented, as in things from the late 70s, early 80s. Our childhood years. 

I cautiously walked toward him, and when he saw me coming close, a wry smile formed at the corner of his mouth, clearly in spite of himself. “Hi,” I said. He stood up, and remained a few feet from me. I motioned for us to walk outside.

We stood on the grass, which was not yet green, as spring had not yet come, next to a river that was barely more than a creek, but rushing with water. He looked at me, down at me, standing tall, but not imposingly so, and said he thought it was too soon that we were meeting, that we weren’t ready. But he still had that wry smile. Despite himself, he was happy to see me. Just uncomfortable, and confused. My heart was racing, but not with fear, just excitement. Andy wasn’t right. This was right. I recognized that the second I saw Chris. I wanted to kiss him, to touch his skin, but I resisted trying, because I knew he wasn’t ready. “We live in the same house,” I said, “I couldn’t avoid you.”

He acknowledged the fairness of this statement. “But I was looking for Andy, I thought we might be reconnecting, but it didn’t feel right. He lives here too.” Chris’s features darkened, just slightly, with a twinge of jealousy that couldn’t be helped. He made motion to his shoulder, indicating the length of Andy’s hair. “Long, dark, wavy hair?”

“Yeah,” I said, “with kind of a darkness around the eyes, a little sunken, Slavic looking.”

Chris nodded. “That guy.”

“But it’s not right. He’s not what I want.”

And we continued to stand there, awkwardly, uncomfortably, but understanding it was better than anything else.

Sweet Dreams

I haven't dreamed about Chris in a while. A couple of weeks, at least. Last night, my brain blessed me with three. I say blessed because each one was really, really nice. After I woke, I laid in bed for another half an hour in a liminal state, relishing warm sensations that happily stayed with me in waking and didn't dissolve into sadness that it was a reality that cannot and very likely will not ever again be attained.

The first was an easy 50/50 combination of an ad in a magazine that I saw yesterday, a couple, sitting on the edge of a sailboat or other sailing vessel, her in a stark white bikini, him sitting behind her, holding her tightly against him, plus one of my favorite Chris memories, which was the last time I was at his place in early January. I was reorganizing my suitcase, sitting on the floor in his bedroom, when a wave of sad came over me and I poutily said something to him (he was in the living room) about how I just felt like crying. He stopped whatever he was doing and basically came rushing in to wrap his long limbs around me (we are the man and woman version of the same body; long arms, long legs, short torso) from behind, sitting on the floor with me, and he just squeezed me, his arms wrapped around my stomach and chest, and I wept a little, and then started laughing, and then kissed him, and thanked him. I remember even in that moment, I thanked him for being him, that that was the kind of thing he would do, and that I loved him for it. Had he not been so sweet to do so, it's likely the sadness would have lingered for an hour or two. He was always good at diffusing those feelings.

So in the dream, I was wearing white cotton panties and a white bra, nothing else, and he squeezed me like that from behind. It was a reunion moment, and as he wistfully laughed into my ear and my body tingled at his touch, he said, "I missed about 70% of you." I thought that seemed a fair enough amount to miss.

The next dream found us in college, and I received a phone call from the Dr. Seuss Foundation (yes, my brain made up a foundation that carries out the continuing publication of children's stories in a similar vein as Seuss) asking me if I had any completed work or ideas that would fit into their publishing schematic, as they'd seen some of my other work (?) and thought I'd be good in their company. I hung up the phone (a landline, like I seriously was in college), and came slinking into the dorm room (which I apparently lived in alone, as there was a single queen sized bed in there, with a man in it). I leapt on top of the half-sleeping man (the sheets, the comforter, were all notably white, as my bra and panties had been white, and the room was full of sunshine), and told him what had happened through the comforter that was draped over his face. I mentioned the book I'd always wanted to write, based on the first story I ever wrote at the age of four, called Robbie the Hummingbird (true story, and Chris and I had talked about working on this together), and I snuzzled into his ear, through his long hair (it wasn't exactly *Chris* in the dream, he was somewhere between Chris and Andy), and said, "But I'll need an artist to do the book with me. And where, would I find someone like that? I don't know any artists!" and we both giggled and pulled back the covers and started kissing. I remember thinking that something was off, that I didn't know this man in my bed, that his features weren't quite right, that he didn't seem connected to me, nor I to him. And then the hair shortened, the nose became smaller, and it was Chris. We attacked one another with love freshly renewed, and my lord, it was the sweetest, most sensual kissing and touching (but not exactly sexual). It was the sort of making out where you somehow feel clean afterward and almost feel you might never need to bathe again.

The third dream, a lady I've met recently who must vaguely remind me of one of Chris's exes (the only one I actually have met, who is a friend of Lindsay's), was courting Chris. I found a notebook with her musings on this (again, notable whiteness in the paper), and I was a bit hurt. This dream is fuzzy at that point. I know I confronted her, and she apologized and said she didn't know how much I cared for Chris. There wasn't much resolution other than that.

Still, I woke up refreshed, and that liminal half hour was like a milk bath. Would that there was a goddamned thing I could do to facilitate any of that feeling between us again...

Science vs. Romance

Part of the constant frustration of being me is that, when given enough information to go on, I can easily argue, and believe, both sides of any story or situation, even in the context of my own relationships. Oftentimes, the biggest part of the "fight" is that the other party isn't actually telling me how they feel and why, they're blocking me out, they're resisting communication, they're projecting anger or resentment instead of efficiently addressing the issue. Then, when the true, bare bones of the scenario are revealed, most of the time, that's the end of things, and it's usually met with some frustration by me since what has sometimes been weeks of misunderstandings could have been avoided entirely by just saying what you mean to begin with. I can be shockingly logical when it's clear that someone isn't just spitting evasive emotion at me. I do not have a prevaricating nature, and my hackles cannot be more quickly raised than by having to deal with it in others. I understand that sometimes, it's a process, and the other party honestly doesn't know how they feel or why and can't articulate things, but there's still the projection dance that's really hard to not react super emotionally to, which always exacerbates things. And I'm sure, from time to time, I do the same thing without realizing it. Unfortunately.

There's also the split of science vs. well, not science.

I can think about palm reading and know that there's no way looking at the lines on my hand mean diddly squat. And yet, the two times I've had my palm read, things were said to me that rang so true, I'm still nearly daily pondering them, years and years later.

And what of ghosts? Logic says there's no evidence of any soul or spirit that powers the body other than the simple (not simple) mechanics of a living thing. And yet, I've experienced visits from dead family members, seen things that shouldn't be there, had things go missing only to be found in conspicuous places months later, etc. I can reason that there is a "rational" explanation for all of this, but my heart also tells me to believe in ghosts is rational.

Or astrology, which has been painfully accurate to my life thus far. Or, well, a dozen other things. I feel like a hypocrite, but I don't think that's the word for it. Is there a label that can be applied here? I've always been at a loss to find one.

Andy Reflections

Earlier this week, I looked at old emails from Andy, after he'd broken up with me about two months into our relationship. The circumstances were different, he was conflicted between me and his ex of five years who wanted him back. He loved me, admitted it freely, and was florid about how he knew he was ruining a beautiful thing with he and I. But, he also stated, in very plain terms, that he was done with us. That he didn't want a relationship. Not with me, not with anyone, that he wanted time to figure himself out and become more stable.

This sent me into a tailspin, but, after I'd reached an operatic head (far, far more melodramatic and anxiety fueled than anything with Chris has been in this post-breakup scenario), and he asked me to stop talking to him, I did that, and I calmed down, found a parcel of peace on my own, and tried to make amends with the fact that it seemed he and I were not going to work out.

About three weeks later, we were back together. I look back on those emails, and on the blog posts I wrote here while this was happening, and there are more parallels than differences. I was just as convinced then as I am now that things won't work out in favor of a reunion with Chris. Perhaps even moreso, as there wasn't 1,729 miles between Andy and I. There was only a quick drive down 35W from NE Minneapolis to get to my home, where we talked, reconciled, made love, and he took me to Tuesdays with Toneski at the 501.

In the reconciliation, things were never easy with Andy. He was always uncertain about me, about us, about whether he wanted to be in a relationship at all. So the next nine and a half months with him were  consistently in turmoil. It was a lot of him trying to break up with me, me letting him go a little, him coming over to play Scrabble, us making love, reforging our bonds, and repeating the process over and over. It was a constant game of "Go Away, Come Here." It was never stable, it was rarely in a state of contentment. I was always trying to shoehorn functionality into something that wasn't ever going to find its stride.

Ironically, our most stable period was the two months right before we broke up. We were as happy as we'd been in the first couple months of our relationship, but our sex life was flagging. I know myself well enough to know that when I lose interest sexually, there is something very wrong in the relationship that I just haven't figured out yet. It took me about three weeks to realize what I had probably known, somewhere, all along. Andy never loved me as much as I loved him, and he never would. This would never end up being marriage, kids. He was about to apply to colleges to start a graduate program in poetry(!), and I knew I didn't want to be with him for that journey, and he didn't want me there. This was an obstacle we couldn't work our way around.

So, on the one year anniversary of our first date, September 6th, 2010, we had a planned breakup. We went to a Twins game, held hands, snuggled, went to dinner at a nice restaurant, shared a bottle of wine, had sparkling conversation and love and intimacy, and then I drove him home, we went to his room, talked for a bit, kissed, cried, and I left.

Looking back on the whole of our relationship, I see something I don't think I'd fight for, now. Looking at Chris and I, it's different, because he and I were much happier, and much more functional in our three months than Andy and I ever were. Andy was a good boyfriend, and I was a good girlfriend to him, but as great as my love was for him, I don't look back on it with any wistfulness. Chris and I connected in a way I hadn't ever known, and continued to, even in the worst of it, when I knew he was going to end things.

Yet, is that something that can be repaired? I feel very ill at ease with shoehorning anything with him. I don't want to fight against any current on a consistent basis. I want a relationship that works because the person I'm with is as in it with me as I am with them. And, the fact is, he gave up on us. The fact is, no matter what issues he had with me, with us, that led him to believe it wasn't something he wanted to work for, the fact is, he's the sort of person that gives up instead of solving the problem. I am not that kind of person. I thought our love was worth it. I still do. He was my partner in crime, truly, and it felt amazing, and I won't settle for anything less than that.

1,729 miles will prevent any hope of that. He won't decide this is a good idea, even if he wakes up one day and is filled, again, with love for me. The distance will always be enough of a problem for him that he will believe it can't work. And if that's what he believes, then it can't work. I was not at my best trying to hustle money to see him, or to pay partially to get him here. That was $1,000 a month just to travel to Portland or get him here. I was at my best while with him, in his arms, looking at him, realizing what was important and how much I loved him, but the distance makes it so those moments become foggy fast. Even with only three weeks between visits.

I am ambivalent. I want the love to fade, so I can move on. I also want him to call me and tell me, "What the hell. Let's see if this can't fly. Mind if I move in with you?"