re: the muppets (part thirteen)
Here's the next -- and last -- installment of my lengthy tome. Please click here for Parts One through Twelve.
I wish I could say that when I returned home from Columbia, things stayed on the high road. I wish I could say that I learned my lessons and applied them and that strength and grace were the prevailing themes of the post-break-up version of us. But I can't.
I came back weary, wounded and tired. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. She was part of my existence day in and day out for almost three years. It was hard to have that stripped. She became my habit, as addictive to me as smoking is to some. But in the first few days after I got home, I had reached my saturation point with her. I was tired of being angry and hurt and I didn't want to deal with it anymore. I was sick of feeling that way. I wanted to clear the toxins from my system so I plotted a step-down course to wean me off of her. I planned to slowly phase her out, cut my losses and just get on with my life. Somehow.
Early in our friendship, I created a hidden AOL account that only she knew about. I signed on under that screenname so that we could send instant messages back and forth free from the distraction of others on my buddy list. She loved that I gave her that special access. And she loved that I named the account for an inside joke between us.
After I got back, she continued to send email to that account. Because I didn't want to torture myself with memories and because I wanted to send a clear message that her VIP access had been downgraded, I tersely replied to one of her emails:
I didn't think she could destroy me any more than she did with that initial break-up letter she sent but every word from Rice's mouth was a body blow. My anger that night was white hot. I wanted nothing more than to pound on her and return the pain she had caused me. But instead, I sucked it up and hauled my aching carcass back into her room convinced that I had made the biggest mistake in my life, that the whole fairytale romance was just that -- a fairytale. I told myself over and over that I had been fucked over by a little girl who didn't know her ass from her elbow. I HATED swallowing that explanation but it was the only way I could make it through the remaining days in Missouri.
I thought that I'd confront her about it eventually but I found that the explanation sustained me beyond Columbia, beyond two days on a train, beyond a testy explanation to my family why I was home so quickly, beyond unpacking, beyond removing the dozens of pictures of her and us I had on display, beyond describing the details of the trip to my friends. I felt a bit resilient. I wasn't crying. I felt focused. My anger and hurt metabolized into strength and determination. The explanation empowered me.
Until I read that email.
She prattled on about how much she loved me and how hard it was to be so close without being able to touch me; how this was all just as hard on her; how much she sacrificed; and once again how I knew her better than anyone, better than she knew herself.
Everything she said contradicted what Rice told me. I weighed Rice's words against my ex-girlfriend's. And I believed Rice.
I thought about how Lowercase Fucking Ed's picture was on her night stand right next mine -- the first photo of me I had sent her. What exactly was she sacrificing? It was like she put my heart on an altar and performed a Satanic ritual on it. That was the only sacrifice I could recall. She was not to be pitied in this regard.
I thought about how she treated me with such disdain since sending that letter. I was replaced. My presence tired her, my touch, with the exception of one moment of weakness on her part, had no effect. Her treatment of me was the polar opposite of everything she had just described in that email. Apparently, treating me like shit was all part of her charade but since I knew her "better than anyone," I was supposed to understand. I didn't understand and I certainly wasn't going to sign off on it.
I didn't write back right away because my response would have been simply:
A few days later I went on a road trip with Best Friend Since Kindergarten and her husband and told them about that email.
To this day I question if I did the right thing. I sometimes don't know the difference between standing up for myself and being spiteful. When is it okay to let go of something as opposed to duking it out? What's the difference between walking away with wisdom gained and simply wussing out? At the time, I didn't know so I opted to sock it to her.
She and I went several rounds. And nothing good came of it. We pummeled each other to point of mutual hatred. Eventually we decided to go our separate ways. Friendship was no longer even on the table.
As promised, Rice confronted her with the information she gathered during our conversation. And, like me, Rice recognized that it was confusion and fear made that girl do the unthinkable. I spoke to Rice via email for several months after that trip. We occasionally email each other but the tie that binds me to Rice and Breezy eventually strangled my will to pursue a deeper friendship with them.
Months went by and the temptation to contact her was almost gone. But the sadness wasn't. I invested all of my happiness in this person. I viewed that relationship as a reward for my years of unhappiness. All those years spent propping up the wall at some awful Jersey bar were wiped clean because of the extreme happiness I found in this one person. But when she was gone, I fell to an all-time low.
Altering my route home wasn't an option. Avoiding certain bars or restaurants wasn't an easy way to avoid her. She was in my head. That's how our relationship started. All I ever had to do was close my eyes to find her. Back then she warmed me, and now she haunted me. I saw her in everything, everywhere. What used to be gift became a menacing curse. The sadness that I credited her with chasing away was back and with a vengeance. And it was suffocating me.
I was listless, lethargic and apathetic. I had landed a great job and shortly after starting, I was reprimanded by my manager for being distracted. Normally, that would not sit well with my overly- conscientious work ethic but I did not care.
I continued to eat nothing and wasted away to a size six. I looked awful. My drinking increased exponentially. One night, I drove home from a bar while intoxicated. Not buzzed, not tipsy. Full-on drunk. When I got home, my hands were shaking. I could not believe what I had just done. It was one thing to hate my own life so much but to endanger others was unforgivable.
I've never been so disgusted and ashamed of myself. I looked at my gaunt face with the drunk, red eyes in the mirror and knew that I had to make some major changes.
As the recommendation of a friend, I consulted the Gay Yellow Pages for a list of gay-friendly psychologists. I cross-referenced those names with the roster provided by my insurance company and luckily, there was a match. I called and left a message. My voice cracked and shook but I did it -- I asked for help. A psychologist called me back within ten minutes. She had a soft voice and a lovely English accent. Her name was Karen and her office was on the Upper East Side. We set up an appointment for the following Saturday.
I schlepped in and out of Manhattan every Saturday for several months. And each week I sat there for 50 minutes and cried. And not just about her. I found myself talking about my self-image, my lack of confidence in myself, my astonishingly low self-esteem, lost friendships, my inability to open up to people, etc.
In essence, I listed all the problems that existed before she came into my life and bandaged me up. She made me feel beautiful, confident and proud of myself. I opened up to her in ways that I never thought possible. But I couldn't hold onto any of that after she left me. It was like I was riding a bike for the first time without training wheels and she let go too soon. And I fell down. Hard.
But my doctor helped me see that she was the symptom, not the cause of my issues. And she also helped me see that I wasn't naturally a bad-tempered, mercurial sour puss. It was partly biological. She put me in touch with a psychiatrist and I was diagnosed with a mild case of major depression. It turns out, I was the ideal candidate for anti-depressants. After several dose changes, I hit my stride with 15mg of Paxil and that's where I remain today. I tried to taper but it didn't agree with me so I'm once again doped up and Tom Cruise and his ilk can suck my weiner. Yay, happy pills!
My life was changing. My mood was better. I pulled my shit together at work and was promoted quickly and often in that job. I began tutoring twice a week at a great organization serving disadvantaged children in the Yorkville and East Harlem neighborhoods of Manhattan. And I finally made the move across the river and found myself a roommate and an apartment on the Upper East Side. I dated a bit, made some new friends and continued to heal.
But I still missed her. No matter what had happened, she was once a remarkable friend and I missed that. I hemmed and hawed and debated whether I should just leave well enough alone but I gave in and wrote her a letter, about a year after we had seen each other last.
I filled her in on my life. I gave her a progress report on me. It felt good to write it. I had no intention behind it other than mending a friendship that I helped destroy. I still loved her and sometimes dreamt of reconciliation but I knew it was futile... and I was okay with it.
In less than week, I received a response. I gasped in the hallway of my apartment building when I saw her handwriting on the envelope. It was odd to see her unruly cursive styling applied to my new address. I was uncertain if she'd ever know about my new life, much less take part in it. And here was her acknowledgement.
It was a great letter. She said everything I needed her to say. She apologized profusely for her actions. Not surprisingly, Lowercase Ed dicked her around and she got a taste of her own medicine. The situations were different but she understood better than ever my hurt, my disappointment and my frustration with her.
Her words were sincere, mature and at long last, she took responsibility for what she did. And she thanked me for my forgiveness and my willingness to give friendship with her another chance, even though she didn't deserve it.
She filled me in on her activities, her family and her future plans. As it turned out, she was moving to New York. She had tentative plans to crash with a friend of a friend in Astoria, Queens. We decided that a dinner was in order after she got settled.
We exchanged a few emails before she arrived. They were very friendly in tone but somewhat emotionally distant. We were starting over, getting to know each other as just friends. Neither of us was sure it would work but we agreed that navigating the uncertain course of our new friendship couldn't be any harder than not talking was.
Her Astoria connection fell through so with some hesitation, I offered a spot on my couch, which she accepted. My friends yelled at me and others wagged their fingers and issued warnings. But it was something I had to do. It was something I wanted to do. That girl killed me, hurt me in ways that I couldn't comprehend but I got through it. I bounced back in a big way. If I was going to get her out of my system, I had to stop mystifying her. Being apart sort of glossed over her bad parts and made her more attractive. She was like soda. My mother forbid soda except on special occasions or on Fridays when we ate pizza. Naturally, when I had the chance to drink it at a friend's house, I went nuts on it. But when I had the money to buy my own soda, I eventually grew tired of it. I rarely drink it now because I think it's too sugary and sweet. No better way to remove the novelty of something than to engorge and make yourself sick of it.
I picked her up at LaGuardia. I was nervous while waiting for all of the passengers to file off the plane. When I saw her, it wasn't dramatic. I wasn't shaking. We hugged but there was no crackle or spark. I didn't want to bury my face into her neck and nuzzle her like I used to. I didn't throw my arms around her waist and pull her in. I gave her an around-the-top-of-the-shoulder embrace -- the same one I give plain old friends.
I was still sensitive to her presence but no longer enamored of her. I passed the first portion of my self-exam. She was on her way to becoming Pepsi.
She slept on my couch for a week. Despite the predictions of many, we didn't even kiss. We went out for dinner, saw a Broadway show, went shopping but not once did we fight or fool around. Eventually I hooked her up with a roommate in Brooklyn. As I helped her carry her boxes up to the fifth floor in her Prospect Heights walk-up, she turned to me and said:
She came to New Jersey with me one weekend where she met my niece for the first time. Back when we were together, she was so excited when that baby was born. She couldn't wait to see her and hold her and spoil her right alongside me.
We arrived at my mother's house and the one-year-old was sitting on the floor of the family room playing with her toys.
She knelt down to make my nice with my niece. Normally, my niece was all smiles and very receptive to new playmates. She took one look at my ex, scowled and then angrily flung a toy in her direction. The kid was pissed off.
My ex jumped back. I gasped in horror and chastised my niece.
It seemed like this friendship thing was working out but eventually, old tensions started to show. We flirted and bickered equally. It was like we were a couple except for the whole sex and affection thing. We were constantly sniping at and driving each other nuts so several months after she arrived, we decided to stop hanging out. I started to feel used. She didn't like that I was so guarded around her. So we decided to take a break from each other. And I did not cry. I was pissed but I wasn't upset.
During our time apart, Breezy moved to NYC and contacted me. As did Rice. It was inevitable that the connection to her was once again established. We made a go at friendship... again. But my approach and outlook were much different this time around.
I had recently started dating The Masseuse around that time. She's a gorgeous woman and a beautiful soul. I was enjoying my new relationship and was no longer focused on my ex as a romantic possibility. I was no longer cautious and walking on eggshells around her. I acted like myself. She, however, could not get her act together. Her treatment of me wasn't outwardly rude. It was just weird. It was like she didn't get me anymore. She couldn't quite make up her mind if she wanted to be silly or serious in my presence.
Breezy came to my friend's birthday party down near the Jersey Shore one weekend. She met me in Brooklyn where I had just signed the lease on my Tiny Wee Studio and then we headed to Penn Station to catch a NJ Transit train.
Breezy's phone rang while we were on the train. It was her. I couldn't hear the whole conversation but based on Breezy's expression and responses, I could tell that she was not happy that Breezy was meeting close friends of mine that she'd never met herself. And she was annoyed that not only hadn't told her I was moving to Brooklyn but also because Breezy saw my new apartment before she did.
She wasn't usually petty like that but the larger meaning -- that she was no longer in the loop -- really bugged her. That was a pivotal moment. A switch had been flipped. After that phone call, she made a concerted effort to get close to me again. She hated that Breezy knew details. She went on a mission to insert herself back in my life. At times, she acted very girlfriend-like.
She invited herself and Breezy over the night I officially moved into my apartment. The Masseuse already had plans to come over, which was fine because The Masseuse knew about her. Lesbians do that, you know -- discuss exes at great and detailed length -- so I wasn't springing anything on The Masseuse. I mean, I didn't give her this version of the ordeal but the lesbians are quite hard-hitting with the questions about ex-girlfriends. She got the scoop early on. Every time I meet someone, I marinate myself in preparation for the inevitable grilling.
My ex, however, hadn't earned back the right to know my personal information so I hadn't discussed The Masseuse with her. Plus, I wasn't sure that was a can of worms I wanted to open. If I told her about my love life, she might reciprocate. As much progress as I had made, I wasn't sure I could handle the idea of her being with someone else. I knew it was silly to think she'd stay single forever but I wanted to spare myself the specifics if I could.
The Masseuse came over earlier in the day to help me get settled. Later, the ex called. She and Breezy had just gotten off the subway and ducked into a pizzeria to bring over dinner.
Breezy took me aside.
The rest of the night, she could barely look at us. I didn't know if she was jealous or if I was imagining it. I decided I couldn't and didn't want to concern myself with it.
When I got to work on Monday morning, there was an email from her. Apparently, she sent it the minute she got home that night. My home computer wasn't hooked up yet so I inadvertently made her stew for a few days before getting a reply.
When she came back to NY, she asked if she could stay with me the first night because her room was still being sublet and there wasn't room at Breezy's place. I informed Breezy of this and she looked alarmed.
I let her sleep in my bed but nothing happened. I think if I tried, I would have been successful but I was timid and fearful of getting hurt. I was like Bobby Brady scared to climb up the tree house after taking a nasty spill and spraining his ankle. I was still in love with her but simultaneously very aware of the harm and pain she'd caused me before. I had good reason to be extremely cautious and tentative around her.
And that marked the rest of our friendship. I didn't fully trust her -- or myself -- so I held back. She was impatient with my reserve and needled me for it. I was disdainful of her ignorance of certain things -- politics, world events, etc. I loved her youthful exuberance but I no longer glossed over her immaturity. The blinders were off. It seemed that we didn't like each other all that much anymore. But we still loved each other which was frustrating and confusing.
Once again, we let the friendship fade. I tried a couple of times to resuscitate it to no avail. A good year went by without so much as a phone call or email between us. In August 2003, Breezy told me the ex was moving back to Oklahoma. For some reason, it hit me hard. When we were together, we dreamed of living together in New York. It was so painful when we were separated by all those big states in between us. And now she was a few stops away from me on the F train and we just couldn't get it together.
I made one last attempt. It was foolish and misguided but I had a speck of hope. I wanted a happy ending. I wanted to do the over-the-top cinematic gesture to win her back. I poured my heart out. I asked her to move in with me. I wanted her to love New York. I wanted her to feel at home. I relented and said I'd let the dogs sleep in the bed. In that email, I took a gamble with all the progress I'd made. I bet the house.
She wrote me back, to date, the last email I've received from her.
I don't know if we'll ever speak again. If we do, it won't be because I initiated contact. I can't. But I know she thinks about me too. I'm not sure in what capacity, but I can definitely feel her. At certain times, she weighs heavily in my mind. When that happens, I'm either told that she was asking about me or I catch her Googling my name.
And it happened recently. I had just finished writing Part 8 of this series and I was feeling really sad. I took a break from writing and reading the reactions to the post. She was dancing around in my head. I needed to get away from her and the story so I logged into Friendster... and her face was staring at me. She had just viewed my profile. I gasped and had a wee freak-out.
That was the second time in the past few months that I caught her checking up on me. And both times it was always right after I did some mental digging into our past. The last time she checked up on me, I had just finished writing this post. She doesn't know about this blog. But she seems to know when I mine our memories for inspiration. It scares and reassures me simultaneously. That's the best way to explain it, I guess.
I didn't click back though. Next to the thumbnail photo of her, it said "In a Relationship." Why torture myself further? She was a painkiller for me. I'm an addict as far as she's concerned. I'm sober now but never far from a relapse. I've thought about her, cried over her and dreamed about being with her over the past three years... but I haven't crumbled. I won't call her. I won't write. I can't. One click would mean staring at photos of her, figuring out who among her friends is her boyfriend, reading their glowing testimonials back and forth. I know fine well that's she moved on, I don't need to see it illustrated with cascading style sheets, hyperlinks and Google AdWords. Those three words -- In a Relationship -- are enough.
There are times, like today, when I'm completely fine with it. I have fully wrapped my brain around the concept that we had a time of it. We lived in a dream. But she woke up first and realized that while the dream was nice, she had to deal with her waking life.
It used to upset me that in some way I was something she broke free of. Like I had her in some suffocating grip. And Lowercase Ed or any other future boyfriend was a new, refreshing outlook. I was addicted to her excitement for me. I was addicted to my excitement for her. It is so rare that I meet someone who stops me dead in my tracks. Sometimes when I look back, I'm not exactly sure what it was about her that drew in. Falling in love accidentally blinds you to so many things. I'm notoriously fussy with my partners. I don't have a real rigid checklist but I have do have a firm idea about what I want. I'm always open to the opportunity that someone can come along and surprise me. But that's what she did, I guess.
My mother still asks about her. The inquiries are less frequent but every now and then, my mother will sneak one in. I used to get a bit agitated but the years have softened my temper on the subject. I used to lie and pretend that everything was fine between us. I quickly and curtly said, "She's fine!" when my family asked. I'd explain away her absence by saying that I was bad about keeping in touch. I took the blame for it. Even after everything she put me through, I didn't want my family, especially my mother, to think less of her. She loved that special little girl from Oklahoma. I lost control of everything else but the one last vestige of that relationship that I could preserve as a keepsake was the impression she made on my family. Their response to her served as an emotional snapshot of that time in my life. And I continue to cherish it.
So now, here I am -- wounded but not crippled; wizened but not hardened; realistic but not hopeless; experienced but still innocent in many ways. Most of the time. I have the occasional slip-up but bouncing back is a bit easier now because I've discovered that happiness doesn't come in one lump sum. I look for -- and find it -- in increments now.
Writing this often caused me to wince but sometimes it caused me to well up with pride. I went through something pretty shitty but I sallied forth and changed the course of my life. And I learned along the way that many of you did the same. When I started writing this, I wasn't entirely sure why I was doing it or if it was even healthy for me to relive this experience. But here I am at the end and I've never felt better. And judging by your comments and emails, my story articulates some of your own untold tales of courage and strength. Connection is my reason and my reward for doing this.
Thank you all for reading and responding like you did. I appreciate your feedback... and your patience. As you can imagine, the last ones weren't nearly as easy to write as the beginning entries. But I really dragged my feet with the last bunch so I thank you for sticking around. I've started other things on this blog and have never finished them, but you guys held my feet to the flames and didn't let me abandon what I'd started. I'm really grateful. So, thank you.
-- Part One
-- Part Two
-- Part Three
-- Part Four
-- Part Five
-- Part Six
-- Part Seven
-- Part Eight
-- Part Nine
-- Part Ten
-- Part Eleven
-- Part Twelve
~ Part Thirteen~
I wish I could say that when I returned home from Columbia, things stayed on the high road. I wish I could say that I learned my lessons and applied them and that strength and grace were the prevailing themes of the post-break-up version of us. But I can't.
I came back weary, wounded and tired. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. She was part of my existence day in and day out for almost three years. It was hard to have that stripped. She became my habit, as addictive to me as smoking is to some. But in the first few days after I got home, I had reached my saturation point with her. I was tired of being angry and hurt and I didn't want to deal with it anymore. I was sick of feeling that way. I wanted to clear the toxins from my system so I plotted a step-down course to wean me off of her. I planned to slowly phase her out, cut my losses and just get on with my life. Somehow.
Early in our friendship, I created a hidden AOL account that only she knew about. I signed on under that screenname so that we could send instant messages back and forth free from the distraction of others on my buddy list. She loved that I gave her that special access. And she loved that I named the account for an inside joke between us.
After I got back, she continued to send email to that account. Because I didn't want to torture myself with memories and because I wanted to send a clear message that her VIP access had been downgraded, I tersely replied to one of her emails:
Subject: Re: Well?It's not what I really wanted but it's what I felt I had to do. Her reply:
Hey, from now on can you send email to my main account? I'm going to get rid of this one. I hope you understand.
Thanks,
Curly
Subject: Hmph!I don't recall her exact wording but she wrote several more paragraphs in that email. By the time I finished reading, I was incensed. She couldn't just leave well enough alone. I had reached some semblance of calm about the whole thing and she just opened it up again with declarations of love for me and how she was repressing her true feelings.
It makes me sad but I understand. I guess I can't have you to myself in our little hideaway anymore...
I didn't think she could destroy me any more than she did with that initial break-up letter she sent but every word from Rice's mouth was a body blow. My anger that night was white hot. I wanted nothing more than to pound on her and return the pain she had caused me. But instead, I sucked it up and hauled my aching carcass back into her room convinced that I had made the biggest mistake in my life, that the whole fairytale romance was just that -- a fairytale. I told myself over and over that I had been fucked over by a little girl who didn't know her ass from her elbow. I HATED swallowing that explanation but it was the only way I could make it through the remaining days in Missouri.
I thought that I'd confront her about it eventually but I found that the explanation sustained me beyond Columbia, beyond two days on a train, beyond a testy explanation to my family why I was home so quickly, beyond unpacking, beyond removing the dozens of pictures of her and us I had on display, beyond describing the details of the trip to my friends. I felt a bit resilient. I wasn't crying. I felt focused. My anger and hurt metabolized into strength and determination. The explanation empowered me.
Until I read that email.
She prattled on about how much she loved me and how hard it was to be so close without being able to touch me; how this was all just as hard on her; how much she sacrificed; and once again how I knew her better than anyone, better than she knew herself.
Everything she said contradicted what Rice told me. I weighed Rice's words against my ex-girlfriend's. And I believed Rice.
I thought about how Lowercase Fucking Ed's picture was on her night stand right next mine -- the first photo of me I had sent her. What exactly was she sacrificing? It was like she put my heart on an altar and performed a Satanic ritual on it. That was the only sacrifice I could recall. She was not to be pitied in this regard.
I thought about how she treated me with such disdain since sending that letter. I was replaced. My presence tired her, my touch, with the exception of one moment of weakness on her part, had no effect. Her treatment of me was the polar opposite of everything she had just described in that email. Apparently, treating me like shit was all part of her charade but since I knew her "better than anyone," I was supposed to understand. I didn't understand and I certainly wasn't going to sign off on it.
I didn't write back right away because my response would have been simply:
Subject: Re: Hmph!Despite my rage, I had the presence of mind to know that I would quickly regret sending such an email. So I slept on it. Several days.
You're certifiably insane. Get help. And then go fuck yourself.
A few days later I went on a road trip with Best Friend Since Kindergarten and her husband and told them about that email.
"Okay, that girl needs to just shut the fuck up," seethed BFSK.And that she did. I didn't know I was capable of such vitriol, especially towards her. But I unloaded big time. Her ass was officially kicked. I don't say that with any sense of pride or accomplishment. I can't say that I felt better afterwards. I had to say my piece but it wasn't necessarily a cathartic experience. Tearing down a person I loved more than life itself wasn't nearly as therapeutic as I had imagined it to be. I caused her to gasp and cry and pound her fists much in the same way she did to me on that summer day.
"Agreed."
"You're not going to let her get away with that, right?"
"I don't know. Part of me wants to just chalk it up to her being insane. But the rest of me wants to just whale on her."
"You have to let her know. You need to call her on her bullshit," BFSK's husband offered.
"Yeah, she needs to get an earful."
"Damn straight."
To this day I question if I did the right thing. I sometimes don't know the difference between standing up for myself and being spiteful. When is it okay to let go of something as opposed to duking it out? What's the difference between walking away with wisdom gained and simply wussing out? At the time, I didn't know so I opted to sock it to her.
She and I went several rounds. And nothing good came of it. We pummeled each other to point of mutual hatred. Eventually we decided to go our separate ways. Friendship was no longer even on the table.
As promised, Rice confronted her with the information she gathered during our conversation. And, like me, Rice recognized that it was confusion and fear made that girl do the unthinkable. I spoke to Rice via email for several months after that trip. We occasionally email each other but the tie that binds me to Rice and Breezy eventually strangled my will to pursue a deeper friendship with them.
Months went by and the temptation to contact her was almost gone. But the sadness wasn't. I invested all of my happiness in this person. I viewed that relationship as a reward for my years of unhappiness. All those years spent propping up the wall at some awful Jersey bar were wiped clean because of the extreme happiness I found in this one person. But when she was gone, I fell to an all-time low.
Altering my route home wasn't an option. Avoiding certain bars or restaurants wasn't an easy way to avoid her. She was in my head. That's how our relationship started. All I ever had to do was close my eyes to find her. Back then she warmed me, and now she haunted me. I saw her in everything, everywhere. What used to be gift became a menacing curse. The sadness that I credited her with chasing away was back and with a vengeance. And it was suffocating me.
I was listless, lethargic and apathetic. I had landed a great job and shortly after starting, I was reprimanded by my manager for being distracted. Normally, that would not sit well with my overly- conscientious work ethic but I did not care.
I continued to eat nothing and wasted away to a size six. I looked awful. My drinking increased exponentially. One night, I drove home from a bar while intoxicated. Not buzzed, not tipsy. Full-on drunk. When I got home, my hands were shaking. I could not believe what I had just done. It was one thing to hate my own life so much but to endanger others was unforgivable.
I've never been so disgusted and ashamed of myself. I looked at my gaunt face with the drunk, red eyes in the mirror and knew that I had to make some major changes.
As the recommendation of a friend, I consulted the Gay Yellow Pages for a list of gay-friendly psychologists. I cross-referenced those names with the roster provided by my insurance company and luckily, there was a match. I called and left a message. My voice cracked and shook but I did it -- I asked for help. A psychologist called me back within ten minutes. She had a soft voice and a lovely English accent. Her name was Karen and her office was on the Upper East Side. We set up an appointment for the following Saturday.
I schlepped in and out of Manhattan every Saturday for several months. And each week I sat there for 50 minutes and cried. And not just about her. I found myself talking about my self-image, my lack of confidence in myself, my astonishingly low self-esteem, lost friendships, my inability to open up to people, etc.
In essence, I listed all the problems that existed before she came into my life and bandaged me up. She made me feel beautiful, confident and proud of myself. I opened up to her in ways that I never thought possible. But I couldn't hold onto any of that after she left me. It was like I was riding a bike for the first time without training wheels and she let go too soon. And I fell down. Hard.
But my doctor helped me see that she was the symptom, not the cause of my issues. And she also helped me see that I wasn't naturally a bad-tempered, mercurial sour puss. It was partly biological. She put me in touch with a psychiatrist and I was diagnosed with a mild case of major depression. It turns out, I was the ideal candidate for anti-depressants. After several dose changes, I hit my stride with 15mg of Paxil and that's where I remain today. I tried to taper but it didn't agree with me so I'm once again doped up and Tom Cruise and his ilk can suck my weiner. Yay, happy pills!
My life was changing. My mood was better. I pulled my shit together at work and was promoted quickly and often in that job. I began tutoring twice a week at a great organization serving disadvantaged children in the Yorkville and East Harlem neighborhoods of Manhattan. And I finally made the move across the river and found myself a roommate and an apartment on the Upper East Side. I dated a bit, made some new friends and continued to heal.
But I still missed her. No matter what had happened, she was once a remarkable friend and I missed that. I hemmed and hawed and debated whether I should just leave well enough alone but I gave in and wrote her a letter, about a year after we had seen each other last.
I filled her in on my life. I gave her a progress report on me. It felt good to write it. I had no intention behind it other than mending a friendship that I helped destroy. I still loved her and sometimes dreamt of reconciliation but I knew it was futile... and I was okay with it.
In less than week, I received a response. I gasped in the hallway of my apartment building when I saw her handwriting on the envelope. It was odd to see her unruly cursive styling applied to my new address. I was uncertain if she'd ever know about my new life, much less take part in it. And here was her acknowledgement.
It was a great letter. She said everything I needed her to say. She apologized profusely for her actions. Not surprisingly, Lowercase Ed dicked her around and she got a taste of her own medicine. The situations were different but she understood better than ever my hurt, my disappointment and my frustration with her.
Her words were sincere, mature and at long last, she took responsibility for what she did. And she thanked me for my forgiveness and my willingness to give friendship with her another chance, even though she didn't deserve it.
She filled me in on her activities, her family and her future plans. As it turned out, she was moving to New York. She had tentative plans to crash with a friend of a friend in Astoria, Queens. We decided that a dinner was in order after she got settled.
We exchanged a few emails before she arrived. They were very friendly in tone but somewhat emotionally distant. We were starting over, getting to know each other as just friends. Neither of us was sure it would work but we agreed that navigating the uncertain course of our new friendship couldn't be any harder than not talking was.
Her Astoria connection fell through so with some hesitation, I offered a spot on my couch, which she accepted. My friends yelled at me and others wagged their fingers and issued warnings. But it was something I had to do. It was something I wanted to do. That girl killed me, hurt me in ways that I couldn't comprehend but I got through it. I bounced back in a big way. If I was going to get her out of my system, I had to stop mystifying her. Being apart sort of glossed over her bad parts and made her more attractive. She was like soda. My mother forbid soda except on special occasions or on Fridays when we ate pizza. Naturally, when I had the chance to drink it at a friend's house, I went nuts on it. But when I had the money to buy my own soda, I eventually grew tired of it. I rarely drink it now because I think it's too sugary and sweet. No better way to remove the novelty of something than to engorge and make yourself sick of it.
I picked her up at LaGuardia. I was nervous while waiting for all of the passengers to file off the plane. When I saw her, it wasn't dramatic. I wasn't shaking. We hugged but there was no crackle or spark. I didn't want to bury my face into her neck and nuzzle her like I used to. I didn't throw my arms around her waist and pull her in. I gave her an around-the-top-of-the-shoulder embrace -- the same one I give plain old friends.
I was still sensitive to her presence but no longer enamored of her. I passed the first portion of my self-exam. She was on her way to becoming Pepsi.
She slept on my couch for a week. Despite the predictions of many, we didn't even kiss. We went out for dinner, saw a Broadway show, went shopping but not once did we fight or fool around. Eventually I hooked her up with a roommate in Brooklyn. As I helped her carry her boxes up to the fifth floor in her Prospect Heights walk-up, she turned to me and said:
"I don't want to live here. I want to move in with you. Let [Her Roommate] and [My Roommate] live here and we can live in your apartment."She latched onto me in those first few weeks. We were pretty much inseparable. She knew a couple of people here but I was her primary contact. She relied on me for help. I lent her my cell phone until she got her own. I put her in touch with someone who gave her some free furniture. I fretted over her on 9/11 and instructed her to stay put in Brooklyn when she finally got through to let me know of her whereabouts.
"Oh, come on. Just give it a chance. You'll like it here."
"Why can I just live with you?"
"You know why you can't."
She came to New Jersey with me one weekend where she met my niece for the first time. Back when we were together, she was so excited when that baby was born. She couldn't wait to see her and hold her and spoil her right alongside me.
We arrived at my mother's house and the one-year-old was sitting on the floor of the family room playing with her toys.
She knelt down to make my nice with my niece. Normally, my niece was all smiles and very receptive to new playmates. She took one look at my ex, scowled and then angrily flung a toy in her direction. The kid was pissed off.
My ex jumped back. I gasped in horror and chastised my niece.
"I'm really sorry. She's not usually like that."Eventually the niece warmed up to her and once again, the McDimples embraced her. She hit it off with a bunch of relatives and family friends at my father's retirement party. She even made tabbouleh for the occasion.
"Jeez, do you think she knows?" she asked half-kidding.
"Maybe. I am her favorite aunt after all. I guess she's just looking out for me," I teased.
It seemed like this friendship thing was working out but eventually, old tensions started to show. We flirted and bickered equally. It was like we were a couple except for the whole sex and affection thing. We were constantly sniping at and driving each other nuts so several months after she arrived, we decided to stop hanging out. I started to feel used. She didn't like that I was so guarded around her. So we decided to take a break from each other. And I did not cry. I was pissed but I wasn't upset.
During our time apart, Breezy moved to NYC and contacted me. As did Rice. It was inevitable that the connection to her was once again established. We made a go at friendship... again. But my approach and outlook were much different this time around.
I had recently started dating The Masseuse around that time. She's a gorgeous woman and a beautiful soul. I was enjoying my new relationship and was no longer focused on my ex as a romantic possibility. I was no longer cautious and walking on eggshells around her. I acted like myself. She, however, could not get her act together. Her treatment of me wasn't outwardly rude. It was just weird. It was like she didn't get me anymore. She couldn't quite make up her mind if she wanted to be silly or serious in my presence.
"Jesus, she acts like such a retard around you, Curly. I don't know what her problem is," Breezy observed.Breezy and I enjoyed a fun, sisterly relationship. I helped her get a job at my company. We went out for dinner, drinks and liked to shoot the shit. We always had a good time together so I always invited her to stuff.
"I'm glad it's not just me who's noticed. It's weird, right?"
"Definitely weird. But don't take it to heart, okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm doing well. I've worked out my shit as far as she's concerned."
"Too bad she never did."
"That's because she avoided dealing with it. She just wanted to forget and move on. She convinced herself it would work. Looks like it hasn't."
Breezy came to my friend's birthday party down near the Jersey Shore one weekend. She met me in Brooklyn where I had just signed the lease on my Tiny Wee Studio and then we headed to Penn Station to catch a NJ Transit train.
Breezy's phone rang while we were on the train. It was her. I couldn't hear the whole conversation but based on Breezy's expression and responses, I could tell that she was not happy that Breezy was meeting close friends of mine that she'd never met herself. And she was annoyed that not only hadn't told her I was moving to Brooklyn but also because Breezy saw my new apartment before she did.
She wasn't usually petty like that but the larger meaning -- that she was no longer in the loop -- really bugged her. That was a pivotal moment. A switch had been flipped. After that phone call, she made a concerted effort to get close to me again. She hated that Breezy knew details. She went on a mission to insert herself back in my life. At times, she acted very girlfriend-like.
She invited herself and Breezy over the night I officially moved into my apartment. The Masseuse already had plans to come over, which was fine because The Masseuse knew about her. Lesbians do that, you know -- discuss exes at great and detailed length -- so I wasn't springing anything on The Masseuse. I mean, I didn't give her this version of the ordeal but the lesbians are quite hard-hitting with the questions about ex-girlfriends. She got the scoop early on. Every time I meet someone, I marinate myself in preparation for the inevitable grilling.
My ex, however, hadn't earned back the right to know my personal information so I hadn't discussed The Masseuse with her. Plus, I wasn't sure that was a can of worms I wanted to open. If I told her about my love life, she might reciprocate. As much progress as I had made, I wasn't sure I could handle the idea of her being with someone else. I knew it was silly to think she'd stay single forever but I wanted to spare myself the specifics if I could.
The Masseuse came over earlier in the day to help me get settled. Later, the ex called. She and Breezy had just gotten off the subway and ducked into a pizzeria to bring over dinner.
"Are you starving? How much pizza do you want?" she asked.I conferred with The Masseuse about toppings and size.
"Hang on."
"Me and The Masseuse aren't starving so I think one pie will be fine. Oh, and no meat on it, please."They arrived shortly after. She gave me a big hug. She met The Masseuse. It wasn't nearly awkward as I had imagined it might be. They chatted and were very friendly with each other. But I noticed that my ex seemed nervous and a bit twitchy.
"Oh... okay," she said sounding a bit bewildered.
Breezy took me aside.
"Okay, first of all? The Masseuse is BEAUTIFUL. Congratulations!"I blushed and giggled a thanks.
"So, when we were at the pizza place, she asked who The Masseuse was when she got off the phone with you."We rejoined the party. She paid me more attention that night than she had in a long time. I was complimented on everything. She took me aside in the kitchen to chit chat. I spoke with her while nervously glancing over towards the couch to see if The Masseuse was getting annoyed. She was fine but I didn't want to push my luck so I excused myself and took a seat next to The Masseuse on the couch.
"And?"
"I said, 'Well, she's the person that Curly is... you know, seeing.'"
"What did she say?"
"Well, at first it looked like someone punched her in the stomach but then she said, 'Awesome!'"
"So, she's okay with it?"
"I think it just took her by surprise. I think she's fine with it though."
"Well, she doesn't have a choice, does she? Her decision and all that..."
"Totally. Not your problem. Have fun with The Masseuse!"
The rest of the night, she could barely look at us. I didn't know if she was jealous or if I was imagining it. I decided I couldn't and didn't want to concern myself with it.
When I got to work on Monday morning, there was an email from her. Apparently, she sent it the minute she got home that night. My home computer wasn't hooked up yet so I inadvertently made her stew for a few days before getting a reply.
Subject: Curly BabyThat was basically the gist of it. I can't remember all the specifics. Similar to the letter she sent me the summer before, she made a million contradictory points. Some of her words hinted at reconciliation and others discussed a renewed friendship. She sent me several more emails from Oklahoma that were similar in tone.
Hi beautiful girl. I love you so much. And yes, I admit it... I'm jealous of The Masseuse. She's beautiful and smart and so mature. And I'm happy for you but it's really hard for me. I've never had to see you with anyone before it and it really hurts. I'm also sorry that you didn't feel like you could tell me about her. I want you to do that. And I want to tell you about who I'm dating. Right now, there's nothing to speak of but I do want us to have that openness again.
I want us to start over. When I come back to NY [She was going back to Oklahoma for a few weeks to visit her family], let's try this again, okay? No more weirdness. I want us to be close again. I love you so much.
Love,
Me
When she came back to NY, she asked if she could stay with me the first night because her room was still being sublet and there wasn't room at Breezy's place. I informed Breezy of this and she looked alarmed.
"Be careful, Curly. She didn't even ask if she could stay with me. I don't know what she's up to. Just look out."A lot of my friends predicted that we'd sleep together that night... and they were wrong.
I let her sleep in my bed but nothing happened. I think if I tried, I would have been successful but I was timid and fearful of getting hurt. I was like Bobby Brady scared to climb up the tree house after taking a nasty spill and spraining his ankle. I was still in love with her but simultaneously very aware of the harm and pain she'd caused me before. I had good reason to be extremely cautious and tentative around her.
And that marked the rest of our friendship. I didn't fully trust her -- or myself -- so I held back. She was impatient with my reserve and needled me for it. I was disdainful of her ignorance of certain things -- politics, world events, etc. I loved her youthful exuberance but I no longer glossed over her immaturity. The blinders were off. It seemed that we didn't like each other all that much anymore. But we still loved each other which was frustrating and confusing.
Once again, we let the friendship fade. I tried a couple of times to resuscitate it to no avail. A good year went by without so much as a phone call or email between us. In August 2003, Breezy told me the ex was moving back to Oklahoma. For some reason, it hit me hard. When we were together, we dreamed of living together in New York. It was so painful when we were separated by all those big states in between us. And now she was a few stops away from me on the F train and we just couldn't get it together.
I made one last attempt. It was foolish and misguided but I had a speck of hope. I wanted a happy ending. I wanted to do the over-the-top cinematic gesture to win her back. I poured my heart out. I asked her to move in with me. I wanted her to love New York. I wanted her to feel at home. I relented and said I'd let the dogs sleep in the bed. In that email, I took a gamble with all the progress I'd made. I bet the house.
She wrote me back, to date, the last email I've received from her.
Subject: Re: HiAnd that's where it ended. No direct words have been exchanged between us since. I haven't seen her in person since my 29th birthday party in October 2002. Breezy told me she moved back to NYC in 2004 and was asking about me. I didn't pump her for details because I didn't want them. However, a few things slipped out here and there -- she has a boyfriend, for example. A current of pain ran through my body when I heard that. And it still flares up like an old injury at times.
Thank you for your email. I have to leave. I'm tired of it here. Maybe I'll be back but between the high prices, the year-round sucky weather, the crowds and missing my family, I need to go. Thank you so much for what you wrote. I'm sorry things got so fucked up between us. I loved you like mad but it just got too hard. I can't see you before I leave. I just can't. It's too hard.
I'm glad you still hold onto our memories. I'll do the same. I love you.
I don't know if we'll ever speak again. If we do, it won't be because I initiated contact. I can't. But I know she thinks about me too. I'm not sure in what capacity, but I can definitely feel her. At certain times, she weighs heavily in my mind. When that happens, I'm either told that she was asking about me or I catch her Googling my name.
And it happened recently. I had just finished writing Part 8 of this series and I was feeling really sad. I took a break from writing and reading the reactions to the post. She was dancing around in my head. I needed to get away from her and the story so I logged into Friendster... and her face was staring at me. She had just viewed my profile. I gasped and had a wee freak-out.
That was the second time in the past few months that I caught her checking up on me. And both times it was always right after I did some mental digging into our past. The last time she checked up on me, I had just finished writing this post. She doesn't know about this blog. But she seems to know when I mine our memories for inspiration. It scares and reassures me simultaneously. That's the best way to explain it, I guess.
I didn't click back though. Next to the thumbnail photo of her, it said "In a Relationship." Why torture myself further? She was a painkiller for me. I'm an addict as far as she's concerned. I'm sober now but never far from a relapse. I've thought about her, cried over her and dreamed about being with her over the past three years... but I haven't crumbled. I won't call her. I won't write. I can't. One click would mean staring at photos of her, figuring out who among her friends is her boyfriend, reading their glowing testimonials back and forth. I know fine well that's she moved on, I don't need to see it illustrated with cascading style sheets, hyperlinks and Google AdWords. Those three words -- In a Relationship -- are enough.
There are times, like today, when I'm completely fine with it. I have fully wrapped my brain around the concept that we had a time of it. We lived in a dream. But she woke up first and realized that while the dream was nice, she had to deal with her waking life.
It used to upset me that in some way I was something she broke free of. Like I had her in some suffocating grip. And Lowercase Ed or any other future boyfriend was a new, refreshing outlook. I was addicted to her excitement for me. I was addicted to my excitement for her. It is so rare that I meet someone who stops me dead in my tracks. Sometimes when I look back, I'm not exactly sure what it was about her that drew in. Falling in love accidentally blinds you to so many things. I'm notoriously fussy with my partners. I don't have a real rigid checklist but I have do have a firm idea about what I want. I'm always open to the opportunity that someone can come along and surprise me. But that's what she did, I guess.
My mother still asks about her. The inquiries are less frequent but every now and then, my mother will sneak one in. I used to get a bit agitated but the years have softened my temper on the subject. I used to lie and pretend that everything was fine between us. I quickly and curtly said, "She's fine!" when my family asked. I'd explain away her absence by saying that I was bad about keeping in touch. I took the blame for it. Even after everything she put me through, I didn't want my family, especially my mother, to think less of her. She loved that special little girl from Oklahoma. I lost control of everything else but the one last vestige of that relationship that I could preserve as a keepsake was the impression she made on my family. Their response to her served as an emotional snapshot of that time in my life. And I continue to cherish it.
So now, here I am -- wounded but not crippled; wizened but not hardened; realistic but not hopeless; experienced but still innocent in many ways. Most of the time. I have the occasional slip-up but bouncing back is a bit easier now because I've discovered that happiness doesn't come in one lump sum. I look for -- and find it -- in increments now.
Writing this often caused me to wince but sometimes it caused me to well up with pride. I went through something pretty shitty but I sallied forth and changed the course of my life. And I learned along the way that many of you did the same. When I started writing this, I wasn't entirely sure why I was doing it or if it was even healthy for me to relive this experience. But here I am at the end and I've never felt better. And judging by your comments and emails, my story articulates some of your own untold tales of courage and strength. Connection is my reason and my reward for doing this.
Thank you all for reading and responding like you did. I appreciate your feedback... and your patience. As you can imagine, the last ones weren't nearly as easy to write as the beginning entries. But I really dragged my feet with the last bunch so I thank you for sticking around. I've started other things on this blog and have never finished them, but you guys held my feet to the flames and didn't let me abandon what I'd started. I'm really grateful. So, thank you.
-- Part One
-- Part Two
-- Part Three
-- Part Four
-- Part Five
-- Part Six
-- Part Seven
-- Part Eight
-- Part Nine
-- Part Ten
-- Part Eleven
-- Part Twelve
Labels: dating, glbt, holidays
posted by curly mcdimple @ 12:49 PM :: permalink :: ::
