Oh yeah? You want to get into a phurba measuring contest buddy?
Vajrakilaya, the keeper of the phurba
This blog has been the place where I can be 100% honest to the best of my ability, and yet I realized this morning I was holding back, in order to keep a certain level of look good for the loml, who reads these posts. I hate alarming her, for one thing, and have done so in the past. I also hate being as torn to bits and aggrieved, in love and disconsolate, and being seen as such-- there's a part of me that feels if I just get tough enough and let her know I don't give a shit, she'll admire me more. That is some weird, old inherited shit. It's also been the case that, when I have expressed darkness and pain and distress to her, she has asked "when do you see your psychiatrist again?" Well-meaning, but beside the point. She's surrounded by needy people and suffering all the time, however, so my suffering is a problem to be solved, and I get that. I don't ask her to take care of my emotional life at all, I just tello her what it is. But she's kind of butch with regard to that, in the way that she goes to strategy right away, the way a man might.
But I decided today to get through that reticence and let fly. I am all of these things. When thoughts of suicide return as a *consolation*, that's something to take note of. Just the romancing of it, mind you, I feel the need to say. I have no pills, gun, rope, bridge or cliff, or any plan for that matter, so save your alarmed response for someday when I communicate that I do, if that day ever comes, which I doubt it ever will. The pain that I am in and have been in for a long time now (in general, not specific to the affair only) just naturally turns to oblivion as a solution, and I lost my right to chemical oblivion, and sex and food don't provide oblivion, so the Great Consolation of death is a normal distraction. And our sole power, and our only decision according to Camus, is whether or not to suffer the slings and arrows, right?
The awful demons have had a lot of podium time lately. "You never really mattered to her. You were only an adventure. She was the central fact of your life for months, you idiot." This is how it feels. There are a lot of other ways it feels. I am experiencing a tremendous amount of anger. At first it presented as a flailing blame toward her, but I am realizing more and more that it is at myself and at the universe. At myself for agreeing to a lot of things that have fucked me over for months. At the universe for seeming to provide a thread of hope but, like Lucy with Charlie Brown, repeatedly pulling the football away.
It's fascinating to be involved with people and to become more aware of the way self protection, past wounds, fears and prejudices color so many interactions, both my own and theirs. I am sure my own control strategies and those of other people are usually just simple ways to try to prevent suffering. To keep myself safe. It's interesting for me to note that keeping myself safe has never been a priority with the loml. In fact, obviously, quite the contrary. In light of the breakup with A almost two years ago and how torn to pieces I was, it's remarkable to me that I have always just hacksawed my ribs open and exposed my bloody beating heart to the loml. (For example, she reads this blog, so this is the best poker face of which I am capable?). Is that also a form of control in some weird way? It's a decision that makes itself, and that I don't have to revisit. I decided to be completely emotionally vulnerable and open, available and honest to the best of my ability. That was a commitment I made as far back as late July 2017. Maybe just choosing one course such as that and sticking to it is another form of trying to have solid ground on which to stand. Abdicating responsibility and sidelining judgment. When I have tried to reconfigure and get some solid ground, I have never been able to, however.
whoa nice shutterstock image lads
Anyway, I recall a conversation back in maybe August 2017 where the loml said something like "you have a lot of power over me, I hope you realize. Be careful." I was as reassuring as possible, and I have endeavored to be reassuring all along the way. It's funny too because I have been jealous a lot and have expressed it occasionally, and I haven't felt reassured, which I guess sounds desperate and insecure, but is the truth. Men are drawn to her regularly and sometimes I felt that the way men showed up on her Facebook timeline was just flat out Creepsville, ironically, some of my older male Facebook friends who sent her friend requests in that gross, thirsty way that older men have of harvesting the female friends of male friends of theirs. A picture of the loml with her beloved sister, an appropriate comment from another woman about fitting in between (out of love and genuine affection), but followed by a really weird, creepy comment by an older male acquaintance of mine about not being invited to fit in or whatever. So many times I just wanted to flat out say to men on her timeline, "okay creepy weirdo bad boundary innuendo indulging fuck boy old man, enough." In spite of how pathetic so many of these interactions were, I still got very jealous from time to time. Unlike me, for sure.
A former lover of hers showed up on her Facebook and I mentioned my jealousy and she said, "He's a beautiful human being!" and "Oh, he's involved, and we're not romantically compatible." And if he weren't involved and you were romantically compatible? In my opinion, the approach to reassuring a jealous partner is truly very simple: "You have nothing to be jealous of. I am devoted to you and you are the one I want. These other women are friends only and mean nothing to me romantically or sexually." That's it. That's all it usually takes. That's what I think I have said to her on the occasion when she has been jealous of women. But hedging and being vague and trying to "explain" who people are or whatever is not reassuring, and it keeps the ball in her court, in my opinion. There's power when someone else is jealous of us. When they let us know, they are tearing their shirt open and there's a bullseye on their chest over their heart. The rusty dagger goes deep, in a lot of ways. If the "reassurance" is pale, the power lingers, the questions linger. I feel she was never able to just flat out say "I am yours and you have nothing to be jealous of." Maybe it was a point of pride for her? Maybe my jealousy seemed like a criticism of her somehow?
Oh hello there, Othello, you crazy fellow
I am also fully aware that all of this is my side of the story. But when a relationship feels one-sided and there is little exchange, one has to rely on at least some kind of story from somewhere in order to find ground to stand on. It's interesting for me to note also that my chronic and growing feeling of having been at or near the bottom of her list is really more about control issues than anything. My perception is that she was not capable or desirous of simply sending a message maybe once a day or even once a week or perhaps even once that said "I think about you all the time. I love you. I'm sorry we can't be in more communication. But never think I write you off or take you for granted." She has never said anything like that to me, that I recall right now anyway. I am of course an unreliable narrator. Having a bloody shredded heart in a black barrel of broken ribs fucks with one's memory.
When I was last in St. Paul, we were scheduled to spend time together the evening after her nursing shift, an effort I deeply appreciated considering the demands of her job. But the next nurse did not show up on time and in fact, she had to remain on duty for an extra several hours, until 11 pm. I looked back over her texts around this unfortunate reality and she did not say anything at all like "I am heartbroken that I can't see you, I was looking forward to it and I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, thank you for being patient. Please stay in town and I'll make time." Of course, two nights previously, she had ended the affair. But wanted to see me the next evening, and we were back on, it seemed to me. So the context was very fraught, tenuous, on again off again, and I feel guilty now of not just flat out taking her no and simply respecting it. So, in that context, I guess I was asking too much for that kind of clear and intentional, reassuring communication? Whether I asked too much or not, the seeming lack of concern and apparent oblivion to my situation led to me deciding to book a flight out three days early. If she had been able to balance the reality of her busy life with something heartfelt and tender, I would have stayed.
I also frightened myself that night, because I fell asleep at about 8 and woke at 11 and decided to drive to her house and say goodbye as she arrived home from her shift. I did in fact drive there, and waited. But when she pulled up at 11:30 I realized I was being creepy-stalkery and probably would scare her if I had stepped out of the car and announced myself. So I watched her scurry into her house, and that was the last time I saw her. I was starting to become unhinged, fantasizing about hacking her Facebook or messenger account, finally finding out for real what was going on with other men. Crazy thoughts like that. Not anything I am used to at all. So far out of character for me as to be astonishing.
The dynamic could be crazy-making for me in many ways. Every visit of mine to the Twin Cities or Santa Fe involved long, tedious stretches of waiting. Often with no choice, since there was a promised time involved. But then due to some exigency or other, often, and it feels to me like more and more often more recently, the promised time would fall through, and I would have just been waiting in vain. She would always have a legitimate reason, like her son falling down the stairs, or her daughter being in a rough mood, but the legitimacy of those reasons also served to reinforce for me how truly marginal I was in her very full life. I would improvise and try to make the best of it when it wouldn't work out, going out on the town or whatever, but the feeling I have now is that I had again and again set myself up for being taken for granted. And it is the plain truth that every minute of time we ever had together was leashed to the underlying knowledge that she would have to go, sooner rather than later most often, back to her real life, and I would have to find some way to occupy myself until the next brief window. Those were the pressuresome and sad contexts in which we were able to be together. And, often, with her worried about her kids or her husband, or feeling guilty for having lied, or feeling like every minute was stolen time. Again, given these realities, how remarkable we two endured nearly a year and a half of sort of desperate attempts to be with each other.
So it's not that I wanted extensive interaction or intimacy on a regular basis-- if I had wanted that, it seems I would have bailed a long time ago. The first blaze of our intense connection when we fell in love was over by September, a couple of months in. I only wanted her to relinquish control long enough to offer legitimate reassurance, to offer what I could hear as a disappointment at least equal to my own. The bottom of the list feeling comes from not just my perception of being taken for granted, but, in my opinion, well, actually being taken for granted. Duh. When I have called her on it in the past, my memory is that she has only said "I am truly sorry you feel that way." And has been defensive and brittle. Or broken up with me. I feel I've let myself be a luxury item on a very long shopping list of absolute necessities.
the impulse buy Snickers bar on the way out the door
But these are the things to which Percy agreed: to be an affair outside of a very busy life, to not be chosen, to be fit in whenever possible yet also when it was most convenient, to carry the weight of arranging visits, to revel in whatever windows of time were available and not make too many waves when disappointed, to be second at all times, second on the list, where first was many people long. She made it clear to me as long ago as probably November 2017 that she was not going to leave her husband any time soon, and I stayed in the affair. I agreed to wait and wait and wait, when I wasn't even told to wait, in fact, was flat out told not to wait several times. To want to be an ally and a support but to be felt as a source of guilt and shame and remorse, to be a problem, a burden, an inconvenience, and a drag, eventually. I only wanted to make her life better, as unrealistic as that may seem in retrospect, but I ended up making her life a kind of awful nightmare of sleepless nights and guilt. From best love and lover to fucking pain in the ass and a source of darkness and wounding and troubled sleep, buffeted by unsustainable remorse. I selfishly hung on even after it became increasingly clear to me that ourt affair was making her truly, deeply unhappy. Sweet.
I agreed to all of it. My work now is to understand more clearly what was in it for me. I know right off the bat that a lot of what was in it for me was the untellably beautiful encounter with a human being I feel is my goddamned soul mate, and I don't even believe in that shit. I genuinely just fucking love this person like mad, and I always will, in whatever capacity is possible, in whatever way I am able. It's so fearlessly unconditional that it was extremely difficult to get my bearings.
I think the sorry state of my life here as I finish the PhD also played a role. So much isolation, even when I am with people. Loneliness, grey stretches of enforced solitude, enormous energy poured into writing the dissertation in the face of almost 100% constant discouragement. She's funny, smart, passionate, sexy, has not once, not ever bored me. Being anywhere near her was like sitting next to a blazing fire. But I see now how my own depauperate emotional life and social life put too much pressure on her, on we two. I feel now that, perhaps, I allowed myself to be taken for granted because the intermittent positive reinforcement was always so glorious. When she turned her love my way, it always felt exactly right and immeasurably fine. Even on our new friendly basis, wen I see she has texted a funny meme or whatever, my heart leaps in my throat and there's a thrill, a distinct frisson of gladness unique to hearing from her.
Weird. Not something I have ever tolerated for even one minute from any other living soul. I am usually permanently gone in the most convincing and final of ways when I feel taken for granted, and there have rarely if ever been second chances. I want to be someone's number one. Well, in truth, I must admit, I want to be HER number one. I still want to be her number one. I think I would be wickedly great at it. I do not do well being anything less. It's probably that Venus in Leo thing. But everything was always different with her, sometimes maddeningly so. Often maddeningly so. Stepping back and getting a look at it, I feel angry about it at this time, a necessary stage of grief. It's anger with myself, for the most part. Lots of self-castigation and name calling. Feeling like a total clown, fool for love, dumbass doormat, sucker and a half. I imagine she sees me as pathetic and foolish, weak and tiresome and is quite relieved to be shut of me and our mess.
On top of all of this, and believe me, dear reader, if you have made it this far in yet another installment of 300 love songs about the loml, I thank you, and many of you might also be saying "well, duh, man, we've seen this like the clearest writing on the wall for months," it is only now clear to me how I had insisted on holding out hope that we could create a life together. I always convinced myself I was not hoping for that. To her credit, she rarely offered any hope of it, except for early on when we spoke explicitly about a future together ("if to when magic"), but when it became clear to her she could not, would not, did not want to leave her husband, that talk stopped. In fact, for quite a while now, everything erotic or even affectionate beyond just nice friendly friendship stopped, from her direction, and any and all of my expressions of eros or love were met with silence. In spite of all of this, now that the affair is over, it is finally apparent to me how much I did hold on to hope. I think the hopelessness of my reality now is as real as the leg of a table on which one stubs one's toe in the dark. It took ending the affair for me to even start to get perspective on the hopes that had remained. The fantasies of travel, of camping, of domestic life, of shared experience, of helping her raise her kids, of truly creating a life. Creating it with intention. Creating it soulfully, mindfully, tenderly and like artists, collaborating and co-creating, weaving a wild tale of love conquering all. I feel bereft in light of how I had strung myself along, and now see the futility and fantasy of all of that, which will never be.
Now it's up to me to unpack all of this as thoroughly and honestly as possible, with as much self-compassion as I can cultivate, get real about my own motives in remaining available for what feels to me now like an almost completely one sided affair, and learn as much as I can. The only way out is through, since the seductive call of oblivion is hollow and I've tied myself to the mast anyway. The consolation of having the option like a loyal but hungry dog at one's elbow, ready to obediently go for the throat and bleed one out for good, is consolation enough, and requires no action. The work is not so much to "want to live" but to let go of all of it.
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