Jun
6
Getting Whipped–Licking The Wounds
June 6, 2005 | |
4:54am, chilly October morning, Sunday.
I pondered that dreaded question that unavoidably arises after a certain amount of time in a new relationship. Something I cringe at the thought of doing.
As the conflicted "escapeartist" that maintains this incredible fear of intimacy, at the same time she flocks toward this the wrong man with all of the passion and vigor of a raging bull to a red cape.
So contradictory. I’m kicking myself, painfully so.
As that unyielding female intuition told me from day one I was setting myself up for disaster. Ironically, after each of our evenings together, I would return home with a new ailment. Telling. Not to mention, a series of bruises and welts that were not necessarily brought about by accident. Trademarks of our deviant sexual trysts that developed a little too early on for a "normal" relationship. Dare I even call it that.
I’m a bad dater. Relationships are my forte. This also is my downfall.
Most daters go at with a suit of armor brought about by numerous potential relationships that failed before they got started. Very little expectation. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I, myself tend to go about finding love in the opposite fashion. I see, I pounce, I’m in love, I’m ending it. These relationships are sustained for years. And they last as long as I want them to last.
But his time it was different. I had zero control from the get go.
I found myself repeating to my therapist:
"I don’t know why, but this guy scares the shit out of me."
Her response:
"Maybe you’re afraid of him because he represents what you are afraid of in yourself."
In that case…I’m terrified.<br>
So tonight, I paid him a visit after returning from a safety date.
(The buffer between you and a person you actually give a shit about).
Thought just maybe this would spur some conversation regarding our status without me actually having to bring it up. (It didn’t). I passed out drunkenly humiliated. And no such conversation took place. Four hours later, I awoke with that gnawing question eating away at my conscience…
If I didn’t ask, I would leave his apartment that morning still wondering, hanging onto hopes, innuendos. Annoying the shit out of my friends with the deconstruction of each conversation with that what that unyeilding:
what did he REALLY mean by that?
I knew what I was about to hear. My question was, do I want to go on ignorantly semi-blissful/doubtful… Or, do I want to take the blow and get it over with?
I chose the latter.
"Ummm, N. My friend S. says she sees you on-line constantly on nerve.com. …Why?"
–I dunno, boredom.
"OK….I guess the next question is…are you still looking for someone better to come along?"
–Well, I really like you……but, I don’t really know to what extent.
(great answer)
…and um, I guess if I came across someone I found interesting, I wouldn’t be opposed to pursuing it.
(Done).
"OK. That’s all I needed to know.
Bye."
And I proceeded to walk out the door.
For some odd reason as I descended the stairs he lingered in his doorway as if to say something.
But never did.
By the time I hit the third flight, the door closed. And so did my mind.
I walked away from his apartment with my gait steady and chin up.
High heels clicking the pavement with purpose.
Not sad as much as empowered.
I will not return to that block again.
Suddenly, I am no longer worried.
I will no longer have to guess.
I can walk away from him and act as if I ended it–
although it never really began in the first place.
You know when someone is wrong for you. Your head screams it to your heart.
But for some reason, you vehemently deny it.
You rationalize around that gut feeling that screams STOP. DANGER. DO NOT PROCEED. And you push forward with all your might because you believe for some reason, this time,
it may be different.
You are just being paranoid.
You ignore the warnings and you rush to the edge of that cliff, and proceed to jump in… You begin falling, and you see the end is getting closer and closer.
And when you hit the ground, all battered and bruised, you can’t help but think to yourself:
"I told you so."
My heart is used to hurting.
And herein lies the conflict.
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