(Originally posted on that "OK Stupid" site.)
Sorry that I haven't written in a while. You know how crazy things can get. I still think about you often, however. I mean just last week, I was saying to my other blog, "Y'know, OKC would really get a kick out of this...," and then I saw a shiny object or a video about a dog dressed up as an AT AT or something, and it slipped my mind again. But my lack of writing here has gotten me wondering about other messages I'm (not) sending...
Why do you not reply to messages in your Inbox on here?
I mean, what's your real excuse? Mine boils down to the fact that I honestly do not get alerts emailed to me, despite my selecting that preference and attempting to get this site to fix it several times now. No avail... not even in my Spam folder. And so I'm left to check in here to find out what's waiting for me.
But this isn't a site that I think about checking often, and messages here seem to run in deluges and dryspells. So after looking around here for a couple days and coming up zilch in the interest department, this site becomes a lower priority. Next thing you know, several days go by... maybe a week even... and then I finally sign in only to find a dozen or more messages.
Suddenly, what should be exciting feels like a chore. I know I shouldn't be complaining at all, because people wanting to talk to you is waaaaay better than people treating you like a leper... but somehow a positive becomes a negative and you end up with that "too much of a good thing" feeling. Then the thought of even reading everything makes me go from insomniac to narcoleptic like that *snap!*
I think I may have caught what is sometimes called "holiday malaise"... not to be confused with any of the many traditional sauces or toppings for the extravagant meals everyone starts consuming around this time of year. At least I know I'm not alone in the holiday malaise. Several single friends have mentioned that they just cannot "get it up" to go on any dates or meet new people until after the holidays pass.
And if I'm not replying "often," then what reflection does that give me? I mean, I kind of feel like if I do reply "often," then it would look like I'm either easy to please or have way too much time on my hands.
But if I'm replying "infrequently" or whatever the term is, do I look like an uppity snob? I know I'm rambling, but that's because looking at my Inbox just now has made me feel the urge to hit the sack again, which is not a bad idea, since it's now after 3am here.
This inaction will likely intensify whatever negative color symbol it is that they put on the profiles of "highly selective" folks... making my communications "Amber alert" turn red... even though anyone looking into my past dating history would know instantly that "highly selective" is certainly not the right term for me.
It's holiday malaise, I tell ya. Meh. Lay. Z.
How 'bout you?
It can and did happen! Tell-all blog about dating ... well, tell-most ... tell-some ... regardless, it's TMI.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Beautiful Mess
"People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime."
I went eight years without allowing myself to fall into any long term relationships. Yes, I did have two experiences that were longish-term relationships, each lasting about seven months a piece. I also had a couple of very brief, but very intense micro-relationships as well. But in eight years time, I really didn't have much in the way of solid relationship experience. I was beginning to wonder whether or not I had it in me anymore. And I really wondered if I could ever bring myself to live with another adult again. In short, I'd become set in my ways and a bit curmudgeonly. Even worse, I let myself get comfortable that way.
But deep down, I was missing something... that connectedness that couples feel. I began to long for someone who just wanted a relationship as much as I did. No more of the games of dating and wondering where you stand, who the other person might be seeing instead of you, constant first dates like endless job interviews. I wanted to meet a man who wanted to bypass the games and go straight to a blissful, monogamous relationship. And be careful what you wish for, as they say... I got exactly that! The first six months were made of pure awesomeness; the twelve months that followed were made of something else, however... something had crept in and reared its ugly head: Mr. Hyde.
After the second six months together, I knew the angry, disrespectful behavior was a solid pattern that wouldn't change. I also knew that I had only two choices: accept it or end it. Unable to make that choice right away, the relationship limped on with me in emotional limbo for another six months. Sometimes it would be exhilarating and wonderful, other times it would be aggravating and hostile. The biggest problem was that it was rarely respectful. And as time wore on, I began to react in kind. When someone attacks me disrespectfully, eventually I will snap back. The problem is, my zingers usually hit even closer to the bone than anyone can get to mine. Call it a gift or call it a curse, but if you get me that angry -- and it takes a lot to get me to this point -- I will withdraw all kindness and you will see the cruelest, most brutally honest person you have ever met. No one wants that, least of all me.
P had pushed me to that point. It only took one time of me "going there," responding tit for tat, for me to hate myself for it. Every month, every week that went by, he would push and push with sniping and griping and criticism to get me to that point... and inevitably I would snap. Over and over again. I was miserable and I could literally feel the resentment and stress killing me inside.
The thing about love is, the depth of one's love is a reflection of how you feel about yourself when you're with the object of your affection. "Is the you that you are when you're together better than the you that you are when you're alone? No? Then why are you with this person?" I asked myself that on a daily basis. But deep down, I also didn't believe he meant to be cruel. It felt like he wanted to love correctly, but he lacked the proper tools to do so. Those caring, sweet moments made me feel like I could take on the world and I kept waiting for him to figure out how he could stay in that moment... or at least stay anywhere near that moment, instead of straying too far into hostile territory.
After living together for six months (the second six-months of our relationship) and his ugly moods getting progressively worse, I had decided upon an unspoken deadline of February 13, 2009. I could have decided upon any date, really, but I was looking for meaning still. If there was no meaning to be had, then at least the ending would be memorable. That date happened to land on a Friday, and Friday the 13th definitely would make it memorable. It was also the day before Valentine's Day, which made it infinitely memorable. I'd decided that if he could not fix his angry persona for good by that date, I was done and he was out.
Like clockwork, by that date he had built his anger into another belligerent state and this time when he threatened to go, I pointed to the door and firmly said, "Then go now." When he wouldn't go, I started packing for him. My seriousness must have scared some rationality back into him, because he immediately switched his tune, apologized and begged me to forgive him. I accepted his apology (again) and told him that he would have to change by the next Friday the 13th, which was a month away, or find another place to live.
As if right on cue, the same monthly pressure cooker built up and boiled over, and the same dance happened all over again.
This time, I made him prove his apology in writing. And not just write it, but publish it for all to see: to his Facebook account. It struck fear in his heart, I could see it. A man who would act the fool in public without a second thought was suddenly struck down by the idea of showing his true dark side to the world. Although not as revealing or as detailed an apology as I would have liked, I accepted what he wrote as a sincere attempt to make amends.
I was hoping that the exercise would help him to really think about how his actions and words hurt me, but also I was hoping that maybe some of his friends would give him feedback about their own issues with anger and how they coped. I was right. They did. That's when someone brought Borderline Personality Disorder to our attention.
For a couple of weeks, just knowing his behavior was being described to a tee and had a label made him aware of his actions and able to calm down faster. But because his memory is particularly short (see the mention in his apology about 2 stressful months, which were actually 9 stressful months), as the weeks passed, he slowly slipped right back into the same mood swings that I already described in the previous posts. The return of Mr. Hyde.
Why would I keep him for all of that stress? Because of how I felt during those good moments. I do truly believe that when he was at his best -- when he was Dr. Jekyll -- that he loved me with every ounce of his being: unconditionally and beautifully. What he couldn't or wouldn't change was how when he became Mr. Hyde, he loved me the way that his abusive, adoptive parents had loved him: conditionally and disrespectfully.
If he could have stayed in that Dr. Jekyll persona, I could have looked past all of his flaws and his quirks and his idiosyncrasies and his craziness. For the first time in far too long, there was a man who had all of my heart. And it lasted as long as it did, because, regardless of falling short sometimes, he truly made the effort, like that open apology and many other times that he apologized privately. Because when he realized what he was about to lose, he loved me with all of his heart again to be sure he wouldn't lose me. For that, I will always be grateful. To have someone look at me that deeply, that serenely, that adoringly, AND to feel it in return, was something I was not sure existed.
It was the depth of that love that kept me from moving on, however. I did force myself to go on a couple of dates with one man, whom I already knew before meeting P, but that ultimately went nowhere, which was for the best. I was not ready to move on. Until the time of my last post, I still was not ready to move on. And at the time of this writing (which has actually been taking about 3 weeks, with many deletions), I am still not sure if I'm ready to move on.
At this point, only one thing is certain: I will never go back.
Well, that and I now have a much deeper appreciation for yo-yos.
Something happened on November 4th. That date just so happened to be exactly four months from the break-up, but it was something beyond that. Maybe it was all the writing that I had done? Perhaps it was therapeutic or exorcised the ghost or caused some sort of shift to happen. Whatever it was, I no longer felt ... connected. The string had been cut. Life's next chapter, here I come!
I went eight years without allowing myself to fall into any long term relationships. Yes, I did have two experiences that were longish-term relationships, each lasting about seven months a piece. I also had a couple of very brief, but very intense micro-relationships as well. But in eight years time, I really didn't have much in the way of solid relationship experience. I was beginning to wonder whether or not I had it in me anymore. And I really wondered if I could ever bring myself to live with another adult again. In short, I'd become set in my ways and a bit curmudgeonly. Even worse, I let myself get comfortable that way.
But deep down, I was missing something... that connectedness that couples feel. I began to long for someone who just wanted a relationship as much as I did. No more of the games of dating and wondering where you stand, who the other person might be seeing instead of you, constant first dates like endless job interviews. I wanted to meet a man who wanted to bypass the games and go straight to a blissful, monogamous relationship. And be careful what you wish for, as they say... I got exactly that! The first six months were made of pure awesomeness; the twelve months that followed were made of something else, however... something had crept in and reared its ugly head: Mr. Hyde.
After the second six months together, I knew the angry, disrespectful behavior was a solid pattern that wouldn't change. I also knew that I had only two choices: accept it or end it. Unable to make that choice right away, the relationship limped on with me in emotional limbo for another six months. Sometimes it would be exhilarating and wonderful, other times it would be aggravating and hostile. The biggest problem was that it was rarely respectful. And as time wore on, I began to react in kind. When someone attacks me disrespectfully, eventually I will snap back. The problem is, my zingers usually hit even closer to the bone than anyone can get to mine. Call it a gift or call it a curse, but if you get me that angry -- and it takes a lot to get me to this point -- I will withdraw all kindness and you will see the cruelest, most brutally honest person you have ever met. No one wants that, least of all me.
P had pushed me to that point. It only took one time of me "going there," responding tit for tat, for me to hate myself for it. Every month, every week that went by, he would push and push with sniping and griping and criticism to get me to that point... and inevitably I would snap. Over and over again. I was miserable and I could literally feel the resentment and stress killing me inside.
The thing about love is, the depth of one's love is a reflection of how you feel about yourself when you're with the object of your affection. "Is the you that you are when you're together better than the you that you are when you're alone? No? Then why are you with this person?" I asked myself that on a daily basis. But deep down, I also didn't believe he meant to be cruel. It felt like he wanted to love correctly, but he lacked the proper tools to do so. Those caring, sweet moments made me feel like I could take on the world and I kept waiting for him to figure out how he could stay in that moment... or at least stay anywhere near that moment, instead of straying too far into hostile territory.
After living together for six months (the second six-months of our relationship) and his ugly moods getting progressively worse, I had decided upon an unspoken deadline of February 13, 2009. I could have decided upon any date, really, but I was looking for meaning still. If there was no meaning to be had, then at least the ending would be memorable. That date happened to land on a Friday, and Friday the 13th definitely would make it memorable. It was also the day before Valentine's Day, which made it infinitely memorable. I'd decided that if he could not fix his angry persona for good by that date, I was done and he was out.
Like clockwork, by that date he had built his anger into another belligerent state and this time when he threatened to go, I pointed to the door and firmly said, "Then go now." When he wouldn't go, I started packing for him. My seriousness must have scared some rationality back into him, because he immediately switched his tune, apologized and begged me to forgive him. I accepted his apology (again) and told him that he would have to change by the next Friday the 13th, which was a month away, or find another place to live.
As if right on cue, the same monthly pressure cooker built up and boiled over, and the same dance happened all over again.
"I'm leaving."
"Good. Go."
"Wait, I'm sorry."
This time, I made him prove his apology in writing. And not just write it, but publish it for all to see: to his Facebook account. It struck fear in his heart, I could see it. A man who would act the fool in public without a second thought was suddenly struck down by the idea of showing his true dark side to the world. Although not as revealing or as detailed an apology as I would have liked, I accepted what he wrote as a sincere attempt to make amends.
A Very Public Apology To My Girlfriend (or, "The Not So Greatest Love Story Ever Told")
March 13 at 10:44am
"Stop me if you've heard this one before, but I'm either the nicest asshole you will ever meet or I'm Bipolar (or perhaps Bipolar 2, Electric Motherfucking Douchebag Boogaloo). Either way I've been this way my whole life and I've taken it for granted.
My (quite possibly soon to be ex) girlfriend has been kind enough to point out, time after time, that my anger comes on like a switch being flicked. You get mad at something, you blow up, 15 minutes later everything is fine and you go back to watching the dogs chase the cats. Or the kids chasing each other.
Well, apparently this is not normal behavior. Which explains the alarming lack of close friends I have in my life and why I have a track record of relationships that don't stick and jobs I can't stand for very long. It also explains why everything started off on the good foot with She and I over a year ago and is now turning into a swamp of anger riddled sadness. This is my fault. Fixing this will not be easy.
Since I'm out here bearing my soul I'd like to say in my defense that I've felt more stressed out in the last 2 months than I have in the last 10 years. The 1 person I have told the whole story to slowly backed away from me to avoid catching my bad fortune. This was far from the soothing pat on the back I was hoping for (No, I won't tell you the details of what's going on. Yes, it's totally reversible, eventually). I get it, everyone has problems.
So this is my very public apology to the love of my life for making her miserable. For making her cry and causing her to doubt her own sanity by staying with me. The shitty things in my life are absolutely nothing compared to the happiness I feel when we're together. Flipping out just comes easy for me and I gotta get it under control."
I was hoping that the exercise would help him to really think about how his actions and words hurt me, but also I was hoping that maybe some of his friends would give him feedback about their own issues with anger and how they coped. I was right. They did. That's when someone brought Borderline Personality Disorder to our attention.
For a couple of weeks, just knowing his behavior was being described to a tee and had a label made him aware of his actions and able to calm down faster. But because his memory is particularly short (see the mention in his apology about 2 stressful months, which were actually 9 stressful months), as the weeks passed, he slowly slipped right back into the same mood swings that I already described in the previous posts. The return of Mr. Hyde.
Why would I keep him for all of that stress? Because of how I felt during those good moments. I do truly believe that when he was at his best -- when he was Dr. Jekyll -- that he loved me with every ounce of his being: unconditionally and beautifully. What he couldn't or wouldn't change was how when he became Mr. Hyde, he loved me the way that his abusive, adoptive parents had loved him: conditionally and disrespectfully.
If he could have stayed in that Dr. Jekyll persona, I could have looked past all of his flaws and his quirks and his idiosyncrasies and his craziness. For the first time in far too long, there was a man who had all of my heart. And it lasted as long as it did, because, regardless of falling short sometimes, he truly made the effort, like that open apology and many other times that he apologized privately. Because when he realized what he was about to lose, he loved me with all of his heart again to be sure he wouldn't lose me. For that, I will always be grateful. To have someone look at me that deeply, that serenely, that adoringly, AND to feel it in return, was something I was not sure existed.
It was the depth of that love that kept me from moving on, however. I did force myself to go on a couple of dates with one man, whom I already knew before meeting P, but that ultimately went nowhere, which was for the best. I was not ready to move on. Until the time of my last post, I still was not ready to move on. And at the time of this writing (which has actually been taking about 3 weeks, with many deletions), I am still not sure if I'm ready to move on.
At this point, only one thing is certain: I will never go back.
Well, that and I now have a much deeper appreciation for yo-yos.
Something happened on November 4th. That date just so happened to be exactly four months from the break-up, but it was something beyond that. Maybe it was all the writing that I had done? Perhaps it was therapeutic or exorcised the ghost or caused some sort of shift to happen. Whatever it was, I no longer felt ... connected. The string had been cut. Life's next chapter, here I come!
I loved deeply. I grieved deeply.
And for that, I am grateful. Deeply.
The End.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Name Calling
I haven't spoken to my ex-boyfriend since we broke up in July. He had moved out in mid-June, because things just weren't working out between us and he was angry all the time, but he still thought we could continue to date. I knew differently. If he was moving out, it was only a matter of time before we would be apart completely. The writing was already on the wall.
Since he'd moved in exactly a year earlier, he'd been threatening to leave. The very first weekend after he moved in, he threw the first of many huge, dramatic fits over god-knows-what anymore and that is when he said it the first time: "I made a mistake. I should never have moved in here. I need to leave." I spent the rest of the night so upset, I was curled up in a ball in my bedroom, sobbing, while feeling completely confused and lost. I knew that I had abandonment issues (when your ex-spouse cheats on you, you can't avoid it), but he keyed in on it and seized the opportunity to exploit that issue to the hilt to heighten the drama of the night. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but I do have to admit it was effective. He got exactly what he wanted, with me crumpled on the ground, desperately begging for him not to leave me: he got to feel needed.
Someone who was given up for adoption at birth, whose adoptive parents never understood him and now have nothing to do with him, obviously would have a huge hole in his life. He needed to be needed. I can see that clearly from where I am now, but in the heat of the battle, all I knew was he was making me crazy with all of the drama. I'm an intensely independent person, mostly out of that fear of abandonment, I keep others at arm's length. This particular trait, however, was probably silently pushing his own buttons and partially causing him to stir up the drama all of the time.
I did try to help him in the best way I could at the time. I'm a naturally mothering type, and a reformed Florence Nightingale, who has a huge soft spot for strays... of course I wanted to help him, too. I learned early on that he had high blood pressure and I tried to encourage him to get him help for that, while watching his sodium intake and encouraging him to quit smoking and drink more water. Not only did I want him to live longer, I also hoped it would fix everything... but that wasn't it entirely. I also knew he most likely had ADHD, from his own admission of what he was like in school and how he couldn't stay focused long enough to read a book. So from knowledge of my own middle child, I know that ADHD folks can be adrenalin junkies... stirring up drama is a craving, really, something they do unconsciously. But there is a deeper psychological need for such behavior as a fully-formed adult.
I now realize that as someone who is super independent, I was clearly the wrong person to be helping him with that any neediness issues. I know this now, because it's easy to see from a distance... but don't think for a second that I understood any of the psychology of it while I was mired in the middle of it. I was always searching for clues, but it was all just too close to be seen in its entirety.
That first explosive weekend of living together set the tone for all of the months that would follow. Every week he would have some sort of drama, often work-related... but sometimes related to the stress of living with three teenagers under the same roof... and I would have to spend many precious hours of the weekend making him feel loved and appreciated, until he could finally do the same in return. It was exhausting. As a result, I began resenting him little by little... for ruining our time together... for being such a selfish two-year-old. I already had three children... I really didn't want another.
About once a month, his drama would escalate to the point of him threatening to move out entirely. About a month before he actually did move out, we had one of these same fights, but I told him to go... and in the middle of his screaming and stomping, I actually grabbed a bunch of large, black trash bags and started packing up his clothes. Although he ended up apologizing and staying (of course), those bags never were unpacked. Like I said: the writing was already on the wall. But because he always left his clothes all over the floor anyway, the garbage bags in the bedroom were frankly an improvement.
He did say at the end of that argument, "You know, I was going to marry you." This was one of his techniques of warming back up to me: treat me like dog poo for several hours, stomping, slamming doors, screaming... then say something extremely sentimental, and reeeeeeel me back in. It always worked, too. Was I a sucker? Sure. But I was also just relieved that the fighting was over and the nice guy had returned again. I now see how manipulative he was being, but this is how he loves.
His move out in June was inspired by me asking him a simple question on one of our silent morning drives to his work. He didn't have a functioning car since January and refused to ride the bus, insisting that I drive the 35 miles round-trip every morning in my failing 13-year-old vehicle or face more of his wrath and temper tantrums every day. I yielded, of course, but begrudgingly... scared that my old van was getting worse with each drive and he wasn't kicking in extra funds to keep it running. By June, there was much resentment between us about this drive to his work -- with me wanting him to take the bus, and him indignant that I didn't love him enough -- that we just stopped talking during the drives entirely.
The question that I broke our silence with was simple, but loaded: "In your many past relationships, when did you know a relationship was over?" I don't even remember what he said exactly, except that it involved him knowing it was over when he began fantasizing about other women. I told him that I found myself fantasizing about my life before I met him... not about another man, just about being alone again. He said nothing for the rest of the uncomfortable ride. He was silent when he returned home that night, too, and went to bed without saying a single word.
The next morning while he was in the shower, his phone rang and I saw that it was a call from his former landlord. That's when I broke the silence again by asking, "So what? Are you moving out now?" It was only then he admitted that not only was he moving out in just two days time, but he was managing to move right back into his old apartment, which was 40 minutes away... AND he'd managed to get his old job back, which was only a mile from his old apartment. I was floored, because I expected he'd talk about what he was going to do next... not rearrange his life in the course of one work day!
The most amazing part was that, essentially, he was resetting his life to exactly the way it was before he moved in with me. Even more amazing: his old boss was offering him a vehicle... the mid-90s Ford Explorer used for making bank runs and errands for the shop. So he even had wheels again! How in the heck did he manage that? I honestly don't know how many other people can make major life changes so effortlessly and so often. And that's basically how he'd lived his whole adult life. Lose one job, someone offers him another... lose one relationship, someone offers him another... lose one vehicle, someone offers him another. Truly amazing. Maybe that's why he never had patience, because things were always just so magically effortless like that. The reason he moved in with me in the first place was because he walked out of that old job and within two hours he landed another job in the same business that was much closer to my house, so living with me "just made sense" for the commute time. I didn't even have time to think about it, because he was so matter-of-fact... all I could think was, "Uh, okay. Wow. So we're doing this now, I guess."
And so I was left with the same reaction when he decided he was moving out... no input from me needed, so I just had to adjust. He was simply undoing the move/job just as effortlessly as putting on/taking off shoes. Crazy, I know. And yet, he wanted to continue dating me, which was probably the most baffling part. The night before his move was tear-filled and heart-wrenching. I was trying to let go, he was trying to hold on. He won. I didn't want to lose the good guy side of him, but to get rid of ugly, callous "Mr. Hyde," I would also have to get rid of sweet, affable "Dr. Jekyll."
Actually, after the garbage bag argument, when we were making up for the billionth time, we settled on separate names for his personalities... after he said something to the effect of:
I agreed and added the silly pet name that I'd given him early on in our relationship, using that as his last name, with a middle initial standing in for his real name. Thus "Dr. Jekyll" became: Reginald P. Donkeybundle. He soon regretted that "Reginald" had been the first name to pop into his head, because I used it often. "I love you, Reginald P. Donkeybundle. You are my favorite personality." When he was behaving badly, I was to use his real name to snap him out of it (that didn't work, of course). On the night before his move, it was Reginald who spent the night with me and wept with me over our failed experiment.
Unfortunately, his moving out did not make "Mr. Hyde" disappear, but it did mean the resurfacing of another personality, whom I hadn't seen in a while. Returning to his old life meant returning to his old way of life, and with that came all the time spent drinking copious amounts of alcohol with his 22-year-old work buddy and being cranky with me for even wanting any of his time on the phone or otherwise. This in turn would leave me cranky and exasperated with him, wondering why I was even making an effort at all anymore.
Guys... can I give you a little tip? If you find yourself in your late-30s and your best buddy is 22... you might have a problem. Not if your buddy is remarkably mature for his age, of course... but if he still acts like a frat boy having a lost weekend and encourages you to do the same... well, you probably shouldn't be dating anyone older than your buddy. It's just not very sexy to anyone over the age of 30. So not only was "Mr. Hyde" not completely gone, but now the "Dance, Monkey, Dance" man-child was back, which is what I called his peer-pressured "altered" ego.
I got to meet "Dance, Monkey, Dance" for the first time about a month into our relationship, at a belated Xmas party at his boss's house. It was the first time that I was meeting his co-workers, who were also his only friends, and their significant others, so I was hoping to be accepted and find some interesting new friends. Instead, I was met with a pair of seriously immature boys who only wanted to "get their drink on," and their stand-offish girlfriends, who were apparently still attached to P's previous girlfriend. It was not a fun night... and didn't get any better with the more they insisted on getting P drunk. From the moment the frat boy crew arrived, they were making him pound Goldschlager shots, among other things. Yeah, yuck.
After a couple of hours, P was hammered and was suggesting that everyone take off their clothes and get in the boss's hot tub. The frat boys and their girlies jumped at the chance, because they were all as hammered as P was. I refused to join in their reindeer games, because I wasn't drunk at all (hello, driving!) and I was suffering some ill effects of shellfish poisoning (crabs and shrimp were the theme of this Xmas party, for some reason).
I tried to talk him out of it, as the nubile, young buddies started stripping off to their skivvies. Not just because it was January, and the hot tub was quite some distance from the house, after having to go down a long flight of deck steps, in freezing weather, with mixed company at his BOSS's house... but because I knew something that no one else there knew: P did not wear underwear. The last thing these folks needed to see was a bearded, hairy, over-weight, middle-aged man-child totally naked and wet in sub-freezing temps. NO ONE wants to see that. And after seeing that myself, I can say straight up that even I never want to see that again. Of course, he did it anyway, using one of his socks to cover his junk. Thinking it hilarious, the young boys eventually voted P to be the one to come up to the house to ask for towels... wearing nothing but that black sock over his junk... his other black sock, since he'd somehow lost the first one. And with a 4-year-old present in the house. I'm sure she's been scarred for life. I know I was.
Yes, if this were a sitcom (as much of my life seems to play well as), there would be uproarious laughter in this moment. Instead, it was met with mortification on my part and shouts of "What? No! My eyes!" from the others.
I should have thrown him back that night, but he begged me not to break up with him and to give him another chance. My gut told me that I needed to be done with him, but he already had my heart. He assured me that it would never get worse than it had been that night, and I suppose he wasn't lying for the duration of our relationship... at least for the drinking part (although he did come close on occasion). Not even during some of his late-night drunken visits to Kroger, where he'd attempt to hump me right in the middle of the frozen foods aisle, grope me in the check out line, and then go over to the gumball machines at the front of the store, get a toy ring, get down on one knee and promise to propose to me for real when he was sober "some day." Yeah, he would do those things. With time and persuasion (sex), I was able to curb his alcohol consumption. But with less of the magical elixir that kept "Mr. Hyde" at bay, his angry side showed up more often. I only realize now that he used alcohol to counteract the rage of "Mr. Hyde" and it worked, too... he was an affable drunk. Sober, however, he was a mixed bag of nuts.
Three weeks after his June move, his continued bad attitude proved to be too much for me handle anymore. Around about Noon on the 4th of July, I had been reading a perspective-changing book (EAT PRAY LOVE) when I began to cry.
She was talking about her tempestuous break-up with her own on-again/off-again boyfriend and how she knew they needed to be apart, but it felt like she was talking about us. I couldn't hold back the tears... it resonated too deeply. When he heard me sniffling, he tried to give me a hug, but I resisted. I needed to talk and put it all on the line. I only had a vague idea of what I needed to say, but when I was done, I had said something to the essence of:
He wasn't listening anymore by the time I got to the point of saying that I didn't want to be attracted to anyone else. Instead, he was up out of the bed and getting dressed and grabbing up his belongings. He was angry at me for cheating on him in the future, basically. His exact words were, "So you're going to cheat on me. That's just great." Because that's all he heard me say before his indignation set in. And I didn't argue with him to make myself heard. Not this time. I let him go on being angry, because I realized that I just wanted him to go. And the fact that I wasn't begging for him to stay and listen to me seemed to make him even more angry. Out of context, that might seem very cold of me; but the fact is that he'd been trying to leave me for a year and I hadn't the strength to fight it anymore. His previous dramas drained that well dry.
My last ounce of energy for fighting him and trying to make things work had disappeared entirely the night before, and I even felt it slip away. He'd screamed at me for making a small purchase for my kids (3 previously viewed dvds for $20) because I still couldn't find work and he thought I was being frivolous. I was doing it because I felt bad that the kids hadn't had any good entertainment all summer, so I thought I'd get them 3 movies that I knew they'd watch over and over... I also felt that he was way out of line. He really railed on me and wouldn't let it go, after other cranky moments about all manner of things earlier that day, claiming it was just because he was hungry, I wasn't going to put up with it any more. That's when I really snapped in a big way.
To be heard and to shut him up all in one swoop, I shouted something at him as a direct attack on something completely unrelated about him being irresponsible, too. I won't get into the specifics of what I said, because it was a personal attack and shouldn't be aired here. The reason that I went there, however, was that this was a tactic he'd use on me whenever he felt the least bit cornered, but it's a tactic that I absolutely abhor. However, there I was, using the same counter-attack on him... and hating myself for it. Admittedly, it did the trick... it shut him up; but it also shut me down. That's when I knew I was done. The book was just the catalyst for what I already knew I needed to say.
On the afternoon of the 4th, as he headed for the front door, I directed him to an area of the garage where I'd been gathering the remainder of his things since his move out. This only made him angrier. Trying to bait me into an argument, he accused, "You've been planning this all week, have you?" I hadn't. I was just trying to gather his things for him, so he could have them at his place. But again, I didn't argue. I had no emotions left. I explained myself calmly as he grabbed up his boxes and shoved them into his truck. As he was about to drive off, I asked, "So are we done?" He replied, "Yes. You can change your Facebook status now," and then pealed out of the driveway in a huff. I hadn't been thinking about it, but since he mentioned it, that's exactly what I did. I can't say that it felt good, but it felt more permanent that way.
I also set about creating a memorial for the relationship, to give me some extra permanence. That part did make me feel a little better. We'd called each other "Mr. and Mrs. Awesome" from sometime around our first date, but really hadn't said that to one another in at least a year. Moving in together is what killed the Awesome's "marriage"... so I felt that creating their tombstone was only fitting ... especially since it was exactly a year earlier that we were happily visiting Oakland Cemetery to see the tornado damage, while killing some time before the Tom Waits concert.
Too bad it wouldn't be as easy as making something in Photoshop for either of us to get over this ending. Yes, there would be more drama to come... but you already knew there would be, didn't you? Like zombies, some relationships refuse to stay dead... more on that soon.
Since he'd moved in exactly a year earlier, he'd been threatening to leave. The very first weekend after he moved in, he threw the first of many huge, dramatic fits over god-knows-what anymore and that is when he said it the first time: "I made a mistake. I should never have moved in here. I need to leave." I spent the rest of the night so upset, I was curled up in a ball in my bedroom, sobbing, while feeling completely confused and lost. I knew that I had abandonment issues (when your ex-spouse cheats on you, you can't avoid it), but he keyed in on it and seized the opportunity to exploit that issue to the hilt to heighten the drama of the night. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but I do have to admit it was effective. He got exactly what he wanted, with me crumpled on the ground, desperately begging for him not to leave me: he got to feel needed.
Someone who was given up for adoption at birth, whose adoptive parents never understood him and now have nothing to do with him, obviously would have a huge hole in his life. He needed to be needed. I can see that clearly from where I am now, but in the heat of the battle, all I knew was he was making me crazy with all of the drama. I'm an intensely independent person, mostly out of that fear of abandonment, I keep others at arm's length. This particular trait, however, was probably silently pushing his own buttons and partially causing him to stir up the drama all of the time.
I did try to help him in the best way I could at the time. I'm a naturally mothering type, and a reformed Florence Nightingale, who has a huge soft spot for strays... of course I wanted to help him, too. I learned early on that he had high blood pressure and I tried to encourage him to get him help for that, while watching his sodium intake and encouraging him to quit smoking and drink more water. Not only did I want him to live longer, I also hoped it would fix everything... but that wasn't it entirely. I also knew he most likely had ADHD, from his own admission of what he was like in school and how he couldn't stay focused long enough to read a book. So from knowledge of my own middle child, I know that ADHD folks can be adrenalin junkies... stirring up drama is a craving, really, something they do unconsciously. But there is a deeper psychological need for such behavior as a fully-formed adult.
I now realize that as someone who is super independent, I was clearly the wrong person to be helping him with that any neediness issues. I know this now, because it's easy to see from a distance... but don't think for a second that I understood any of the psychology of it while I was mired in the middle of it. I was always searching for clues, but it was all just too close to be seen in its entirety.
That first explosive weekend of living together set the tone for all of the months that would follow. Every week he would have some sort of drama, often work-related... but sometimes related to the stress of living with three teenagers under the same roof... and I would have to spend many precious hours of the weekend making him feel loved and appreciated, until he could finally do the same in return. It was exhausting. As a result, I began resenting him little by little... for ruining our time together... for being such a selfish two-year-old. I already had three children... I really didn't want another.
About once a month, his drama would escalate to the point of him threatening to move out entirely. About a month before he actually did move out, we had one of these same fights, but I told him to go... and in the middle of his screaming and stomping, I actually grabbed a bunch of large, black trash bags and started packing up his clothes. Although he ended up apologizing and staying (of course), those bags never were unpacked. Like I said: the writing was already on the wall. But because he always left his clothes all over the floor anyway, the garbage bags in the bedroom were frankly an improvement.
He did say at the end of that argument, "You know, I was going to marry you." This was one of his techniques of warming back up to me: treat me like dog poo for several hours, stomping, slamming doors, screaming... then say something extremely sentimental, and reeeeeeel me back in. It always worked, too. Was I a sucker? Sure. But I was also just relieved that the fighting was over and the nice guy had returned again. I now see how manipulative he was being, but this is how he loves.
His move out in June was inspired by me asking him a simple question on one of our silent morning drives to his work. He didn't have a functioning car since January and refused to ride the bus, insisting that I drive the 35 miles round-trip every morning in my failing 13-year-old vehicle or face more of his wrath and temper tantrums every day. I yielded, of course, but begrudgingly... scared that my old van was getting worse with each drive and he wasn't kicking in extra funds to keep it running. By June, there was much resentment between us about this drive to his work -- with me wanting him to take the bus, and him indignant that I didn't love him enough -- that we just stopped talking during the drives entirely.
The question that I broke our silence with was simple, but loaded: "In your many past relationships, when did you know a relationship was over?" I don't even remember what he said exactly, except that it involved him knowing it was over when he began fantasizing about other women. I told him that I found myself fantasizing about my life before I met him... not about another man, just about being alone again. He said nothing for the rest of the uncomfortable ride. He was silent when he returned home that night, too, and went to bed without saying a single word.
The next morning while he was in the shower, his phone rang and I saw that it was a call from his former landlord. That's when I broke the silence again by asking, "So what? Are you moving out now?" It was only then he admitted that not only was he moving out in just two days time, but he was managing to move right back into his old apartment, which was 40 minutes away... AND he'd managed to get his old job back, which was only a mile from his old apartment. I was floored, because I expected he'd talk about what he was going to do next... not rearrange his life in the course of one work day!
The most amazing part was that, essentially, he was resetting his life to exactly the way it was before he moved in with me. Even more amazing: his old boss was offering him a vehicle... the mid-90s Ford Explorer used for making bank runs and errands for the shop. So he even had wheels again! How in the heck did he manage that? I honestly don't know how many other people can make major life changes so effortlessly and so often. And that's basically how he'd lived his whole adult life. Lose one job, someone offers him another... lose one relationship, someone offers him another... lose one vehicle, someone offers him another. Truly amazing. Maybe that's why he never had patience, because things were always just so magically effortless like that. The reason he moved in with me in the first place was because he walked out of that old job and within two hours he landed another job in the same business that was much closer to my house, so living with me "just made sense" for the commute time. I didn't even have time to think about it, because he was so matter-of-fact... all I could think was, "Uh, okay. Wow. So we're doing this now, I guess."
And so I was left with the same reaction when he decided he was moving out... no input from me needed, so I just had to adjust. He was simply undoing the move/job just as effortlessly as putting on/taking off shoes. Crazy, I know. And yet, he wanted to continue dating me, which was probably the most baffling part. The night before his move was tear-filled and heart-wrenching. I was trying to let go, he was trying to hold on. He won. I didn't want to lose the good guy side of him, but to get rid of ugly, callous "Mr. Hyde," I would also have to get rid of sweet, affable "Dr. Jekyll."
Actually, after the garbage bag argument, when we were making up for the billionth time, we settled on separate names for his personalities... after he said something to the effect of:
"I wish you could let me know when I'm behaving well, so I can keep doing more of that. Like when I'm good, you could call me 'Reginald' or something like that."
I agreed and added the silly pet name that I'd given him early on in our relationship, using that as his last name, with a middle initial standing in for his real name. Thus "Dr. Jekyll" became: Reginald P. Donkeybundle. He soon regretted that "Reginald" had been the first name to pop into his head, because I used it often. "I love you, Reginald P. Donkeybundle. You are my favorite personality." When he was behaving badly, I was to use his real name to snap him out of it (that didn't work, of course). On the night before his move, it was Reginald who spent the night with me and wept with me over our failed experiment.
Unfortunately, his moving out did not make "Mr. Hyde" disappear, but it did mean the resurfacing of another personality, whom I hadn't seen in a while. Returning to his old life meant returning to his old way of life, and with that came all the time spent drinking copious amounts of alcohol with his 22-year-old work buddy and being cranky with me for even wanting any of his time on the phone or otherwise. This in turn would leave me cranky and exasperated with him, wondering why I was even making an effort at all anymore.
Guys... can I give you a little tip? If you find yourself in your late-30s and your best buddy is 22... you might have a problem. Not if your buddy is remarkably mature for his age, of course... but if he still acts like a frat boy having a lost weekend and encourages you to do the same... well, you probably shouldn't be dating anyone older than your buddy. It's just not very sexy to anyone over the age of 30. So not only was "Mr. Hyde" not completely gone, but now the "Dance, Monkey, Dance" man-child was back, which is what I called his peer-pressured "altered" ego.
I got to meet "Dance, Monkey, Dance" for the first time about a month into our relationship, at a belated Xmas party at his boss's house. It was the first time that I was meeting his co-workers, who were also his only friends, and their significant others, so I was hoping to be accepted and find some interesting new friends. Instead, I was met with a pair of seriously immature boys who only wanted to "get their drink on," and their stand-offish girlfriends, who were apparently still attached to P's previous girlfriend. It was not a fun night... and didn't get any better with the more they insisted on getting P drunk. From the moment the frat boy crew arrived, they were making him pound Goldschlager shots, among other things. Yeah, yuck.
After a couple of hours, P was hammered and was suggesting that everyone take off their clothes and get in the boss's hot tub. The frat boys and their girlies jumped at the chance, because they were all as hammered as P was. I refused to join in their reindeer games, because I wasn't drunk at all (hello, driving!) and I was suffering some ill effects of shellfish poisoning (crabs and shrimp were the theme of this Xmas party, for some reason).
I tried to talk him out of it, as the nubile, young buddies started stripping off to their skivvies. Not just because it was January, and the hot tub was quite some distance from the house, after having to go down a long flight of deck steps, in freezing weather, with mixed company at his BOSS's house... but because I knew something that no one else there knew: P did not wear underwear. The last thing these folks needed to see was a bearded, hairy, over-weight, middle-aged man-child totally naked and wet in sub-freezing temps. NO ONE wants to see that. And after seeing that myself, I can say straight up that even I never want to see that again. Of course, he did it anyway, using one of his socks to cover his junk. Thinking it hilarious, the young boys eventually voted P to be the one to come up to the house to ask for towels... wearing nothing but that black sock over his junk... his other black sock, since he'd somehow lost the first one. And with a 4-year-old present in the house. I'm sure she's been scarred for life. I know I was.
Yes, if this were a sitcom (as much of my life seems to play well as), there would be uproarious laughter in this moment. Instead, it was met with mortification on my part and shouts of "What? No! My eyes!" from the others.
I should have thrown him back that night, but he begged me not to break up with him and to give him another chance. My gut told me that I needed to be done with him, but he already had my heart. He assured me that it would never get worse than it had been that night, and I suppose he wasn't lying for the duration of our relationship... at least for the drinking part (although he did come close on occasion). Not even during some of his late-night drunken visits to Kroger, where he'd attempt to hump me right in the middle of the frozen foods aisle, grope me in the check out line, and then go over to the gumball machines at the front of the store, get a toy ring, get down on one knee and promise to propose to me for real when he was sober "some day." Yeah, he would do those things. With time and persuasion (sex), I was able to curb his alcohol consumption. But with less of the magical elixir that kept "Mr. Hyde" at bay, his angry side showed up more often. I only realize now that he used alcohol to counteract the rage of "Mr. Hyde" and it worked, too... he was an affable drunk. Sober, however, he was a mixed bag of nuts.
Three weeks after his June move, his continued bad attitude proved to be too much for me handle anymore. Around about Noon on the 4th of July, I had been reading a perspective-changing book (EAT PRAY LOVE) when I began to cry.
"We had the eyes of refugees."
She was talking about her tempestuous break-up with her own on-again/off-again boyfriend and how she knew they needed to be apart, but it felt like she was talking about us. I couldn't hold back the tears... it resonated too deeply. When he heard me sniffling, he tried to give me a hug, but I resisted. I needed to talk and put it all on the line. I only had a vague idea of what I needed to say, but when I was done, I had said something to the essence of:
"If you keep treating me like this, you're only pushing me away and destroying what little bond we have left. And then one day I'll meet someone new -- maybe at a new job, who knows -- and he'll be kind and take an interest in me. And I'll be tempted to be with him, because our relationship is so rocky and frustrating. I don't want to be tempted by the kindness of others. I want to be adored by you..."
He wasn't listening anymore by the time I got to the point of saying that I didn't want to be attracted to anyone else. Instead, he was up out of the bed and getting dressed and grabbing up his belongings. He was angry at me for cheating on him in the future, basically. His exact words were, "So you're going to cheat on me. That's just great." Because that's all he heard me say before his indignation set in. And I didn't argue with him to make myself heard. Not this time. I let him go on being angry, because I realized that I just wanted him to go. And the fact that I wasn't begging for him to stay and listen to me seemed to make him even more angry. Out of context, that might seem very cold of me; but the fact is that he'd been trying to leave me for a year and I hadn't the strength to fight it anymore. His previous dramas drained that well dry.
My last ounce of energy for fighting him and trying to make things work had disappeared entirely the night before, and I even felt it slip away. He'd screamed at me for making a small purchase for my kids (3 previously viewed dvds for $20) because I still couldn't find work and he thought I was being frivolous. I was doing it because I felt bad that the kids hadn't had any good entertainment all summer, so I thought I'd get them 3 movies that I knew they'd watch over and over... I also felt that he was way out of line. He really railed on me and wouldn't let it go, after other cranky moments about all manner of things earlier that day, claiming it was just because he was hungry, I wasn't going to put up with it any more. That's when I really snapped in a big way.
To be heard and to shut him up all in one swoop, I shouted something at him as a direct attack on something completely unrelated about him being irresponsible, too. I won't get into the specifics of what I said, because it was a personal attack and shouldn't be aired here. The reason that I went there, however, was that this was a tactic he'd use on me whenever he felt the least bit cornered, but it's a tactic that I absolutely abhor. However, there I was, using the same counter-attack on him... and hating myself for it. Admittedly, it did the trick... it shut him up; but it also shut me down. That's when I knew I was done. The book was just the catalyst for what I already knew I needed to say.
On the afternoon of the 4th, as he headed for the front door, I directed him to an area of the garage where I'd been gathering the remainder of his things since his move out. This only made him angrier. Trying to bait me into an argument, he accused, "You've been planning this all week, have you?" I hadn't. I was just trying to gather his things for him, so he could have them at his place. But again, I didn't argue. I had no emotions left. I explained myself calmly as he grabbed up his boxes and shoved them into his truck. As he was about to drive off, I asked, "So are we done?" He replied, "Yes. You can change your Facebook status now," and then pealed out of the driveway in a huff. I hadn't been thinking about it, but since he mentioned it, that's exactly what I did. I can't say that it felt good, but it felt more permanent that way.
I also set about creating a memorial for the relationship, to give me some extra permanence. That part did make me feel a little better. We'd called each other "Mr. and Mrs. Awesome" from sometime around our first date, but really hadn't said that to one another in at least a year. Moving in together is what killed the Awesome's "marriage"... so I felt that creating their tombstone was only fitting ... especially since it was exactly a year earlier that we were happily visiting Oakland Cemetery to see the tornado damage, while killing some time before the Tom Waits concert.
Too bad it wouldn't be as easy as making something in Photoshop for either of us to get over this ending. Yes, there would be more drama to come... but you already knew there would be, didn't you? Like zombies, some relationships refuse to stay dead... more on that soon.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The Preamble Ramble
It's kind of funny when I think of the times that he used to mention that he was a bit dismayed that I never wrote about him, the way that I wrote about boyfriends past. I would remind him that I tended to only write about them when it was over, or when things were going wrong, so that I could understand myself in that time better. And I would assure him that he should count himself lucky that I didn't need to write about him in that light, because I felt our relationship was different... sacred, even. I know that I meant it when I said it, because I wanted to believe it. But the truth that I wasn't willing to acknowledge to him or to myself was that I was just as miserable as I was happy in our relationship. Also, I am not capable of glossing over such things when I express myself to others... not even in the written form. So I just didn't write. I thought at the time that I was having writer's block. Really, it was denial.
And it's funny now that it's over and I want to write that I still can't pull the words from my head. For the last 4 months, whenever I've sat down at the keyboard to put it all into perspective, all that comes up is a jumbled, murky mess. Then I get discouraged and drop it entirely.
Forgive me if this comes across as disjointed, too, but I am forcing myself to move past this block... in very much the same way that I have been forcing myself to move on with this life that I'm supposed to be living. I'm not doing a very good job of either, I'm afraid, but I have to stop letting both of these blocks stop me in my tracks. My hope is that by getting it all out now, this will take the form of catharsis or therapy, allowing me to move forward at last.
We met almost two years ago now. I did manage to write about that at the time, before beginning what was to be a year-and-a-half of not talking about anything, really. He came along at a time when I was disillusioned with dating and considering removing myself from the sphere of online dating entirely. All I wanted was to meet someone with whom I felt comfortable and whom I could adore. I still do, frankly. Then we could shift to immediately spending quiet nights together on the couch, watching movies together and putting the whole ugly dating world behind us.
That is sort of what happened. I had been craving long-term monogamy at last, after something like 8 years of short-term dating and not much serious. You should be careful what you wish for, as they say, because you just might get it. And in this case, what I got was a serial monogamist with two decades of long-term relationships under his belt... most of whom he'd lived with for 1-3 years, but none of whom he'd married. I didn't know why that was at the time, but I don't believe he lied to me. He just honestly refused to accept that any of that was his own fault. His belief was simply, "I guess it just wasn't in the cards. But you're different. You're perfect for me." I'm sure I was different... just like the girl before me and the girl before her, etc. Still... he managed to sweep me off my feet from our first date. I've been trying to find my footing ever since.
When he contacted me, he was only two weeks out of a nine-month, live-in relationship, which had followed close on the heels of a three-and-a-half year, live-in relationship: a pattern that he'd been repeating his whole adult life. I didn't know this for the first several months, because his own mental timeline of things was so skewed, he actually believed that there had been longer gaps between relationships. However, when I finally got him to nail things down, he basically had almost as many girlfriends as he'd had apartments and jobs over the years. A dozen or so very serious, long-term relationships is a lot for a man in his late-30s. I hope that doesn't sound judgmental. I'm not putting any value on that, but one should wonder why that sort of thing should happen... the psychology behind such a pattern.
I never understood at the time why he'd had so many long-term relationships, and he couldn't understand why it would bother me. I felt like he was just shacking up with another broad (me), which made me rather insignificant in the scheme of his life. When I would tell him such, he would swear how different I was from all the others... but the trouble was, I didn't feel different. As a matter of fact, he often seemed to be reacting towards me over stuff that had happened in years past in other relationships... like he couldn't keep in mind that I was separate from all of that. His love and his anger were both at levels that were disproportional to the amount of time we'd spent together. He also could never keep it straight that we were the exact same age. He was born only six weeks before me, and yet he'd talk like he was so much older than me. When I'd remind him each time that we were the same age, it would catch him off guard and he'd then say, "But I think of you as being much younger than me." I know he meant that as a compliment, but again... it didn't feel like one.
Meanwhile, I had remained single and mostly-unattached for the 8 years since my divorce at the time that I'd met him... and I hadn't lived with anyone else in all that time. As a matter of fact, the last time that I'd moved in with someone had been my ex-husband and that was 1993! I was hoping that living together would be a huge, significant happening in both of our lives... to be celebrated, to be taken seriously and with much compassion and honor. I wasn't expecting it to be treated as mundanely as having a bowel movement. That part still bothers me to this day, that he was so nonchalant about it all, like it happens all the time. For him, I guess it does.
What I came to realize only while living together was that this "force to be reckoned with" of a man seemed to be suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder. Correction: he didn't suffer from it; it was the people in his life who were the ones afflicted by it. He could bounce from one mood to the next, as easily as flipping a light switch. Sure, he could be a lot of fun; but it was just as likely that the could be the cruelest, crankiest man you'd ever met. And often all in the very same day... sometimes even in the same hour! He wasn't Bipolar, because he didn't have the mania where he'd get a lot done, nor did he have the extreme depression that would bring his life to a halt. He just had much shorter, slightly less-extreme (although no less confounding) mood swings. I called it his "Jekyll and Hyde" persona, because I never knew who would be walking through the door each day, which left me feeling like I was walking on egg shells all the time.
When he was good, he was very, very good. On his current dating profile under "Things I'm really good at," he lists: "Making you feel like a million bucks." It's true; he can do that. But what his profile doesn't say is that he can also make you feel like the pile of dog shit he just stepped in, without any effort on your own part at all. I'd never cried so many tears of frustration in my whole life as I had in that 18 months we were together.
And why, you wonder, would I put up with that for even one month of those 18 that we were together? I still don't fully understand it myself, to be honest. I think that because he was capable of being so loving and so much fun and such a good fit when he was "Dr. Jekyll," it made me crave those moments all the more when he was "Mr. Hyde" -- and I longed to be back in his good graces. Plus, when he was "Mr. Hyde" often for several hours at a stretch, he would come down from it so well... all apologetic and sweetness, usually somehow leading us to having make-up sex again. That kind of yo-yo relationship was probably very addictive for him, but I am not cut from that same cloth. It was all very foreign to me and left me so confused that I never knew which way was up anymore. It felt like I was always putting out fires and calming him down, just to get to some moments with the sweet, funny man whom I adored.
On occasions when I managed to keep him calm all weekend, he would thank me profusely for having such a great affect on him. He would also tell me how different I was from any other girl he'd been with before... that I was the first to not be dependent on drugs or alcohol, and the first to not be completely crazy... that I was the first to make him think about his actions, rather than cause drama. For most of our relationship, I thought his behaviors had been trained into him, reacting to these inebriated, ill-mannered women. But by the end, I realized that he was the one bringing out their dark sides... much the way he brought out mine. I hated myself at the end of our relationship. I had to become like him just to survive all of the battles, even though I am not the kind of person to ever resort to name calling or yelling at all. By the end, I was doing just that with him. And I knew it had to end.
He was a powerful force to be reckoned with in my life. It took me being completely drained and empty to finally have the strength to let go. But even after letting go, I learned that I would have to cut all ties to finally be free of him. It is that process that has me writing these words today. As of this date, I can't honestly say that I am completely free of him, but I am trying.
This is one of many steps already taken... hopefully, it's one of the last before entering a new era for me.
And it's funny now that it's over and I want to write that I still can't pull the words from my head. For the last 4 months, whenever I've sat down at the keyboard to put it all into perspective, all that comes up is a jumbled, murky mess. Then I get discouraged and drop it entirely.
Forgive me if this comes across as disjointed, too, but I am forcing myself to move past this block... in very much the same way that I have been forcing myself to move on with this life that I'm supposed to be living. I'm not doing a very good job of either, I'm afraid, but I have to stop letting both of these blocks stop me in my tracks. My hope is that by getting it all out now, this will take the form of catharsis or therapy, allowing me to move forward at last.
We met almost two years ago now. I did manage to write about that at the time, before beginning what was to be a year-and-a-half of not talking about anything, really. He came along at a time when I was disillusioned with dating and considering removing myself from the sphere of online dating entirely. All I wanted was to meet someone with whom I felt comfortable and whom I could adore. I still do, frankly. Then we could shift to immediately spending quiet nights together on the couch, watching movies together and putting the whole ugly dating world behind us.
That is sort of what happened. I had been craving long-term monogamy at last, after something like 8 years of short-term dating and not much serious. You should be careful what you wish for, as they say, because you just might get it. And in this case, what I got was a serial monogamist with two decades of long-term relationships under his belt... most of whom he'd lived with for 1-3 years, but none of whom he'd married. I didn't know why that was at the time, but I don't believe he lied to me. He just honestly refused to accept that any of that was his own fault. His belief was simply, "I guess it just wasn't in the cards. But you're different. You're perfect for me." I'm sure I was different... just like the girl before me and the girl before her, etc. Still... he managed to sweep me off my feet from our first date. I've been trying to find my footing ever since.
When he contacted me, he was only two weeks out of a nine-month, live-in relationship, which had followed close on the heels of a three-and-a-half year, live-in relationship: a pattern that he'd been repeating his whole adult life. I didn't know this for the first several months, because his own mental timeline of things was so skewed, he actually believed that there had been longer gaps between relationships. However, when I finally got him to nail things down, he basically had almost as many girlfriends as he'd had apartments and jobs over the years. A dozen or so very serious, long-term relationships is a lot for a man in his late-30s. I hope that doesn't sound judgmental. I'm not putting any value on that, but one should wonder why that sort of thing should happen... the psychology behind such a pattern.
I never understood at the time why he'd had so many long-term relationships, and he couldn't understand why it would bother me. I felt like he was just shacking up with another broad (me), which made me rather insignificant in the scheme of his life. When I would tell him such, he would swear how different I was from all the others... but the trouble was, I didn't feel different. As a matter of fact, he often seemed to be reacting towards me over stuff that had happened in years past in other relationships... like he couldn't keep in mind that I was separate from all of that. His love and his anger were both at levels that were disproportional to the amount of time we'd spent together. He also could never keep it straight that we were the exact same age. He was born only six weeks before me, and yet he'd talk like he was so much older than me. When I'd remind him each time that we were the same age, it would catch him off guard and he'd then say, "But I think of you as being much younger than me." I know he meant that as a compliment, but again... it didn't feel like one.
Meanwhile, I had remained single and mostly-unattached for the 8 years since my divorce at the time that I'd met him... and I hadn't lived with anyone else in all that time. As a matter of fact, the last time that I'd moved in with someone had been my ex-husband and that was 1993! I was hoping that living together would be a huge, significant happening in both of our lives... to be celebrated, to be taken seriously and with much compassion and honor. I wasn't expecting it to be treated as mundanely as having a bowel movement. That part still bothers me to this day, that he was so nonchalant about it all, like it happens all the time. For him, I guess it does.
What I came to realize only while living together was that this "force to be reckoned with" of a man seemed to be suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder. Correction: he didn't suffer from it; it was the people in his life who were the ones afflicted by it. He could bounce from one mood to the next, as easily as flipping a light switch. Sure, he could be a lot of fun; but it was just as likely that the could be the cruelest, crankiest man you'd ever met. And often all in the very same day... sometimes even in the same hour! He wasn't Bipolar, because he didn't have the mania where he'd get a lot done, nor did he have the extreme depression that would bring his life to a halt. He just had much shorter, slightly less-extreme (although no less confounding) mood swings. I called it his "Jekyll and Hyde" persona, because I never knew who would be walking through the door each day, which left me feeling like I was walking on egg shells all the time.
When he was good, he was very, very good. On his current dating profile under "Things I'm really good at," he lists: "Making you feel like a million bucks." It's true; he can do that. But what his profile doesn't say is that he can also make you feel like the pile of dog shit he just stepped in, without any effort on your own part at all. I'd never cried so many tears of frustration in my whole life as I had in that 18 months we were together.
And why, you wonder, would I put up with that for even one month of those 18 that we were together? I still don't fully understand it myself, to be honest. I think that because he was capable of being so loving and so much fun and such a good fit when he was "Dr. Jekyll," it made me crave those moments all the more when he was "Mr. Hyde" -- and I longed to be back in his good graces. Plus, when he was "Mr. Hyde" often for several hours at a stretch, he would come down from it so well... all apologetic and sweetness, usually somehow leading us to having make-up sex again. That kind of yo-yo relationship was probably very addictive for him, but I am not cut from that same cloth. It was all very foreign to me and left me so confused that I never knew which way was up anymore. It felt like I was always putting out fires and calming him down, just to get to some moments with the sweet, funny man whom I adored.
On occasions when I managed to keep him calm all weekend, he would thank me profusely for having such a great affect on him. He would also tell me how different I was from any other girl he'd been with before... that I was the first to not be dependent on drugs or alcohol, and the first to not be completely crazy... that I was the first to make him think about his actions, rather than cause drama. For most of our relationship, I thought his behaviors had been trained into him, reacting to these inebriated, ill-mannered women. But by the end, I realized that he was the one bringing out their dark sides... much the way he brought out mine. I hated myself at the end of our relationship. I had to become like him just to survive all of the battles, even though I am not the kind of person to ever resort to name calling or yelling at all. By the end, I was doing just that with him. And I knew it had to end.
He was a powerful force to be reckoned with in my life. It took me being completely drained and empty to finally have the strength to let go. But even after letting go, I learned that I would have to cut all ties to finally be free of him. It is that process that has me writing these words today. As of this date, I can't honestly say that I am completely free of him, but I am trying.
This is one of many steps already taken... hopefully, it's one of the last before entering a new era for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
