Lesson

On the Thursday, I walked into The Bar and was faced with two particularly awful sights. One, I came face to face with the object of my unrequited affection out on a date with another woman. Two, I came face to face with the newer man; who after I had decided to take a risk and text him, had remained inexplicably and predictably silent.

On the Saturday, I walked into a church and watched a couple I barely know tie the knot in forever-ness.

On the Monday, I walked into therapy and proceeded to spew such hatred for the human race–particularly for the male subset of our species–that my therapist was speechless.

On the Tuesday, I walked into an emergency room and allowed doctors to admit me overnight for a Crohn’s related infection.

On the Thursday, I walked into The Store to unload brand new items for the Christmas season.

Today, I walked into a church and watched as my nephew was baptized.

***

In the last ten days, I feel I experienced the full breadth of a life. And this is what I observed:

It is beautiful and it is horrible.

In its beauty we learn to pause. And in its horribleness we learn to move.

 

Sunday

Last night, I flitted like a social butterfly around The Bar. A fake smile on my face; allowing a faux excitement to dance in my eyes.

I’ve met many men over the last two months. Probably, more than the entire five years that I’ve been single. Yesterday, they all seemed to descend on my local; one more disappointing than the other. This one is too young. (Most of them are too young); that one is too good looking to be trusted. He’s shallow. I have nothing in common with that one. This one’s not interested in me in that way. That one is unavailable even if he was; he doesn’t have Zing…!*

None of them have Zing…!

None of them even come close to comparing to Him. I came to that conclusion while driving home. I knew that I’m nowhere near ready to move on or forward or over.

But I know that I have to because that’s what you are supposed to do. I know that I have to because Jack Penate says that I should. (And because his voice is captivating and because melody is the language of the soul I should listen to him.)

I listen and hope that one day, soon, I’ll manage to ‘pull my heart away’.

(*Zing…! Not my own word; rather that of my new friend and awesome-st wing woman ever, A)

Confession: Part Two

A little over three months ago, I confessed that I had not been on an airplane in two years.

As usual, you were all lovely and understanding and flooded my comment box with tips and stories and advice. I was ready to get on a plane and make the trip for my best friend’s engagement party.

Except, when the big day arrived,  I did not get on that plane.

I managed to get to the airport. I managed to wait in line. I managed to check in–while sobbing uncontrollably. But I never managed to even begin walking to the departure gate.  The Xanax didn’t work. Somehow, my panic was no match for the chemicals.My fear had paralyzed me.

The next 24 hours rank right up there with the most traumatic experiences of my life. In all my adult life, I have not  felt like such a failure as I did that day. In all my adult life, I have not felt less understood as I did on that day. Slowly, as the news trickled down to all the relevant people, my panic grew fiercer. The reactions were diverse. An overwhelming silence from the friends that were already on the island waiting to pick me up at the airport. Rage from my brother who believes in ‘tough love’. Anxiousness and guilt from my mother. My sister and The Best Friend were proud. “You fucking made it to the airport! You checked in! You took your first step!”

Over the course of the next month, which coincided with the first three weeks of my relationship with him, I self-medicated myself with Xanax every single day. I was chain smoking. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep without a pill.

I told no-one.

(I don’t recommend this strategy)

Sure, there were conversations had–here and there–about what happened. And all of them made me feel worse. He was a good distraction from all these things. My mind was filled with him; purposefully. If I allowed myself to not think of him I would have to deal with the plethora of guilt, disappointment and fear that I felt inside. What kind of person misses their best friend’s engagement? What kind of person can’t get on a plane? What kind of person can allow irrational fear to consume her in this way? But the one question that replayed itself over and over in my mind was the most frightening of all.

“Was this going to be my life for ever?”

I say I was at peace when I met him. And I was. But, beneath the peace was all of this. I was dealing with all of this while trying to begin a relationship. That it failed, therefore, is not surprising. That I broke down–completely–when it ended was inevitable.

I am not ashamed of my panic attack disorder or the depression. (The two seem to go hand in hand.)  But, I do hate it. It gets in my way. It ruins relationships–friendships and romances, it causes tension in my family and it stops me from living exactly the kind of life that I want to live. But, it is here. Over the last year, I have tried to avoid it while also trying to defeat it. After the troubling summer I had, I realized that I can’t avoid it. I can’t control it. I can’t defeat it without the proper tools. I learned that this is one battle that I have to face on my own. That those around me will never, really, understand it.  I learned that others will never really accept it.

These realizations were–and continue to be– isolating.

But, I know that I”m not alone. According to the UK’s National Health Service, at least 10% of the world’s population suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder. There are a lot of us out there. And so I wanted to put out part of my story. Its fragmented and all over the place, I know. But, its fragmented and all over the place in my head.

Perhaps, in time, I will be able to make sense of it; express it more eloquently. But for now, the admission that I am a phobic is all the sense I can make.

Twenty dates

After the first date, I sent an email to my four closest friends. The subject read, “Would it be too much if I said I met my soul mate?”

On the sixth date, I was certain I had. It was this feeling in my gut that translated into happiness and peace and calmness. People I hardly knew would look at me and laugh, “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” I was radiating complete confidence, self acceptance and joy.

On the tenth date, I realized that my soul mate was not actually perfect, I began to withdraw out of fear.

On the twelfth date, I realized that my soul mate, while far from perfect, was also not looking for the same thing I was. “I just want to be left alone.” he had said. I–single for the majority of my life–understood that sentiment; I didn’t even take it personally. “OK” I countered. “I can leave you alone.” He–in committed, long term relationships for most of his life–did not know what he wanted. “No, don’t leave me alone” he had replied.

On the seventeenth date, I could feel my soul mate chickening out. He had got caught up in something far more complex than he was ready for; he couldn’t handle it.

On the eighteenth date, I was so scared that the end was near that I withdrew even more. I pushed him further away. Then, I pulled him closer. Then, I pushed him away again. He employed the exact same strategy.

On the twentieth date, we both gave up.  He made a choice and I did not even attempt to fight for what I wanted. All because of fear, insecurity, bitterness and anger of issues that had nothing to do with him. I suspect he unfairly judged me and our brief affair in the same way that I did.

Two months later, I still believe that I met my soul mate. But sometimes, even when soul mates do meet, it doesn’t mean that they will–or should–be together.

He wasn’t the one. But he was a kindred spirit. He was a soul mate. And for this reason alone, I still miss him.

Fuck.

Blush

I remember the good ol’ days when all I would think about was blogging.

I would compose blog posts in my head, in the shower, while driving, on the back of receipts while standing in line at the supermarket. Nowadays, I have a writer’s notebook. And in it, I write. The need to share my writing has waned. Because my need to expose myself has waned. As much as I would like to be the kind of blogger that posts every day about anything and everything, I can’t be. When I sit down to write, even fiction, it is always those inner, inner thoughts about fears and love and relationships and truth and death and meaning.

I don’t do small talk (Well, I do but it makes me uncomfortable) so, I’d rather not post about small things. (Even though I have opinions about all of that lovely stuff like my insane obsession with Jon Stewart and leggings)

The truth is that I’m embarrassed.

In July, I honestly believed that I had found The One. And I blogged about it in the way that I have always done. With absolute abandon and no regard to the future. But I swear I was certain. I was convinced that this blog was about to evolve from single girl to attached girl. That its very name ‘Hope Dies Last’ would finally be a source of real and documented inspiration.

But then it all blew up in my face.

And for the very first time in my blogging experience I was utterly and completely mortified.

What on earth possessed me to share yet another romance and the subsequent rejection to the masses? How many times do my readers really need to read the same exact experience? And oh my god, in the last three years, I seem to be having the same exact experience over and over again; with four different men.

I’ve always maintained that I’m not that fussed about the impression that I give people; on and off line. But this time, for unclear reasons, I gave a damn. I was embarrassed by this rejection. And I didn’t want to write about it because I was embarrassed. But it was the only thing I wanted to write about. And so I just stopped writing.

I’m still a little red around the cheeks. But I think its time that I jumped back on the metaphorical horse and be the blogger that I was; the blogger that I am. The only kind of blogger that I know how to be.