A review of the decade

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?

Unsent

Dearest Anon,

It was lovely seeing you again too.

When we sparred–my ice tinged words piercing our truths with humor; your words grazing old wounds with freshly familiar vagueness–I yearned for night to stand still. I longed for your words to desert you; for me to remain silent; a mime on pause dripping tar soaked tears.

You are but one tear that slides–no, that tears mercilessly–across the blemished face of time.

And I am time; a constant second hand reminder. A tick tocking record keeper of all we were; all we could have been.

But the night, it couldn’t stand still–even for time. And when we parted, when we said goodbye, when we stood face to face it occurred to me that you’re shorter than I remember. Yet, your eyes still wrinkle when you smile. Your lips still smirk when you evade.You haven’t changed at all.

In sad fact, while it was lovely seeing you too, time seems to have changed nothing.

I still want to be your record keeper.

E

Password protected: Part One

Some time ago–could be five weeks now–I saw a man from across a room.  He had all the physical characteristics that make my heart jump to my throat. Perfect distraction material; my stupid heart still pines pathetically for another. While the notion of unrequited affection is dramatically (and painfully) romantic moving on is actually the sole alternative.

He had a disarming smile; intelligent, soft eyes and most importantly (to fulfill my masochistic needs) he looked right through me. Of course, I was intrigued. Two days later, we were introduced by a mutual friend. Upon closer inspection, he had additional positive traits. Age appropriate, an Antipodean mother but raised in Greece. Fluent English. Up close, the smile was even sexier because now it was directed at me. Cue heart leaping acrobatics.

A week after that, we ran into each other at The Bar II (I’m broadening my horizons, people.) To my surprise, he spent much of the night hitting on me. (I spent much of the night searching for Ashton Kutcher.)  The rules as issued by The Universe are clear. The guy you’re not attracted to? He will hit on you. The one you’re drawn to? He will ignore you, or break up with you or fall in love with your best friend.

The Universe must have been temporarily down due to maintenance because directly before he spilled his drink on me and right after I found out his favourite band is The Killers , he asked for my number.

But in a way that no self-respecting woman can give without appearing desperate. Then again, I am certain that if I was more charming–more hero in heroine–I would have serendipitously  found a magic marker and scrawled it on his arm while he looked on with an intoxicated grin. But to paraphrase Taylor Swift; Dudes, this ain’t  Hollywood.

Him: I love this song!

Me: Never heard it!

Him: *SHOCK*

Me: What?

Him: Oh, this isn’t going to work out. I’m walking away.

Me: OK.

Him: *SMILE* [Standing surprisingly still]

Me: I thought you were walking away.

Him: How can you not know this song? When was the last time you went out?

Me: It’s been awhile.

Him: Well then you should give me your number so I can take you out.

Me: *NERVOUS GIGGLE*

Definitely not Hollywood.

But, the night continued. He appeared unfazed by my (lets call it) coyness. He vied for my attention; coming to my side when he could; touching me on the wrist, on the arm, around the waist at appropriate times. When he spilled his fifth vodka/lime across my lace dress–bought three months ago for another man in mind–he apologized and  I simply gestured nonchalantly ‘Don’t even worry about it.’

Distractions are all well and good while you’re pining another; but every so often  the line between distraction and potential appears paper-thin. The slightest shift in wind and suddenly you’re on the other side doubled over screaming into a mascara smeared pillow ‘Why can’t I be loved?’

I felt the wind change direction directly after he spilled his drink on me and right before he took the executive decision that I–somehow– now owed him a kiss.

He patted me down with his bare hand as if skin alone can absorb moistness. My hand traveled down my own body to vodka on lace. A flash forward memory; as of yet un-spilled tears jolted me back into reality. This is what I do. I am smitten far too easily by smiles and distractions and these games.  But,  I want too much to let simplicity win me over. I’m far too ready for more to be swayed by a one night interest; a moment. I open my heart far too early.

I attempted to move away from him. He held onto me; forcing me with his gaze to look at our entwined hands.

I was smitten, won over, swayed. He had just transferred from distraction to potential.

And I–stupid I–completely forgot to password protect my heart.

To be continued…

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.