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.

Best daddy issue ever

My therapist believes that I am on the brink of a breakthrough.

This is all at once an exciting and terrifying change of pace; ever since she’s known me I seem to have been going from breakdown to breakdown.Actually, ever since you’ve all known me I seem be going from breakdown to breakdown.  Right?

These mini-breakdowns have all been preceded by some form of rejection or abandonment by a man.  I have always known–intellectually, at least–that I have daddy issues. Father died abruptly at a critical juncture in my development. Of course, I have daddy issues. I have watched enough movies, read enough books and related to Meredith Grey far too well to not know this. I did not need a therapist to point it out to me. But it seems that I did need a therapist to dig a little deeper and allow me to understand this on an emotional level.

I did need a therapist to show me that my daddy issues are not there simply because he died. “Isn’t it strange” she asked me, “That in 16 months of therapy all I know about your father is that he died? You spent 11 years with him, Hope. How was your relationship with him when he was alive?”

I was floored. Yes. At some point in my life, I did have a father.  Spontaneous, soft tears burst forth and I used a phrase I have never used in therapy before.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Resistance. This is the stuff that therapists’ wet dreams are made of.

But in her wily shrink ways she had been preparing me for this moment for 16 months. All those sessions led to this one session. For 16 months I danced around the topic. She let me. Today, she probed further. And I finally broke down and allowed her to do her job.

Today I know something that I didn’t know yesterday.

Every time a man leaves me, or rejects me or doesn’t want me I allow myself to finally grieve for the father I never mourned. Not because I didn’t want to or because I didn’t feel to, but because I just didn’t know how to.

Yes. I am definitely on the brink of something here and I really, really hope it’s a breakthrough.

His/hers

This is the way it works after you’ve been disappointed or broken or burned.

I mean–I suppose–that this is how it works.You test, and you attempt to conceal and you give away very little.  You give, I suppose, just enough for her to be slightly confused. It is not a rejection. But not an acceptance either. You’re careful. Far more careful than you should be because this new person is new and so it stands to reason that she has no real power over you.  Yet you’re still careful.

You spend all day preparing a glorious meal that will be enjoyed by your closest. You worry if there will be enough for all. You worry about the seating. The music. So, you spend all day preparing. You enjoy the preparation. Your voice bubbles over with excitement. But you still worry. You worry about the way you should introduce her. Then, in order for there to be no confusion, you call her and you inform her–matter of fact–that you will be introducing her by her first name. Done. Now what’s next?  You spend all day preparing and when she arrives you’re so busy that you fail to introduce her to anybody.

But, she manages to make introductions all the same; without your help. You’re not aware of it completely but you imagine that she is smiling and making small talk. You worry when it comes to your attention that your friend knows her sister. You joke, “That is not good at all.” But your joke lands on three blank stares. Then, you realize that you have no idea what that meant. So, you laugh. The laugh that you know she likes in the hope that you’ll unnerve her into forgetting. Then, you’re off again. Executing. Controlling.

This is you.  This is your life. And it needs to be perfect.

***

You try to avoid the slurred “I did not know Greek women were this beautiful” and you attempt to steal already stolen glances in his direction. He’s far too busy creating a perfect evening to notice. Jet lagged New Yorkers hop from single girl to single girl and somewhere in the middle you realize that you are in the middle. Not yet wanted exclusively. But not rejected completely either.

So when when you meet a girl who knows your sister and this girl who knows your sister asks you, “So how do you know him?” you do not know the correct response. And because you haven’t been accepted (but not rejected either) you vaguely reply, “Oh, you know through so and so.”

You fight back by now redundant tears because you’re tired of this. You’re tired of drunk men that use flattery to pass the time at a party. You’re tired of not knowing where you stand. Not with this particular man, at this particular time,  but the collective men that have gone in and out of your life. Can just one feel like it will stick? Just one time. Please let it be this time?

You look out into the midnight sky and find a star that you think is a star but its so bright that it could easily be a satellite. A silent satellite orbiting the earth capturing snap shots of disappointments that are so strong that you imagine scientists that study these images are sitting in offices wondering, “Did you see that? Did you see that pulse? There. And there. And there. What IS that?” you imagine them whispering; these scientists.

It is the collective rise of a breath filled with hope and that pulse? That is the collective intake of breath, as single woman after single woman is sucker punched in the gut. In that exact place where all her feelings of ‘certainty’, of female intuition come from.  You wonder if any other single girls out there are accidentally wishing on satellites (instead of stars; in that case you’re not the only one fooled by brightness)  and you wonder if this is the reason that you’re all still single.

Then, a soft–almost sad–giggle escapes your lips.

This is  your life. This is you. And you’re nowhere near perfect.