Password protected: Part Two

As I recall it now, the night seemed never-ending as if the world itself were to begin–brand new–on this night. I guess that’s what beginnings really are; fresh starts. A chance for change.  Protecting my heart has never been the way I do beginnings. Maybe, I should this time? I thought.

And I tried, I really did.

The hour hand  had steadily made its way towards 3 a.m and we had finally found an abandoned table.

We huddled together; a group of us and he managed to squeeze in next to me. I inched to the right–to make more space for him–he inched closer. I moved a little more, he came in closer.

‘We can do this all night.’ he said and laughed. I stayed put. He was now potential and all my defenses were up but if I moved any more I would very likely fall off the couch. I was struggling with a conflict;  heartache and new heartbeats. To err on the side of caution,  I began to pay a little more attention to him. I listened carefully to his answers trying to decide if he would be the one that would call and then call again and then call again until it didn’t even matter if he was calling because I would know that he would. Or if he would be the one–like all the others–that would call, encourage me to fall and then yank the earth under my feet.

But what can you tell of a person’s character and intentions when you’re both too busy trying to come up with the best Cartman lines?

When he excused himself to take a phone call I had a perfect chance. ‘It must be a girl’ I thought, ‘Who calls after 3 a.m?’  He returned and I turned my back to him. He immediately noticed. ‘Hey, are you alright?’ The banter continued. I’m only human. Then, I remembered that his four-year old relationship had ended four months ago so I turned my back to him again. I’ve been the rebound. It sucks. But he wouldn’t give up; my wavering attention–the hot/cold vibes I was unwittingly emitting–seemed to spark his interest even more.

But these signs, the phone call, the recently single, were warnings. And struggling with heartache and new heartbeats I made the decision that the night should end before I opened my heart–not to him–but to hope once again. I informed A and she agreed.  He convinced us to stay a while longer. Ten minutes later, we tried to leave again. This time he put up a fight. Him and A argued as you do when you’re drunk. I–stone cold sober–attempted to defuse the situation. But with no luck.

A night of distraction turned into potential and then that potential, with only my own fears in my way, suddenly ended almost as unexpectedly as it had begun.

And I–sensitive I–who had spent much of the night wrestling with giving in to hope thought that I was now without any.

Poof! Gone!

The next three weeks passed in an anxious, cynical jaded furor. Mostly because no matter the amount of hours I have spent crying into pillows, my damn heart seems to be made of indestructible hope. I always believe–mind you without any evidence–that the next one will be different. That (to paraphrase Taylor for symmetry purposes) I’m going to fucking find someone someday who might actually treat me well. (I imagine she doesn’t swear).

Perhaps my big love story is around the corner.  Through the mutual friend grapevine, as of today I am in possession of his telephone number–the one he requested to be given to me. Maybe, this isn’t my big love story. Who honestly knows?

But even though, I  can still see and feel the heartache of the summer in full HD quality and smashing surround sound,  the power of the new, trembling heartbeats is far too tempting.

Maybe, this one will be different. Maybe, password protecting my heart is the smarter choice; just in case he isn’t. (Most likely, he isn’t.)

But don’t I owe it to myself to find out?

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.

Reachable

A couple of months ago, I was hopping across the internet when I landed on a website. This website, which I can no longer find, had the body measurements of most celebrities. According to this ever trusting source, Jennifer Aniston and I share the exact same weight, height and breast size.

Only difference is that my body looks nothing like hers.

For one, I look terrible in shorts. For two, my legs are nowhere killer status. I have great hair though.

But, as always, this got me thinking of potential. I could–if I tried–have one of the most sought after bodies on the planet. I imagine that Jennifer has been on a regimented diet and workout schedule for over a decade. I hear the words regimented, diet and workout schedule and I begin to wheeze and pant as if I have already run a marathon. The point is that if I wanted to, I could have her body. This is not some absurd, lofty dream. Its an actual possibility. Same height, weight and breast size? Check. Same curves? Check.  Similar Greek genes? Check.

It could happen.

Going after an A-list body is not my goal though.  But, the idea that with consistently hard work what appears to be unreachable can be achieved is hard to un-realize. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a published story teller.  And for as long as I can remember that seemed impossible; an absurd naive dream of a girl. See,  life gets in the way. You learn that its not easy; that there are millions of writers. You don’t stand out. Then, life actually gets in the way.  Bills need to be paid. Success is measured by the amount of money you can flaunt; the amount of names you can drop; the number of zeros at the end of a paycheck. So, even though you’re a writer, you write other people’s ideas. The ones that pay.

It’s depressing.

So, when it occurred to me that–with some effort–I could actually have Jennifer Aniston’s body; then it occurred to me that I could–with some effort–actually be a published novelist.

And that?

That’s fucking exciting.

What do you think you could do or be if you put in the effort that is required?