Inside My Head
I stare at my phone on and off throughout the day. What’s the harm in sending him a song he’d like? None, right? Wrong. I pick my phone up just to put it down again. I add the contact back just to delete it again. I wish I had a shittier memory, the phone numbers always stick. I consider doing what I want just to talk myself out of it for the sake of “healing”.
“You deserve better,” my friends say, “we knew he wasn’t the one.” “Why do you even want to talk to him?” “What’s the point?” “The letter was manipulative.” “The letter didn’t matter.” None of it mattered, really. It was a lesson. It was a fun time. It was a waste of time. It was a period of time. It was what it was.
“I think he’s your end game,” “everyone was rooting for you two,” “maybe now that you’ve both grown it will be different!” It won’t. People want a love story with a happy ending; they don’t all end that way.
I seem to be more okay with my outcome than everyone else does. I watch them have hopes and dreams for my love life and wonder if I should be missing him more. Should I be angrier? They seem angry. Should I be sadder? They seem sad.
I struggle to figure out how I feel while I drown in the input of others. I watch my friends get married and remember when I was among them. Happy, in love, sure of who I was with and what I was doing. At least I thought I was. Was I in love, or was I trauma bonded? Was I sure of that person, or did I just want them to be sure of me? How much of my love has just been me needing someone to need me?
I used to be a hopeless romantic, now I’m not so sure I ever was. “You need someone smart,” “you need someone patient,” “you need an engineer,” “you need a Taurus.” A blonde! A young single dad! Someone’s second wife! Have you tried girls? Focus on your career. Focus on yourself. “We just want what’s best for you.”
I absorb it all wide-eyed like a child, the thoughts and idealizations of others ringing so loud in my ears that I can’t hear the whispers of what I want at all. What the fuck do I want?
“People have a lot of ideas about how I should be living my life all of a sudden,” I tell my therapist. “Maybe because you’re finally letting them see you,” she responds. “How do I know how I feel about it though? How do I hear myself when everyone’s talking at once?” “You set boundaries. You tell people you need them to listen. That you do not need advice.” But I do need advice. At least I think I do, right?
Boundaries are going to be the fucking death of me, I swear to God.
For a few days, I say very little. A wedding forces me to mourn a love I never allowed myself to heal from. A vacation ends and I go back to avoiding Tank Farm road. A promotion forces me to realize I still want him to say he’s proud of me. Why? Which one? Jesus Christ, Rachel. Get it together.
Outside My Head
I sit on the couch opposite my two roommates, each of us holding a glass of wine. We pull cards designed to spark intimate conversation from a little red box I received as a gift for my last birthday. Kelly is ecstatic; Allison and I are mortified.
We start easy; we laugh at some answers and allow others to spark a longer conversation. Cards we’ve read are flipped around and put in the back of the deck. The glass bottle sits empty on the table.
It’s my turn. Kelly pulls a card and falls silent. “What?” I ask. “Oh, we don’t have to do this one,” she says nervously. “No, what is it?” I ask, curious what question she’s so afraid to ask me. The card reads: how has your childhood or upbringing shaped your sexuality?
Oh.
“We can just skip it,” Kelly says. Allison watches my face. “No,” I say slowly, “no, I can answer it.”
Stories about my first sexual encounter lead to follow-up questions. Follow-up questions lead to different discussions. They ask how it all happened. I tell them I was a golden child, a horribly angry teenager, and now a relatively normal adult. “How did you stop being angry?” Late night walks downtown and a name I almost shared come to mind. “All things considered, it’s impressive you turned out as okay as you did. People struggle to be normal even with two great parents,” Allison says. “It doesn’t feel like it was hard enough,” I respond. “What do you mean?” they ask.
I explain how I feel the need to suffer for the good things in my life. If a relationship is too easy, it can’t possibly be love. If I get promoted, surely I don’t deserve that. Sure, I worked 14-hour days 6-days a week for a few months, but it should have taken more than that. People want to connect with me. Why? They don’t even know me. “But then when something bad happens, you think you deserve that instantly,” Allison chimes in. “Yes,” I reply.
I ask if we can be done. Kelly says no. She points out how I only look at Allison when I talk about my childhood. “You pick out the person in the room you think will understand the best, and you only look at them. You haven’t looked at me once.” As someone who usually does the observing, it is wildly uncomfortable to be observed. They tell me they know I haven’t been okay. I ask how. Apparently, there’s a difference between getting your shit done and staying on top of things and actually convincing people you’re fine. I didn’t know I wasn’t fine, but maybe that’s part of the problem.
So here I stand, recognizing that in order to be truly loved, I will have to be seen. I will have to be vulnerable. I will have to be hurt. I will have to allow myself to miss people. I will have to allow people to love me.
I play Wordle daily and send my score to someone who wants to love me; it’s all the intimacy I can handle.
And so we practice by writing our vulnerability. Hoo-fucking-rah.
To be completely real, as a man, it'd be incredibly difficult to receive the slightest hint of possibility in a situation like this. All contact does is keep us holding on to pieces of the ideal relationship we thought we had.
I've had an incredibly tough time letting go of a feeling I thought was true love, and it didn't involve proposal or marriage, so I can only imagine what you and your ex are going through.
We're no contact by the way -- she hasn't reached out to me once, but i've reached out multiple times to her (embarrassing, lol. not happening again. i know i deserve better) anyways...
I'd try moving away from the triggers - the people, the places, the things that keep you holding on to the past. Your environment keeps you living in a loop -- there's only one way to break out of it. The sad reality? Fri(ends) play a big part in this too. sometimes, saying goodbye to the people who know the most about you is the only way to let go of what you've framed your life as.
I hope you can find peace in the chaos. The mountains and the ocean are a great place to heal.
-LOVO
Bro.... you are novel writing material!