Why I Never Intend to Marry

More than one man in this world thinks I’m crazy. Most of the time, I would have to agree. But lately, clarity rules in ways that are mystifying…and terrifying.

Strangely, pregnancy seems to both magnify and subdue my usual rants and tantrums. The words are more bitter, the reactions quicker and more fierce. At the same time, my blood pressure remains neutral, and a shocking lack of physical symptoms accompanies my outbursts. It is as though my emotions are reserved only for this tiny life inside me, and only my thoughts and words carry venom.

The Long Way Around

As I walked the Terrible Twosome around the village of Hoosick Falls today, I was struck by how the simplest things can bring back waves of long-buried emotions, releasing cobwebs from the heart and replacing them with billowing dustclouds of painful nostalgia. Today it was the slightest crispness in the air–not our usual coat weather, but the first hintings of spring that signal a real change in season. While I know it was only a tease, a pre-cursor to tonight’s snow, it poked at my aching heart just a little.

Manifesting Destiny

My luck has been greatly decreased by my habit of rushing into relationships with my bleeding heart held firmly out in front of me, chasing emotionally unavailable men who cannot escape quickly enough. Somehow, the fact that their backs are turned as they move away quickly in the other direction has escaped my notice, each and every time. I’ve begun to question my grip on reality, especially after seeing the smiling photos of one recent non-boyfriend with his MUCH older ladyfriend, with whom he re-entered into a relationship while I was still under the impression we were dating. He seems truly happy–if he is indeed capable of a positive emotion–and that really pisses me off.

The Bitter Taste of da Feet

I’ve heard a lot of people compare heartbreak to getting kicked in the teeth. I don’t know about all that. In my estimation, the pain is more like being hit with a spinning fly-kick to the gut.

To me, the worst part of being a dumpee is that moment, mere hours into a breakup, when the man predictably says, “Why don’t you just get over it.” It’s not so much a question, either. If he’d inflect at the end just a little bit, and turn it into a conversation starter, I’d answer him. I want to answer him. But it’s just a statement, akin to “oh, silly girl, you and your invalid feelings might as well walk away and follow my feelings right out the door. I’m soooooooo over you.”

Lonesuckiness and the Art of Biding Time

I spent the day alone. Aloneness is something to which I’ve grown accustomed over the past few years. Sure, I’ve had so-called “romances,” which largely consisted of my doting on selfish men who lacked any interest in my wellbeing; but for the most part, I’ve spent my time alone with my furry friends, contemplating life and wishing I had a better handle on it. Most times, I was alone, but not lonely.

When today began, I was lonely. By midday, I was as lonely as I’d ever been. And that was while I still had a boyfriend.

Trash, and Re-Trash

One of the great “joys” of dog parenting is the wacky way they mess with your stuff every time you turn your back. Beds get unmade, laundry piles get “re-sorted,” and disgusting cast-offs make their way out of the trash can and into the unlikeliest of places. Things that otherwise wouldn’t be eaten, such as banana peels and eggshells, are made attractive by their placement in a trash receptacle. I’ve even found traces of dog-vomit stains on sofas, containing pieces of bubble wrap.

Dogs are wacky and dirty, yes, but there is a certain air of predictability in their destructive antics.

Revenge, Best Served Sweet

By now, the whole world knows that I now know what the whole world already knew I didn’t know: Daniel Tarquino is a lying, womanizing piece of garbage.

The magic of modern technology is this: everything you need to know, you can absolutely find out by clicking your mouse just the right number of times. I’m a master clicker. When I have a suspicion or a theory, nothing can stand between me and the information I seek. The Colombian has learned this the hard way.

Nice Guys Finish

When I met The Colombian, he reminded me of Married Guy. It wasn’t his physicality, or the words he used. In the beginning, it was the feeling I had when I encountered him, and then when we shared conversation, and then when we went on dates. It was that I felt pulled to him from my very core. It wasn’t an attraction of the heart, or of the mind, or of the body; it was a combination of all three, centered on the soul. I hadn’t thought I could feel that way again. My emotions had been switched off as an act of self-preservation.

Letting it Out

I have this ongoing problem.  I can’t control my mouth.

I know, I know…that’s a shock.  I’ve always been so shy and retiring.  But seriously, folks, I struggle daily with issues of anger and irritation.  Working with the public as I do has become a constant test of my will and self-control.  I’ve already lost complete rein over my facial expressions.  I’ve seen the response to my “Jeez, you’re an asshole” face, and it ain’t good.  One of these days, it will have me in trouble.

The emotional roller coaster that is my life in NY has got me spewing feelings at anyone and anything that will listen.  Living alone has made me tender instead of tough, and has increased my deep need to be heard.  I scream at bad drivers through the car window, and spit back hatefully at boneheaded comments on the television.  But I save the real gems for the people who surround me in life.  Those are my coworkers, my customers, and, of late, The Colombian.

How Daniel became a target is pretty easy to figure.  At some point, he stopped really talking to me.  He stopped sharing his feelings, stopped engaging in the difficult conversations.  As he withdrew, he became like one of the inanimate objects at whom I throw my darkest venom.  When he refused to answer my questions, or counter my negativity with argument, it made the anger and frustration grow. 

His tactic in the face of anger is to become stone-silent, and to let it pass.  (Always with a pissed-off look on his face, of course.)  But as I would begin to feel more alone in a conversation, I would start to panic, and my blood would begin to boil.  My raised voice only caused him to clam up that much more.  Sometimes I wonder if, had he known the reaction he was causing, he would have chosen to simply engage in the conversations.  In my mind, I picture myself growing more calm as he would engage in spirited debate.  I love debate.  I don’t have to win.  I just have to be heard.  And when I am heard, I am far more able to listen.

Now I sit here, more alone than I was before.  My body is full of mucus and rot.  I do nothing to quell the symptoms.  I do not take drugs, and I do not try to make it stop.  I need to let it out.  I need to let it pass.  This is how I deal with sickness.  This is also how I have also dealt with negative emotions in my life of late.  I have thought that by letting them out, I would let them pass.

Unfortunately, this has had the opposite effect.  The more anger and hatred I’ve spewed at Dan, the more angry he’s become.  His affection for me was murdered by my irrational outbursts.  And letting my feelings out has not made me feel better.  It has not helped me to move on.  It has made things worse.

My intellect knows this.  I see myself making bad decisions, preparing to say things I shouldn’t, to share feelings that hadn’t ought to be shared…and I can’t seem to stop it.  Something about his stony silence just sends my emotional temperature through the roof, and causes me to explode.  That he doesn’t react to it in any way only magnifies the feelings.  It is like being buried in a coffin of grief, so far under the earth that no one can hear my screams.  Only lately have I realized that it is a coffin in which I put myself.

That doesn’t make it any easier to escape.  I locked myself in it, and now I want back out.  It seems that the only way out of it is through peace and understanding; but which comes first?  The understanding?  Or the peace?

A few weeks ago, when Dan and I began “re-dating,” I had decided to just let the anger go.  I thought I could put it aside, start over, and be peaceful.  But he had hurt me, badly.  And the hurt didn’t go away when he was back in my life.  With no apologies from him, no conversation about what went wrong, the hurt began to resurface.  The ex-girlfriend began to resurface.  The questions about why he was so cold, why he refused to engage in the conversations, resurfaced.  And along with it came the opposite of peacefulness.  Out came the rage.

I’ve tried to seek Understanding first.  But understanding from whence the pain comes hasn’t done anything to heal it.  It only reminds me that there is pain.  Advice from others to “let him go” does nothing to heal what is wrong inside me.  I need the peace, and the understanding.  In order to move on, I need the pain to go away.

Sunrise at the Inn

There has to be some kind of a midpoint between bottling it up and pretending it is all okay; versus spewing rage and every complex emotion at him.  I can’t seem to find that midpoint.  There was a time when he would allow me to express my feelings in a constructive manner, and we would talk about what to do with that.  But because the “conversations” are now one-sided, the anger increases.  The need to be heard will not be met.

In a way, it may be acceptable that, because he is not a part of my life, I let fly all my emotional baggage in his direction.  There is no harm to our relationship, because we do not have one.  But my fear is that I am causing harm to him.  And as much as he hurt me, as much pain as he caused, as inconsiderate as he was to me on a daily basis, I don’t think that hurting him now is the way toward peace.  And I don’t wish pain on him.

Learning how to honor my feelings without sharing them is probably the biggest project I’ve ever undertaken.  The self-imposed coffin of silence is of my own making.  I choose to be alone, and I choose to talk to people who won’t hear me.  Understanding why I do will take more mental energy than I have today, when I am full of mucus and rot. 

For now, I continue to yell at The Colombian.  And he continues to choose not to hear it.  Whether I can successfully choose to quiet myself without his assistance is a question for another day–when I feel better, and not buried under mounds of dirt.

Venom, Gifts, and a Woman Scorned

Leading into the holiday season, I quizzed The Colombian about his holiday plans.  I felt comfortable doing so, having been invited on a Caribbean vacation with him, and having survived a dating “rough patch.”  He told me then that he didn’t really celebrate the holidays.  His family would come here, perhaps; or maybe he would just have guests at the inn and would serve their needs.

He had painful, but not uncommon, memories of disappointing Christmases as a child.  His family was not well off, and the gifts he received were meager, and practical in nature.  I was determined, then, to make this Christmas better than those before it.

But then we famously broke up.  Not once, but several times.  The vacation was (I’m assuming) canceled, and the Thanksgiving plans we’d just made were never mentioned again.  On my way out, I told him about the Christmas gifts I’d planned for him, based on what I knew of him so far:  a chunky, knitted scarf, one that would not be too itchy for his sensitive skin; a very fancy watch, because he loves nice things and is always late; the first season of “Newhart” on dvd (which I’d already bought), because he always jokes about the fantasies people have about Vermont inns; and a nice telescope.  He had wanted to be an astrophysicist as a child, and I knew he loved the stars and wanted to stare at them all the time.

He never said anything about all that.  When we began “re-dating,” I asked again about his holiday plans.  I was thinking of making dinner, and had wanted to invite him.  He said he’d have guests at the inn, but perhaps I could come there, at least for dessert.  I never asked about gifts.  I knew not to expect any.  He doesn’t celebrate the holiday.

But I do, to some extent.  While I have no family here, and no money to speak of, I still enjoy the small, warm fuzzies of the holidays:  baking, fudge making, and gifting.  I don’t give everyone gifts, but when I do, I like to make them significant.

To be honest, our dating had not been going so well; so there was no way I would be buying him a watch or a telescope.  And my weeks of scarf-hunting were less than fruitful.  I still had the dvd, however; and I thought a nice book would make him feel good.  While at the pet store on an errand, I thought to pick up some rawhide bones for his dogs.  A couple days ago, I stopped in to the local book seller to see whether anything caught my eye.  I selected a theoretical physics title about the origins of the universe.  I’d remembered it from my days at Farnes & Roble, and it was now in paperback.  I knew that he would absolutely love it!

He had dodged our Christmas day plans several times already, so I thought I would stop asking.  Instead, I decided to drop his small bag of gifts (along with some baked goods for his guests) by the inn on my way to work Christmas Eve.

He seemed thrown at my arrival, but not unhappy.  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said in awe, as he hugged me.

“I know I didn’t.  It’s not much.  And some is for the dogs, so don’t let them be alone with it,” I warned, feeling all warm and giving.  I was so happy I’d made a gesture now, even though our relationship status was rocky and now waning.  I wanted him to have a good Christmas.

As I began to leave for work, he called out from the kitchen, “Do you want to come over here tonight?”  I was floored.  This was way outside the boundaries of our non-relationship.  On the other hand, he did like to inject the last-minute plans in my days.  I already had plans in Loudonville, but it was snowing heavily just then, and my plans were thrown into question.

“Uh…I don’t know, I mean, I don’t know if I’m still going into Albany tonight….  Maybe?”  He was buzzing around to and fro in the kitchen.  He’d gotten a late start on breakfast.

“Okay, I’ll call you.  NO!  I’ll come in to see you at Graples.  I’ll come in later today and see you.”  I left, feeling happy and excited.  And if the weather kept up, I’d be feeling cozy and warm with my favorite Colombian and his family.

My day at work was stressful.  I was reminded that I absolutely hate working Christmas Eve!  I have no patience for last-minute shoppers, nor for their selfish questions.  The holiday itself makes me very homesick, and full of sentimentality for the holidays I enjoyed as a child.  This year, I didn’t even have a Christmas tree.  I hadn’t shopped for gifts, for anyone but Daniel and Patrick, and some small trinkets for Shelly Belly.  It didn’t feel like Christmas.  I wanted very much to be with Daniel and his family, as I knew it wasn’t his happiest day, either.

Late in the afternoon, I sent him a message to make sure we had plans.  I had to have him choose:  Christmas Eve, or Christmas.  The other would belong to Shelly Belly’s family.  But he messaged back, saying “Not tonight.”  His family had made other arrangements, and now he was committed to following them.  It seemed he hadn’t intended to tell me.

Beyond that, he said he needed to talk to me.  Seriously.  Freaked out, I immediately called him.  “What’s wrong?”

He was upset– “uncomfortable” was the word he used.  He had told me he didn’t celebrate Christmas, and he was uncomfortable with my giving him gifts.  He hadn’t gotten me anything in return.  He wanted to talk to me about it.  But not now.  “Listen,” I told him, “it’s really not much.  It’s a lot in the bag but it’s nothing.  Dog bones and the dvd you already knew about, and something very small.  Just enjoy it.”  He insisted we needed to talk.  He said he would call me before the end of my workday.

He never called.  At all.  At the end of the day, I sent him a message.  I had had several hours now to get myself worked up.  I couldn’t believe he was angry that I’d bought and made him gifts!  It seemed he wanted to give them back.  I told him I didn’t expect to see him again.  I was finished with being treated like an afterthought.  He never called when he said he would–NEVER–and now he had messed with my holiday.  Again.  I was done.

The thing is, the more hurt I felt, the more angry I became, and the more it became glaringly obvious that he didn’t intend to communicate back to me.  At all.  At the end of  the night, I decided on a whim to look him up on Racebook, a social networking site I frequent.  I wondered whether he had come back to it.  Oh, my friends, he had.  Recently.

He had spent the past several days building his Friend network, and sending messages back and forth.  (Some of them, when he “didn’t have time” to call me as he’d said he would.)  He posted photos, and wrote quite a few messages.  I was surprised, to say the least.  He never returns my emails, and claims not to enjoy writing even short messages.  But there he was, all happy and friendful.  Fifty-seven friends accumulated in just a couple of days.  And one of them was Melissa.

I couldn’t help noticing that there were several pictures of her.  So I clicked on them, to see the comments.  And there he was, commenting to her, in a rather flirtatious manner.  One of the photos was the larger version of her profile picture.  On the other side of the table was Daniel, smiling and affectionately holding her hand.  I might not have let it bother me, except that he had to comment on how hot she always looked in that dress. 

What was I doing?  My anger was growing every second as I realized that he had this busy, secret life about which I knew nothing!  How could I have been dating, sleeping with, and falling for this man, when I knew so little about his real life and NONE of his list of friends?  And I wasn’t on that list.  Didn’t even know he was back on Racebook.  He’d requested a friendship with the very crazy old ex, and not with me, his supposed favorite dance partner.  How could I have been so foolish?

So I did what any hungry, sugared-up, cold-stricken woman would do.  I flipped out.  Flipped out bigtime.

Within a couple hours, he had blocked me on Racebook, which I fully expected.  I deserved that.  In fact, I deserved, now, to be the object of some of his own anger.  But I couldn’t get over the freaking Christmas presents.

I woke up this morning to angry text messages.  NOW he wanted to communicate–only, not really.  He wanted to talk at me, say his piece, and then enjoy silence from my end.  It wasn’t going to happen.  I was back to hating him, loathing the way he’d treated me, and wanting my money.  (Yes, he still owed me.  And Christmas was the deadline.)  So I began making demands.

I had to go there for it.  When he finally came down from his apartment–which I’ve still never seen after all these months, by the way–I was pretty chilled out on his couch.  I had taken a hot bath, and gained some objectivity, and decided not to make a scene.  But then I saw the bag of gifts.  Still wrapped.  Not touched.  My blood began to boil.

If that weren’t bad enough, I couldn’t help noticing my large container full of fudge was still…full of fudge.  Not a piece, other than the couple he’d sampled, had been touched.  It was to have been a treat for his guests, and he’d apparently never removed it from the fridge, not in the solid week he’d had it.  I came positively uncorked.

A torrent of scathing words has never been spewed to rival what was unleashed on him today.  The words I used were not important.  It was the complete and utter rage and uncontrolled blast of emotion that will stick with him.  He was very cool and detached as he wrote out my check, receiving a screaming airbomb full of hatred and disgust from me as he did so.  Somewhere inside me, I couldn’t help noting that my acupuncturist would not feel this was a proper channeling of my emotions.  But I was sick, and hurt, and frustrated, and disgusted.  I knew this would be the last time I would ever see Daniel, and my rage only grew with his silence.

He called the police before I left.  I know he thought I was going to hit him.  If I may be honest to the general public, I’m not sure how I stopped myself from doing so–I was that mad–except that I knew he could take me in a fight.  (I may be mean, but I don’t weigh a buck-twenty soaking wet.)  On the way out the door, I dumped his bag of presents on a table.  What was I going to do with them?  And the fudge landed squarely on the parking lot.  All ten pounds of it.

I’ve known for quite some time that I needed to let him go.  He was mean, and cold, and not very nice to me.  As far as boyfriends go–and he never really was, it turned out–he was an awful one.  He lied from the beginning, conned me into doing things I never would have done before, kept me on the outer fringes of his life, and gave me only enough attention to keep me coming back for more.  It was not one of my finer moments in time.  And it wouldn’t have gotten me where I wanted to go in life.

All of that, I would have overlooked.  I would have put up with his mental abuse, his moodiness, his demands for “understanding” and respecting his boundaries, his dedication to his business–and really, to absolutely everything in his life–ahead of me.  But this one thing, this one, solitary thing, finally pushed me over the edge:  When I give you a gift, you’d better fucking say Thank You.  You can reject my heart all you want.  But no one, NO ONE, rejects my fudge.

Digging Deep, and Shoveling Yellow Snow

It has been a long week since my last post.  Tonight I take the time to write, only because I am too sick to get up off the couch and do anything else.

One of the major occurrences in our neck of the woods has been the arrival of mounds upon mounds of snow.  It came down fast and furiously, on a couple of less-than-enjoyable days.  (Tonight, as we prepare for Santa, a warm rain is washing much of it away.)  The first one after our major ice storm occurred on my second night of Latin dancing with The Colombian.  It was a late night, and the snow had covered the ground by a couple of inches by the time we retired for what was left of that night at Ina Hall.  I knew we were in trouble as I watched him dust the piles off his car in my driveway early the next day.

The second big snow came a couple days later.  I was at work, and decided to come home to walk/get Katie at lunch time, just as it began coming down in puffy, white blankets.  As I surmounted the Big One on Hill Road, my car lost forward momentum and I began to spin my tires.  No amount of fancy German engineering could defeat what Mother Nature had in store.  I finally landed in my own driveway, after backtracking and picking a safer, longer route; and there I stayed for the rest of the day.

I was already sore by then.  Too much shoveling, too much hard work at my now-intense job at Graples.  My neck was so stiff I couldn’t sleep at night.  Now here I was, again in the driveway, again with the plastic snow shovel, again fighting nature and the Hoosick Falls plow trucks, who insist on throwing a huge mound at the end of my drive.

Afterward, my muscles were screaming.  I had already been sore and stiff for no known reason.  Daily hot baths, teas, and hot water bottles offered little relief.  So I did the only thing I could think to do next:  I looked forward to acupuncture.

I was almost embarrassed to tell Marc how I felt.  In truth, I had every reason to feel crappy.  In defiance of his advice, I had not yet cut out caffeine, and was not regularly taking the supplements I had been prescribed.  I was eating more; but not enough to make a change in my weight or my guts.  But worse than my lack of dedication to the program was what I was about to describe for him in gory detail:  “This is going to sound crazy…but this soreness in my neck and back…it feels less like muscle pain, and more like–how can I say this–snot, great heaps of mucus, trying to crawl out through my skin.”

He told me that wasn’t strange at all.  I have sickness in my body.  That much has been clear for some time.  And now it is trying to work its way out.  “And when it does, it is going to be very ugly.  But you have to let it go.  You have to let it out.”  This day, however, my body was not ready to let go.

Unfortunately, neither was my mind.  Each time the needles would bring me to the cusp of total relaxation, just to the point where I could view my own thoughts without being a participant, I would snap myself back from it.  I was unwilling to go where the disease wanted to take me.  The mucus seemed to be settling in for a long while.  I left the appointment disappointed and disillusioned.

I considered the homework assignment I’d been given the previous week.  I was to examine myself as a child, and remember who I was back then.  Then I was to see myself in the future, and journal about this as well, setting pictures of the life I wanted to have a year from now, five years from now, twenty or thirty years from now.  I was to see my partner, my house, and how I wanted to be living.

As I was writing the journal assignment, I suppose I had The Colombian in my head.  I haven’t yet found his purpose in my life, and I’ve always hoped there was some deeper significance to his being in it.  But now, as I drove from one appointment to the next, I considered that man about whom I’d written.  And he wasn’t The Colombian at all.

He was Married Guy.  He was the soul-shattering love that seemingly never should have occurred.  He was more than just the one who got away; he was the One.  Only of course he wasn’t the One!  He was someone else’s One.  But the point seemed to be that his was the kind of love I wanted to have:  patient, understanding, strong, true.  It was a kind of love that reached straight into that young child I once was, and pulled her out of me to be worn on the outside.  That was what I needed.

So what about The Colombian?  How did he figure into my life?

When he hurt me again today–purposefully, I might add–I realized it, as sure as the sun shines:  he is the mucus, screaming to get out.  He is the (literally) foreign object inside of me, the one that doesn’t belong.  I’ve let him fester and swell, eating away at my insides, taking little pieces of my soul with him as he walks away.  And he always walks away.  It is in his nature.

Almost the moment I realized this, the mucus began to creep up and release itself.  It filled my head, and tickled my nose.  And anger set in.  Anger I’m no longer supposed to have.  But anger is a secondary emotion, and in this case, it was secondary to hurt.  He hurt me.  Many, many times.  Now I am finally beginning to feel it, and it is working its way out of my body.  The trick now, I suppose, is to honor and process the hurt, without letting the anger take me over.

I am realizing that sometimes in life, we hit a hill that seems to be surmountable, but we may be misjudging how deep the snow goes.  It is human nature to sit suspended, listening to our wheels spin, hoping that something will give way and propel us forward.  But it may just be that the best course of action is to stop, back up, turn around, and find a longer, safer way around.  It might take longer, and it might be unfamiliar.  The important thing is to keep moving forward, no matter what occurs.

The Colombian is a pretty steep hill.  I am beginning to see that there is no reward in reaching the top, just more hills.  If I want to get to where I’m going, it might be best to find the long and winding road I was meant to travel.

Warm Latin Rain: Take Two

We danced and danced and danced. And it was joyful. I remembered very quickly what had attracted me in the first place: his confidence, his respectfulness, his willingness to let go and become a part of the music around him. When I allowed myself to let go as well, I also remembered that we dance well together. But I have to let him lead in order for it to work.