How often in our lives do we lay it all bare?
I’m wondering if that’s why I can regard my breakups – my bad decisions – so positively, despite the emotional damage. At least when you’re breaking up with someone, you can come clean with everything that you’ve been thinking.
Nope, even that’s a lie. That’s completely untrue. Sorry, dear reader. I didn’t mean to lie to you. It’s force of habit. That doesn’t say the best about me, I know. It’s just that I’ve been trained to be sweet, nice, amenable. If being a pushover is the prime directive, being myself is so far on the back burner as to be on a stove in someone else’s apartment.
I have fallen in love four times. I have fallen madly in love twice. My most “serious” relationship was with someone whom I loved, but with whom I never counted myself as being madly in love with. I measure “serious” on us both acting like adults – cohabitating, both holding down jobs, mutually planning for a future together. I have only had that one serious relationship. Everything else has been wishful thinking on my part. I know that now.
The first man I fell in love with was my first taste of magick, and how much of a bitch it can be. We met my freshman year, through a very weird set of coincidences. We had the same birthday, even though he was two years older. We were supposed to go on a date, but before it happened, I met someone else and my life went another direction, entirely. We didn’t end up going out on that date for three years, after meeting again via another odd set of coincidences. Once it finally happened, we were inseparable. We spent days in bed, watching Adult Swim. He moved in with me and didn’t pay rent. His cat peed on everything. My friends hated him. I thought he was amazing. In retrospect, I don’t think he thought much of me.
The first man I fell madly in love with feels like a bad dream. I still get sick to my stomach thinking about him. It was the second time I’d fallen in love. I was singing on stage, and looked out into the crowd. He was there, bathed in blue. He looked like Krishna. I fell hard, and immediately. When I got off stage, he was waiting to talk to me. It felt destined. He felt perfect, but I was a mess, and I guess he was, too. It couldn’t work. He once kicked me out of his car because I said I wished that I could trade my life for Freddie Mercury’s, to bring back a star in exchange for a dud. I thought his music was sublime. I can still pick out the sound of his trombone over any other horn on Frenchmen Street, 15 years later. It helps me decide what bars to avoid. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I just weirded him out. I don’t know. I still can’t see the past clearly enough to understand exactly how it didn’t work, but at any rate, I kept trying. I can be accused of many things, but giving up is not one. I clung to him for two years after our breakup, and he had pity on me, much to my detriment. Thank god for Hurricane Katrina, for enforcing a break that I couldn’t make for myself.
There was a break. I didn’t take time off on purpose, but life went on, and no more love happened. I wasn’t sad about it. It was a relief, actually.
And then the serious boyfriend happened. We were friends for a year. I took my time, inching along, inspecting every crevice, anticipating every problem. He seemed safe enough, grown up and responsible, but with piercings, and tattoos, and a dark sense of humor. He liked me. He got my jokes, and understood my timing. He thought I was pretty. He just couldn’t understand my emotions, or talk to me about God, but by now I understood that I’d need to make concessions to find a partner. It was a good basic concept, but I wasn’t making the decision from an informed place. I didn’t understand yet what really made me tick, or that being with a man who refused to discuss God (or to put it in easier terms, Universal Truth) meant that I could never have a meaningful conversation again in my own home. It was too much to accept. We dated for nearly eight years, but in the end I couldn’t keep going. He was blindsided, but I’d known for awhile that it wasn’t working. I kept telling him that I was unhappy, but I guess I should have shouted, or used ruder words than “unhappy.” When I finally told him I was leaving, he fell apart. We’ve never spoken again.
I should have been more useful to my ex in this time of dissolution, but a few weeks before calling it quits and moving out, I’d met a friend of a friend with whom I really clicked. It was a first for me. I didn’t know it then, but I was entering new territory for me. I finally knew myself, and could speak from the heart in a way I hadn’t before. This new man saw me for myself, and to my surprise, he liked what he saw.
So I moved out, found my own place, and before long, man #4 and I fell madly, deeply in love. It hurt, physically, to be apart from him. I could barely breathe while he was away. I didn’t take any time to recover from the trainwreck of my prior relationship, and it would damage me much more in the end. Worst of all, in retrospect, is that this new beau turned my brain on. I don’t know how long it was off, but I’m assuming that it was only partially working for around eight years prior to meeting him. All of a sudden, it was humming with intensity. Story after story. So many ideas, just pumping out of me night and day. I couldn’t keep up. And for everything that worked its way out of me, there was a conversation to hone it, beautify it, make it more, bigger, sweeter, sharper. He wasn’t just a boyfriend. He was a muse. He was oxygen to a brain so starved it barely remembered how to function. There were shortcomings, yes. Shortcomings galore. And now that everything has ended, hindsight is 20/20. But while he was happening, he was nothing short of jumper cables for my brain, artistic life support in a world where I had long ago drowned.
See? I’ve still only given you half truths. Even with the best intentions on the line, I can still only give you what my heart’s ready for you to know. I’m sure if any one of these men weighed in, they’d give you their own version of how I was a monster to them. Only one would have a leg to stand on, but his offenses and mine weigh just about the same, if you add them all up over time.
That’s not why I started this, anyway. I started this because I wanted to tell you that I have a new crush. It’s not terribly new. I’ve known it for months, but have been logic-ing myself out of it. If I had to make a prediction, it’s that it will end badly. Maybe not death; just drama, and plenty of tears. I don’t want that. I should stay away. But I won’t. I won’t because I knew as soon as I saw him the first time that he was on my predetermined list of decisions. Whether he’s a bad one or not, I guess I’ll have to let you know.