At least it wasn't Gravity and tears this time.
Tonight I woke up humming Freefallin'. I'm a baaaad boy, cause I don't even miss her. I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart.
I wouldn't let her call me tonight. She wanted to "be a friend" during my funeral. We had like a 90 minute text message conversation instead.
It was easier for me to stay detached. Even though I didn't. Not really.
Still.
Her blog reads like mine when I am lost and depressed and broken hearted. Yearning, needing, questioning the biology, questioning the "why", questioning herself. Perhaps a little less of the self-doubt I usually have. Certainly less anger.
But similar. It makes me want to reach out to her and give her whatever she wants.
But then I remember that whatever she is feeling is nothing compared to my Saturdays. That her loneliness at not being able to have me on Mondays is, well, deserved. That she doesn't have to imagine me happy with someone else. That a thousand Mondays in a row like today still wouldn't actually be fair.
Not that it matters. The world is not a better place because she hurts. It's most likely the opposite, actually.
And I do love her still.
--
If you hurt so much, if you need me so badly, then why can't you just make the call?
It makes me want to dismiss it. Makes me want to call these feelings lies. If you love me, this is easy. If you need me, this is easy.
I think you like it. I think you like hurting me. I think you like going home to your husband and just using me for the parts missing in your marriage. I think that this isn't really love.
And I think that's really lame.
--
I've done similar things with women. I remember in the year after Laura, I juggled 2-3 very well. Sarah comes to mind. She cooked me dinner and was emotionally available. Heck, she was almost perfect. If only she had an IQ over 120 or an additional 5 years of education, I might have never left.
Heh. She was my Phil, probably. Except I never loved her. Never told her that, never thought that, always aware that one day I would leave her.
When I did, I don't think she even cried. Because the fact that I would leave one day was apparent the entire relationship.
That's why it's lame. That's why it's either a lie or stupid. If she loves me, then this is stupid. And if she doesn't -- and not loving me "enough" is the same diff -- then it was all a lie.
I could've handled a "friends with good sex" arrangement. I could have endured being an "on the side fling" for, probably, years. It's being in love I can't handle. It's being in love that makes me want all or nothing.
I probably would have fallen in love with her anyway. I probably would have wondered, probably would have let myself engage a little too much. But that would have been an internal struggle over a longer period of time. It would have been tempered by dating other people, by self-inflicted pep talks, and the distance of weekends.
The rub is how good it feels to be loved back. How hearing her plan a future with me lets my imagination get carried away. How "you're the one I'm supposed to be with" stirs my soul and makes me believe in your fairy tales.
It's not that I think you were malicious, babe. I do think you're dumb. I can't believe that what we had was just a dopamine cocktail. You love me.
I just don't understand how you can't tell your husband. You must think very little of him.
Humph. Maybe it is that she thinks very little of ME.
Heh. My own narcissism comes out. That thought actually hadn't occurred to me until now. (lol)
--
I didn't really miss her today. I guess it's easier for me. I've already cried for weeks, needing her, unable to have her, touch her, talk to her.
She wanted to "be a friend" after the funeral today. To talk.
I didn't let her. I didn't want to know how that felt, only to have it yanked away again in a few short days. By Saturday for sure, right? Always Saturdays. Bitch.
Heh. "Easier." As if.
It's good for her to miss me, I think. She realizes things like "I haven't even been a good friend to you." This is actually true, of course. But her unwillingness to actually be with me is still all to apparent in every other sentence. Every third word.
It still hurts. Even via text message.
--
So, standing awkwardly in my grandfather's house today with my brother and father in the same room? Weirdly not making eye contact with either of them, often because I chose not to look, and when I did because they stared awkwardly at anything but me.... it was surreal.
I am nothing like those guys. They are weird and awkward. I am a man. I was poorly dressed compared to everyone -- I word denim to a funeral! -- but I looked more at ease than my insecure black sheep of a father in his three piece suit and silk tie.
It's definitely more than clothes that make the man.
I think I mentioned this yesterday, but I'll say it again. It is so strange to realize that everyone else except dear ol' dad is normal. I'm weird because I have a need to process it. I'm weird because I had to endure it. I'm weird because I think his bad blood is mine.
It isn't. And I don't.
I doubt I'll ever be a true member of the family. I doubt any of those people will come to my wedding, I doubt that we'll suddenly start sharing Christmases, I doubt that after the initial push to maintain or start some sort of relationship wears off in a month or two, we'll all go back to the habit of our own separate lives.
But it isn't my fault. It's just life. It's normal. It's what happens when you don't grow up together. When you meet your cousins the first time in your 30s. When you're father happens to be a sociopath.
And life goes on. It's not that big of a deal, not really. None of them will ever be the father I needed. None of them can shape me into a better man, mentor me in such a way that I achieve more, or guide me in such a way so that I can have more meaningful work, play, or relationships.
I did all of that on my own. But it isn't a burden. It isn't really a blessing either -- other than the luck involved that allows me to still be here. It just is. They all have their own pain, their own families, their own lives, their own fears and dreams and loves and failures. That I don't need them isn't some sort of spiteful declaration; it's just the result.
All I can do is be a good man. In spite of. Because of. It really doesn't matter. I have daddy issues and trouble finding/maintaining relationships. I struggle in business and life. I am sometimes too cocky.
I'm still a good man. That's what matters. It doesn't matter who your father is. It doesn't matter that I can stare at him in his goofy suit that is actually quite well tailored yet somehow still makes him look like a clown (well, no, I'm sure it's just him) and vaguely still wish him dead. Why'd my grandfather have to die and not you?
It doesn't matter that I look at my brother and wonder almost aloud why he's such a dick.
These things aren't actually my flaws. They are theirs.
My father's girlfriend said hello to me. I shook her hand and introduced myself. She said she knew who I was. Of course you do, I said. All these white people and the more confident one of only two Asian dudes hanging out with my father's daughter. Yaaa think?
I had to ask her name twice, because she didn't introduce herself nor speak without mumbling. I still don't remember it. Figures. My father couldn't date someone with... oh, some semblance of understanding of social norms.
She kept mumbling things my father must have prepped her to say. "I see your pictures all the time. They are hanging in your dad's house." Hmm. I bet mom would like the photos she took back someday. "I hear you are really smart and successful." My grandfather told you that. "You're very independent." Yeah. I guess that's a word for running away at the onset of puberty.
I found the entire interaction excruciating. Who the fuck are you and why do you seem to think I care? You're just the dumb broad my father is banging. You're not intelligent or witty. You're not even pretty. And you happen to somehow find the one man I wish dead on the planet attractive. That means your self esteem has to be about the size of a flea and that if I show you any of the real me you'll cower in fear and awe. I am a god to you.
It's funny. Before I spoke to her, I felt sorry for her. After our interaction, I just felt dumbfounded. I felt like I'd walked through the twilight zone. I felt like I had endured a small animal trying to hump my leg and was grossed out by the semen left behind. Like a 10 pound dog was trying to exercise its dominance over me and I let if get its rocks off by not kicking it. Like an attempt at mental rape had just occurred, but it was so silly and small and pitiful that I just let it happen and then was annoyed at the mess on my pant leg.
Humph. At least I made it. Two whole days and not a word to my father. I did look him in the eye once, at the church yesterday, when he kept talking to my sister and I from the bench behind us.
He's why I didn't say anything. No anecdotes about my grandfather during the open mic period. I'm pretty sure that "I really appreciate that my grandfather had to work really hard to maintain relationships with my siblings and I and did so." wouldn't have gone over very well. Because, you know, "seeing as how our father is rightfully hated, despised and excommunicated by everyone" would've sneaked in there whether I said it out loud or not. And the resulting scene would have been inappropriate.
I'm not angry about it. I'm not angry at all, actually. Ok, maybe a little at the doggy cum on my leg, but I can change my pants. It is nevertheless a pity.
I wondered aloud today, briefly, if my ongoing hatred of pops makes me flawed. That if I were the man I want to become, I'd forgive and even be a friend to him.
I'm gonna go with no. Not really. Yeah.... no. Not so much.
Again with the god thing... but yeah. My father is proof that god doesn't exist. There is no omnipresent, omnipotent, benevolent super-being out there. Sorry.
He should have been aborted. I don't care if I go on to save millions of African children, my sister designs the next Eiffel tower and Taj Mahal, and my brother builds a prototype warp drive. The good of even his genes aren't enough to make up for the pain he has brought to everyone he has ever interacted with.
If there is some greater plan in there that I don't understand, god, then when did you become such a selfish prick? Your plan sucks, yo. You should've found another way. You're fucking GOD, right?
But anyway. I was introspecting.
I don't think that being a friend to my father is a hurdle I need to jump. It won't bring me catharsis, it won't make me a better person, and I am already a jedi. So, yeah, fuck it. And it's not like he deserves it or anything.
I have plenty of loving and deserving people to take care of. I have lots of people to love who are capable of loving me back.
Heh. Even Mel.
Hopefully one day soon I'll say "especially Mel". Hurry up, darling.
--
I wish she had been there with me. She'd have made me dress up. She'd have impressed the aunts and uncles. I would have felt stronger with her there. More at ease, in command, normal. Successful and independent (talk about irony) like everyone said.
I didn't need her for the grief part. Kk was there for that. I did need her to face all of those strangers. Especially dad.
They'd have called her lovely and pretty. CEO uncle would have said "you make a very fetching couple". Pianist uncle would have called her a doll when she stepped away. Step-grandma would have said "it's so nice to see you with a great woman. And she's so smart and pretty, [Alfie]. Really." I think it might have been code for "I thought you were gay," but we'd have joked about it later.
Cyclist aunt would have asked where in the world I found her, how long we'd been dating, and delighted in our work stories. Great aunt would have been embarrassed to talk about the family drama that we both so desperately need to share with each other, but they'd have networked and discovered a dozen shared contacts. Her mom is probably in the same rotary clubs. Heh.
My father would probably have made an effort to say hello. He'd have awkwardly fumbled, trying to flirt in his pathetic way that just comes across as creepy. It would have grossed Mel out and made me angry. But it'd have been ok. He'd see us, briefly, having sneaked away into a hallway, happy, embracing, and know I'm supported. He'd have spoken to her long enough to convey his sexist condescension and have her politely protest with skill and brilliance, rendering him speechless in surprise. No, actually, mom is kinda dumb, dad. I can only surmise that you seek out the dumb FOBs to reinforce your sexism. All two of them in 40 years of dating.
He'd wonder how I got such a great girl. And just like every other achievement or good fortune I've had since I was five, he'd have been jealous.
And I'd have been oblivious. I'd just have wished my granddad could have been there to meet her.
He'd have flirted, too, in a charming and flattering way, the way old men should with their eventual granddaughters. And she'd have kissed him on the cheek, appreciative and beautiful. He'd have made her laugh with his silly puns and she'd have impressed him with her charm, grace, and smarts. He'd have delighted to talk about biology and anatomy with her. And she'd have understood a part of me that I wish I'd gotten to know better.
--
My fantasy. It makes me sad to think about. It makes me miss her. It makes me miss him.
The day she wore the black, green, and white summer dress was the last time I saw him. I was late for dinner because of her. She could've been there then. She could've been there today.
It all could've actually happened.
How many more memories will you miss, Melissa?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment