I Wonder

I Wonder

(2024/02/14)

We did not fight or argue,

Though we drifted apart.

It has been years,

And on this Valentine’s Day,

And every day,

I wonder why.

“It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.”

— Marie Lu, Champion

I Can't. I Know.

Originally Written and Posted on 1/12/2013, edited in 2024

Last night, as I fell through consciousness and floated toward dreamland, I found myself in a community.  The collection of homes and small buildings quickly morphed into a single, large communal dwelling.  I was in one of two primary living rooms within that dwelling.  There was a nameless, tall, thin, Nubian woman in the room with me.  She approached me seductively, leaning in for a kiss. As she did, several other people entered the room.  I gently backed away, saying, “I can’t.”

Then my eye caught a man.  He was also tall and thin, his skin a smooth mocha color, his hair short.  I was fascinated with his eyes. He was one of those African Americans with light color eyes that are always stunning.  I asked him what color his eyes were.  I could not tell if they were blue, grey, or green.  He said, “They’re blue.”  Slowly, like a fine film camera move, my vision floated in toward one of his eyes.  My view grew closer and close until all I could see was the iris itself.  It was beyond blue, a sort of soft pastel rainbow that shifted and flowed.  I was fascinated by it and asked, “How do you get that color?”  He replied softly, “Rainbow drops.”  Suddenly, but not in a shocking way, I realized he was preparing to kiss me.  At that moment, I heard some crying and bawling behind me.  I backed away and said, “I can’t.”

I turned to see what was going on.  Laying on a sofa was my last ex, Elizabeth.  Sitting beside her was a woman whom I recognized as a friend of hers, but I do not know the woman in real life, the knowledge of friendship tied strictly to the dream.  The friend had a large pillow over Elizabeth’s face and upper body, almost completely concealing her, but not smothering.  Only the maker of dreams knows how I knew it was Elizabeth.  She was crying and beating her hands against the sofa in a childlike temper tantrum.  The friend was using the pillow to keep her contained as she tried to soothe Elizabeth with calming words.  I got up and went over to Elizabeth, the pillow still covering her face and upper body.  I gently took her hand and she quieted down almost immediately, like a child who had just gotten a boo-boo kissed.

The dream swerved and I was in my private space in the distant back of the massive communal dwelling.  It was time for sleep, and within my dream, I dreamt.  In my dream within a dream, I wondered why I could not kiss the man.  I realized that, while I enjoy a close connection with males, a connection that I do not have, I am not gay, and I do not want that form of connection.  Then within my dream’s dream, I wondered why I could not kiss the woman.  My inner dream revealed to me that I couldn’t share physical contact without certain feelings and words.  My dreamed dream mulled over the idea that I can carry out the acts, but I cannot perform.  I cannot enjoy without the words and feelings.  I can’t.

As my dreamer’s dream focused on these questions, my dream dreaming self was awoken by a loud commotion.  In the top-layer dream, I sprang up and began running from my place of exile in the far back corners, out through the hallways, maneuvering toward the main areas of the large communal maze.  Bouncing off walls in a frantic dash, I fought my way into one of the living areas.  In the adjoining living room – more of a foyer – was Elizabeth.  She put down some luggage and began to cross the floor, entering the living room I was in.  I sat on the sofa, shaken and concerned, asking, “Are you all right?”  She said, “Yes.” I wailed, “Oh thank god,” and I began to weep.  My tears were a mixture of joy in her safety, and sadness at my loss.

She was suddenly in front of me, sitting on the floor.  As my tears flowed, I held her hand, kissing and caressing her fingers.  She has a small mole at the base of her left thumb, and while some see such a thing as a distortion, to me it is a sign of her uniqueness, and I kissed it gently.  She kept saying softly, almost weeping herself, “I am sorry. I can’t.”  I said sadly, “I know.”

My real life self was startled awake.  So deep and intense was the dream, I did not perceive the nearby train as it ran past, it feeling more like the opening roar of the apocalypse.  When my living mind finally recognized the normal event, I became aware of the dream and refreshed it in my mind, wanting to hold onto it, making a mental point that I must jot down notes when the intended beginning of my day arrived.  In that mental refreshing, I drifted off again.

I was outside.  The day was cloud covered and dreary.  Everything was lit well enough to see, but there were no shadows, that sagging grey feeling was all around me.  I recognized the area as a part of the university campus that I often traveled through years ago, but that recognition was twisted and dream woven.  It was both outside and inside, open, but not fully.  It was the campus, but also a commonly visited movie theater.  It was today, but it was another day, and yet another day.  It was all these things at once.

Elizabeth and I passed by each other, walking in opposite directions. Time and time again we passed.  My feelings were heavy and deep with sadness.  I fought back tears.  With each passing, one of us would say, “I can’t,” and the other would respond, “I know.”  Each taking turn with the negative greeting, and the other taking turn with the acknowledgment.

Then we both entered a movie theater, but it was not like any theater I have seen, as there was no screen.  We both looked for a seat not knowing the other was doing the same.  We took seats only to realize we were sitting near each other.  Elizabeth looked at me, and with great sadness said, “I can’t.”  I replied equally sadly, “I know.”

Her friend from the dream within a dream appeared, and Elizabeth’s sorrow turned to joy as the two clasp hands.  I felt her joy and was happy for her.  Again, Elizabeth said to me, though this time with a touch of comfort, “I can’t.”  I smiled at her and said with understanding, “I know.”  The three of us left the theater and entered an area that resembled the corridor of a large mall.  The friend, who I knew only in the dream itself, began to lead us all to a secluded spot. There was an unspoken understanding that the three of us would unite in a blood-brother style ceremony, with Elizabeth at the center. I woke.  The dreams connected together, their feelings and focus so crisp and sharp they seemed more like reality.

I Will Not Lose Her

(Written August 25, 2016, edited in 2024)

When a cataclysmic storm rages between friends, we often look at the relationship itself.  What went wrong?  That is what I did with her.  I examined the relationship.  I am sure she did as well.  However, I think a deeper part of me had a better, though unclear, understanding.

It was not the relationship.  It was me.  I was changing.  I had changed.  I had begun to yell.  I hate yelling and confrontation.  I had become rude and aggressive.  I made her uncomfortable, and made her feel embarrassed around her friends.  I would commiserate over events for days.  I had become particular and fixed.  Meaningless things stuck in my craw.  That was not the me I had been before.

What happened to the person who bought her a flower every payday?  What happened to the person who played with her like a puppy, right in front of her family?  Where was the person who left little notes of affection?  Where was the young adult who sat and listened to music for hours?  What happened to the person who cherished the differences between peoples?  The person I always thought I was, the person I had been was gone, buried under spite and burden, and mostly confusion.

We often point our fingers at familiarity.  Routine steps in, and things get dull.  Certainly, this played a role, but simple commonness would not turn playfulness into argument.  Moreover, I had lost the ability to communicate with others, of greatest note my daughter.  Something else was at work, though I could not see the condition while being consumed by it.  I had changed.  I was changing.  The me I enjoyed had been lost, left behind like a forgotten piece of luggage.

I did not know it at the time, but andropause was eating away at the younger me.  The symptoms, as I read them, did not apply, but every physiology is different.  Moreover, severe Social Anxiety was also setting in, almost to the point of phobia.  I have always been introverted, socially anxious, and awkward, but I was sinking into a much deeper abyss.  Did changing hormones fuel the anxiety, or did the anxiety alter the andropause symptoms?  Who knows?  I can only see it now because it is all done and past.

I did not leave her.  Oh, I started the separation, but it was not her I was fleeing.  I was not abandoning the relationship.  I dragged myself away from her like a dying animal sulking away from the group for the group’s protection.  I pulled the yelling, particular, touchy lunatic I had become to a safe distance.  During a mid-life crisis, most men think of fast cars and young women.  However, I sought solitude.  I hated hurting her.  I detest myself for doing so.  I needed to reclaim the original me and kill the monster I had become.  I needed to punish myself and protect the world from my beast.

The love and affection has not faded.  It has always been there, though it had to be concealed.  I needed to find music again.  I needed to learn to communicate again.  I needed to understand parts of me I had never known, and rekindle parts that had been long gone.  I have learned I am emotionally broken and immature in so many ways.  I cannot reconcile love and sex.  Introversion and Social Anxiety have always been parts of me.  I am a dweeb, a dork, unable to be adult about the emotional and social qualities of life.  I can write a book, talk sciences, teach a class, and solve problems with the best of them, but I cannot properly handle human interactions.  The human equations, the personal qualities, are knots I cannot untie.  Autism, Asperger’s, perhaps there is a sprinkle of these in my matrix.  Looking in someone’s eyes is more frightening than revealing.

I miss her.  I always will.  I dream about her more than any other person or thing.  I wake up crying several times a year, and I do not see that changing.  My hormones have settled.  I have crossed the mid-life crisis, and understand myself.  I listen to music again, and play.  I let things go.  The tensions are gone.  Life’s difficult challenges are faced straightforward.  The love is there and always will be.  I will die with her name on my lips.

I have lost her presence, though I will not lose her.

Tale of the Tat

I was recently asked if I have any tattoos…

Elizabeth and I had been together for about 18 years, and married for about 14, when I walked into the den and said, “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo.”

Her response was, “If you do, you’ll never again have sex with me.”

Do not judge her.  I had no tattoos when we met.  In her mind, I wasn’t “that” guy, and I am not that guy.  I was wrestling with a changing body in a changing world.  Andropause is only an excuse in some regards, but hormones are strange drivers.  Regardless, she had every right to dislike the idea of having to look at permanent scar where one had not been before, just as I had the right to consider willfully creating one.

Her response struck me.  After my first marriage, a burden had been lifted from me in one regard.  That marriage was aggressive and angry.  That ex was controlling and manipulative.  Freed from her, I had started to find myself again when I met Elizabeth.  She supported me and helped me in wonderful ways.

Unknowingly, her response to my thought of a tattoo brought up feelings from my previous marriage.  The feeling that I was no longer in control of my own being.  This only added to the wacky hormones and feelings of bewilderment and isolation I was experiencing.  I did not resent her response, but I did not know how to deal with it either.

At a following Christmas, she gave me a gift certificate to a local tattoo artist whom she had selected, expressing she realized it was wrong of her to control what I might do with my own body.

I appreciate her understanding, but now I was left with a new quandary.  The gift represented a new form of control.  I did not get to pick where I would have the tattoo done, or when, or who would do it.  There felt some restriction based on price, size and perhaps body location.  I had envisioned passing some martial arts test in my instructor’s city, and celebrating with a tattoo.  Now, I had a gift from a woman whom I love dearly, a woman who does not like tattoos, for a set amount within a given time-frame.  The feeling went from, “you can’t” to “you must”.  Again, I felt left out of the equation.

It took time.  Months passed while I internally debated the situation.  Do I or don’t I?  I am sure Elizabeth wondered through all that time when I would come home to show her the dreaded tattoo.  I finally expressed that I just couldn’t do it, because I would be doing it for the wrong reason.  I hated wasting her gift, but I just couldn’t use it.  Sadly, this all happened near the end of things.  It was swept up as part of it, though I feel it was not.  It may be an example perhaps, but not a part.

The world has changed since Elizabeth and I met.  Tattoos have moved from accepted to expected.  I was recently asked if I have any tattoos.  I do not, and I never will.  As an act of contrition, I will not get something that would upset her so, even though we are no longer together.  This is my choice, even though she will never know - an act of my love.

2024/02/22

Memory Loss On Memory Lane

(2024/02/17)

When a relationship is broken, one of the many things we lose is mutual recall.

We all get nostalgic feelings from specific things, perhaps a place, a scent, or a song.  For many of us in my generation, TV theme songs can be a real kick down sentimental memory lane.

Lately, part of my late night routine involves the TV being turned on to Catchy TV, and the show “Newhart” – not the “The Bob Newhart Show”, where Bob Newhart plays a psychiatrist, but “Newhart”, where he plays the owner of a little inn, in Vermont.  For me, there is something very emotional about the theme.

The emotion connects directly with my ex, Elizabeth.  But here is the catch; “Newhart” ran from 1982 to 1990.  I did not meet Elizabeth until 1990.  As such, the bulk of the show ran during a previous – and most unsettling – marriage.  The nostalgic tug of the theme does not bring up any of the negative emotions or associations with the first marriage.  The feelings the theme brings up are tied to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth and I were big fans of “Twin Peaks” when we first met.  I have a very strong emotional response to that theme song.  “Twin Peaks” premiered in 1990.  My memory of it and Elizabeth is crystal clear.  But my memory of Elizabeth and “Newhart” is non-existent.  I have only the emotional tug of the theme to give me a clue.  And when I look at the dates “Newhart” aired, she and I could have only watched the last season together, or perhaps reruns.  That said, I do have a vague recollection of us discussing the college drinking game, “Hello Bob”, where everyone is required to take a drink whenever someone says “Hello, Bob” during “The Bob Newhart Show”.  Likewise, there is a nebulous memory of discussing the fun characters Larry, Darryl and Darryl from “Newhart”, but these memories are so foggy, I could have had those debates with anyone.

Oh, how I wish we could have remained a friendship connection, to email each other or to be able to have a dinner every now and then.  I do send her a happy birthday email every year, and I give her a Christmas gift every year – secretly place by her door around midnight on each Christmas Eve, with the card signed, “ . . .  Santa”.  The three dots represent, “I Love You”.  She knows who “Santa” is, but she does not know what the dots mean.  Fourteen years now, Santa has left his gifts.  Fourteen years, and she has sent me a small gift of her own, sent via my daughter.

In 2023, for the first time in those fourteen years, I did get to see her and talk for a bit.  Her cheer and bubble was as effervescent as ever.  She looked happy, and healthy, and honestly, beautiful.  She had moved into a new house, and had an old family clock from my Dad that she no longer had a place for, and she wanted to return it to me.  I crumbled in the meeting.  I was not emotionally strong enough, but all this is a bit of a digression.

Would that I could ask her, “Did we watch ‘Newhart’ often?”  As a couple, you have more RAM and even more ROM – your hardwired memory is larger, and your randomly accessed recall is greater. When a relationship is broken, we lose so many things.  At times, like my first marriage, the breakup was the beginning of a new life.  I was reborn.  The breakup with Elizabeth has left me feeling old, feeble, and forgetful.