Begginings, Endings, and Retold Stories

“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” – David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

If I had more sense, I would take the advice of friends as if it were the word of God, Holy Grail, or something of equal eminence. I have a few in particular who are brutally honest and consistently call me out on my bullshit.  Admittedly, I need people in my life to do just that. Admittedly, I have tried to scrape by in life settling for what I have thought I deserve in life, which isn’t much – because I thought nothing good or whole was warranted and happiness just wasn’t in store for me. Of course, I wouldn’t even admit to myself that these were the beliefs at work on some level of consciousness, forming what took place in my waking life. 

On Friday I was out with a friend from England. She loves to meet with me to catch up on life – particularly mine – because from an outsider’s perspective it’s blatantly ridiculous and unnecessarily chaotic. She kept prying about this older man from California who obviously wanted to reestablish some form of a relationship with me. Her response to every answer I provided was this: It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.

She asked me about my visit with Mr. California. I told her about the stress of that week, of the wedding officiating, of the time with the older man and how we had conversations we needed to have a long time ago, but were only having now. I told her that he reminded me of just how heartbroken I was at a young age – he recalled a memory of me being slumped over the steering wheel of my car, balling my eyes out and inconsolable. I was barely 19. The hurt that I had forgotten suddenly felt very real and raw at that present moment. I told her of his reasons for doing it: another woman (it sounded like it could have been a few) who threw herself into his life. He didn’t think I could understand such things at such a young age, so he told me nothing at the time. 

 Apparently the concept was far too advanced for my young, tiny brain.

My friend asked where I stood with Mr. California. He and I were still talking. He was planning another visit. One thing that struck me as odd during his visit was that he asked me about a guy several times over the span of a week. I’m not sure what to call him at the moment, but said guy in question and I had tried a relationship not just once, but twice. I didn’t think I was in it for the right reasons the second time, and I told him as much. He was more understanding that any guy would be; and, as I knew it now, happy in a long term relationship. This is the account I gave Mr. California several times. Mr. California’s comment was that he thought said guy was ‘The One’.

As I’m giving my friend these events shaping in my life, wondering why Mr. California would ask me so much about one person in particular, she stops me in the middle of my fragmented melodramatic tale and asks me point blank how I feel about Mr. California. I pause for a moment. I don’t have an answer. She tells me it’s simple: I either do or I don’t – and the fact that I don’t know is yet another tactic I’m using to convince myself. She asks me to tell her about The One. I tell her how Mr. California’s questioning caused me to think of The One so much that the idea of him was in my head and wouldn’t leave. I tell her that I reached out to him because my dreams were flooded with his presence and he was my first thought every morning. I told her how happy I was that he and I were talking because I’d missed him so much. She looks me straight in the eye. That is a real emotion, was her reply. 

 Shit's about to get real

Indeed, it was a real emotion. I soon learned that The One wasn’t in a happy relationship like I had thought. I hate to admit I did a small victory dance we he told me they were no longer together. I didn’t want to admit how much I envied her for having someone so wonderful in her life. I didn’t want to admit that I had missed him as badly as I did . . .  I didn’t want to admit that life wasn’t the same without him and I knew life would never be the same without his presence to some capacity.

“ . .  We cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.” David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

 We've done this dance - this routine before. It's not unfamiliar.

So he and I started talking. I’m not sure he and I could possibly stay away from one another even if we wanted to. Not everyone gets a second chance in life, let alone a third.  I am counting this as one of the most precious blessings life has given me and I wonder how I even survived without him. Recounting the last few years, it’s obvious that he is one of the few people that understands me and one of even the lesser few that keep me grounded. Every moment without him was mostly empty and meaningless.

Mr. California was planning another visit to see me over the weekend. Last night I told him I didn’t want him to come. I should mention that I tried to back out of that, using the excuse that I’d left a voicemail and will follow up with an online message. The One was with me to give support . . .  and also to make sure I handled things like a grown adult. What I really wanted to do was to throw my phone off of a bridge; or underneath a moving semi so that it was crushed into a thousand pieces. I wanted to change my number, move to a new zip code, and live my life under an assumed alias. I did what I needed to do – because I had The One’s support and he knew I had it in me. 

 I sometimes wonder if we truly had a choice in the matter . . .  has the story already been written for us?

I recently wondered aloud to him if the time apart was necessary. From my end, it was brutal, but probably needed. We both needed to grow separately. We needed to overcome insecurities, egos, and other unnecessary traits. I can’t speak for him, but I’m certain this is it for me. There are, nor could there ever be, anyone else in my life. His voice is one of my favorite sounds. He knows me at my core and accepts it; I’ve never had to be anything other than my true self when I’m with him . . .  and what exists between us is something I have yet to find words for. 

That would explain why, as he said, 'We've been at this for 6 years and we're in our 30's now'. It certainly hasn't been a linear path. I'm grateful for each opportunity we had.

“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.” - David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

Madness

Today I felt it pass over me, a breath of wind from the wings of madness.

~ Charles Baudelaire

I have made extreme efforts to keep the negativity out of my life, and it still seems to manage to find me. Some of the stories I'm about to share may make your jaw drop, but I merely relay them as an example of the type of people I attract into my life.


As noted from my last blog, I had a run in with a total douche bag. The experience left a bad taste in my mouth. After a little over a month of the silent treatment, douchebag got the hint and I haven't heard from him since. Win!


Unfortunately, the fuckery didn't stop there. I have been involved with some interesting folks since then, and I didn't figure out how I was attracting the unsavory type until recently.


First, there was a gal I met through work. She seemed nice enough. I will call her Helga.  We planned to spend some time on Sunday together over coffee. It was a hot day and we decided to beat the heat. This turned into me gathering my pups and driving us out to the river. Cassie swam and barked after the geese while Merlin howled on the shore because he was too much of a weenie to get into the water. Eventually, he gave up and stole bread from the children feeding the ducks and geese. True story.


On the same day as our outing, Helga decided she wanted a dog and insisted we head out to the Humane Society. She scoured the site for dogs she was interested in as I drove, attempting to navigate my way through unfamiliar territory. She seemed impulsive, flighty even, in her decisions. There was an underlying madness to her. Sure, I've run into people like her in my lifetime before - but I had to pay admission.


Upon arriving at the Humane Society, Helga immediately saw several dogs that peaked her fancy. I tried to explain to her that she could not just simply take the dog out, she had to go talk to the administrative staff in the front. The ever impatient and impulsive Helga (ID comes to mind now that I think of it), refused to listen to me and instead attempted to assault the first staff worker she saw. Helga was told by the staff worker that she had to talk to the administrative staff at the front.


This process was repeated 4 times before Helga decided to place a hold on a dog. We drove back to my house so she could pick up her car. I received a text the next day indicating that she got a puppy and I should bring Cassie and Merlin over to see it. This is where her behavior started to make me angry.

I arrive at her place with my dogs in tow. Helga is sitting on the steps of her house with a puppy in her lap freaking out because the pup she purchased from Craigslist has fleas . . . this doesn't surprise me one bit. As Helga goes back and forth from the seller of the pup over taking back the dog, I suggest that she look up a natural remedy for flea removal. By this time, the vet offices were closed that nothing could be done for wee little pup. Helga intended to keep the dog chained outside to her front porch. I think not.


As I assist Helga in giving the pup a lavender bath and spend the next two hours picking fleas off of the poor little darling, I ask Helga if she's fed the dog. Helga says she bought the dog Greenies and intended to give it cat food. Also not happening. I search through my car and give the pup the only wholesome dog biscuit I could find so she wouldn't starve. I also learn at this time that Helga has locked her boyfriend's cat in a room with nothing but his litter box, food and water for the week while her boyfriend is gone because she hates the cat. Helga also claimed she would not clean the litter box.


I leave late that night, considering what to do about the puppy. It's not Helga that I care to be entangled with at the moment, but I refuse to let an animal suffer if I can keep it from a stupid and neglectful owner. The next morning, I receive a text from Helga saying that she sold the puppy and was SO happy about it. She had the poor little darling for less than 12 hours.


I was relieved that puppy went on to greener and more sane pastures. I left for the weekend to go camping. I received a picture text from Helga that weekend showing me her new puppy . . . the crazy bitch got another one. May God have mercy on its poor, furry soul.


Then there's Jeb. I give him that name because it is reminiscent of white trash and this may very well be where he's sprung from. I took a psychology class with Jeb in the spring term. I don't know why, but many of the craziest folks I've ever met emerge from the depths of the psychology department. This makes worry sometimes if I'm heading in the right direction.

Jeb and I would have the occasional drink after class where we'd stuff our faces with bad bar food and shoot the breeze. Jeb and I eventually re-connected when we were done with summer term. I was still reeling with emotions of self hatred from an unfortunate event in my life. Jeb's form of medication was to get me drunk off my ass and continuously call me 'Darlin' . . . I don't think this works well. Jeb got scary very quickly. It sounded to me as if he were putting himself out there as a hit man. Perhaps I misheard him. I hope I misheard him.


Then the subject of Africa comes up. Jeb tells me he's tired of hearing about dumb American's going to Africa and thinking that no one can touch them because of their nationality. I can't remember exactly what else he said to me, but I do know that it upset me very greatly and I cried about it for hours. I called a friend who calmed me down, telling me that even if I never get to Congo, the desire to want to go is a noble one and I should be commended. I later wound up in a pagan shop after the phone ending my phone call with my friend.

This country and these women will always have a place in my heart. These women are so strong, and so beautiful because of their strength. 

I recently received a text from Jeb, over a month after he left me balling my eyes out. He said he was sorry about what he said about Africa and that he cares about me and gets protective. What? How can you care about someone you barely know? Also, if he were that protective he would be here with me, helping me regain my self respect.


I reconnected with some childhood friends on facebook. One of which I dated in high school. He's now a cage fighter. This doesn't surprise me. Over the process of our exchange of e-mails and catching up, I learn that he and his wife have divorced. Upon learning this, I ask Mr. Cage Fighter if I can call him. My intentions were to see if he was okay. I sent him a text, he said it was all 'same shit different day.' Umm . . . . okay. I know we all process things differently. Five minutes later, I receive a text of his chiseled abs and he tells me I'm sexy. I'm not impressed.


There are other areas of madness in my life, but if I spoke of each one in detail this would go on forever. I'm trying to regain my footing.