Funny how connotation can be everything, and how much it changes with context. Pretty sad just at the moment, yeah. And it turns out I’m really fucking silly. No surprise on either count, really.
This is what it looks like when my confidence has been shaken.
We finally talked about it, addressed it head on, and, yeah, all that stuff I was so afraid of was suddenly right there in front of me, playing out in my living room. “Maybe it would be… more reasonable… if we just hung out, and not…” And this time he didn’t even need to finish, the vaguery left more kindness than confusion. It is, as he said, entirely reasonable, prudent even, a wise course of action. And wisdom is apparently much more important now than it was a month ago. All I can think is I wish I felt the same.
I don’t want to be as shaken by this as I am. Some reaction is to be expected, a bit of regret, a nagging worry that I’ve just been rejected. But I’m crying, and I don’t like that. I’m angry, frustrated, and I’m not sure how proportionate the reaction is. Just hang out? We’ll see how well I do with that, but at the moment I look at his face and see something other than a friend, stand close to him and just want to be closer. Simple little things that were a joy change so quickly into a nuisance and an embarrassment. And I’m still crying.
This calls for whiskey, a hot bath, and then bed once I’ve crossed from maudlin to apathetic.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
More about Ben
No one should be subjected to listening to me talking about this again, so here it is. Those readers who have been privy to my various rants on this topic are encouraged to stop reading.
Turns out I’ve still got a lot of venom left. I just keep realizing, with time and distance, how little I actually liked him. And how much I really disliked him. Hate might even be an appropriate word, as little as I want it to be. I was so afraid I’d be lonely without him, that I’d miss him when he was gone, and that’s just not how it is. I had never believed it was possible to stop loving a person, mostly because I had never done it, but even in the abstract, I just couldn’t see how it would work. I mean, does all that feeling just go away? I could understand it turning into something else after a certain amount of grief, like the years I spent hating my mother as only a daughter can, but real tenderness and affection are always still there, buried underneath all the anger and hurt, and with time and distance they usually come back to the surface. I didn’t think this was a thing that could be changed or chosen; I always assumed it just was.
And so I figured, given time and distance, my anger with Ben would fade, the hurt would get dealt with, and I’d remember the very real affection we used to share; I’d miss him. And maybe it just hasn’t been long enough to come to that, but if I’m honest with myself, I really don’t think that’s the way this is progressing. I don’t miss him. I don’t think of calling him or stopping in to say hello, and in fact the idea of doing either is entirely unpleasant. If I pause in a moment when I feel happy, safe, collected, and capable of sorting through the emotional quagmire of a failed relationship, mostly I feel nauseous. Some of it is definitely leftover anxiety, the sense of dread I had for so long with him, just waiting to see what horrible lie would be uncovered next. But there’s more, and I haven’t sorted through the stuff on top of it to be able to describe it very well yet, but it’s something to do specifically with him. His actions, his intentions, even his physical form. He’s… icky.
Maybe this emotional turnaround is possible because I didn’t really know who he was at all when I first started to care for him. He lied to me so often about so many things that when I remember the first year or so of our relationship, I’m remembering someone who I realize now doesn’t really exist. This conflicted, big-hearted, tender and considerate guy… Doesn’t exist. Even after almost three years I can’t say for sure how much of it is a conscious fabrication, and how much he really believes. I’m not certain whether or not his motives were ever actively malicious, though they were consistently self-serving and almost pathologically narcissistic. He lied about who he was, what he wanted, where he had come from, what he liked about me and what he wanted from his future. He lied about his friends and family. He lied about me when he talked to other people. To be honest, I don’t know what was the truth in most of these, just that he told different stories at different times, each conveniently making him look like the good guy at the time. God, I HATED that. I hate him.
I really do. It’s scary. Behind the anger, and the hurt, and the petty desire for some kind of revenge, I hate him. I don’t want him to be happy. I don’t want him to be.
I really don’t have enough distance yet to know what I’ll feel about this in years to come. But I seriously doubt I will ever find myself missing his company. And if I do, I’m pretty sure I won’t be remembering things as they actually were.
Turns out I’ve still got a lot of venom left. I just keep realizing, with time and distance, how little I actually liked him. And how much I really disliked him. Hate might even be an appropriate word, as little as I want it to be. I was so afraid I’d be lonely without him, that I’d miss him when he was gone, and that’s just not how it is. I had never believed it was possible to stop loving a person, mostly because I had never done it, but even in the abstract, I just couldn’t see how it would work. I mean, does all that feeling just go away? I could understand it turning into something else after a certain amount of grief, like the years I spent hating my mother as only a daughter can, but real tenderness and affection are always still there, buried underneath all the anger and hurt, and with time and distance they usually come back to the surface. I didn’t think this was a thing that could be changed or chosen; I always assumed it just was.
And so I figured, given time and distance, my anger with Ben would fade, the hurt would get dealt with, and I’d remember the very real affection we used to share; I’d miss him. And maybe it just hasn’t been long enough to come to that, but if I’m honest with myself, I really don’t think that’s the way this is progressing. I don’t miss him. I don’t think of calling him or stopping in to say hello, and in fact the idea of doing either is entirely unpleasant. If I pause in a moment when I feel happy, safe, collected, and capable of sorting through the emotional quagmire of a failed relationship, mostly I feel nauseous. Some of it is definitely leftover anxiety, the sense of dread I had for so long with him, just waiting to see what horrible lie would be uncovered next. But there’s more, and I haven’t sorted through the stuff on top of it to be able to describe it very well yet, but it’s something to do specifically with him. His actions, his intentions, even his physical form. He’s… icky.
Maybe this emotional turnaround is possible because I didn’t really know who he was at all when I first started to care for him. He lied to me so often about so many things that when I remember the first year or so of our relationship, I’m remembering someone who I realize now doesn’t really exist. This conflicted, big-hearted, tender and considerate guy… Doesn’t exist. Even after almost three years I can’t say for sure how much of it is a conscious fabrication, and how much he really believes. I’m not certain whether or not his motives were ever actively malicious, though they were consistently self-serving and almost pathologically narcissistic. He lied about who he was, what he wanted, where he had come from, what he liked about me and what he wanted from his future. He lied about his friends and family. He lied about me when he talked to other people. To be honest, I don’t know what was the truth in most of these, just that he told different stories at different times, each conveniently making him look like the good guy at the time. God, I HATED that. I hate him.
I really do. It’s scary. Behind the anger, and the hurt, and the petty desire for some kind of revenge, I hate him. I don’t want him to be happy. I don’t want him to be.
I really don’t have enough distance yet to know what I’ll feel about this in years to come. But I seriously doubt I will ever find myself missing his company. And if I do, I’m pretty sure I won’t be remembering things as they actually were.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Some Conclusions (and, rather belatedly, a beginning)
So I’ve been doing some thinking about independence and freedom and relationships.
Shocking, I know.
Leaving Ben like I did, forcibly cutting him out of my life and feeling so much better for it, that was well and truly a first for me. I don’t let go easily. (Stop laughing. I’m allowed understatement.) Each time I walked away from Ryan, it wasn’t so much like pulling teeth as it was amputation without anesthesia. And letting Livvy go… well, that wasn’t so much my choice, and I don’t know if I could have made it if it had been. So where did the impulse come from to do something so completely foreign to me? Why is it so surprisingly easy and clear now that I’ve got just a little space? Oddly, I think it has to do with the time I spent with Ben.
I’ve always been terrified of just being myself. Eighteen months of therapy trying to figure out the whys, and as long as the list is at this point, I know I still don’t have it all sorted out. I’ve learned over the course of my life to let other people tell me who to be. Sadly, I’m still not even that good at it, but I just kept plugging away, always looking for someone new to validate and justify and reassure me that I’m something worthwhile and maybe even a little loveable. I did what I could to mold myself into what I thought they wanted me to be (which is a rather inexact art to say the least), and when the persona I created inevitably failed to satisfy, I got angry. Usually I could hold up appearances and keep pleasing until they were in deep enough I could convince myself they owed me something. You don’t love the me I created just for you? Well, then, you’re a hard-hearted bastard who wasn’t worth the time, and I hate you, and please tell me what I’m doing wrong so I can be better.
My god. This is a terribly unflattering picture I’m painting of myself. Honesty really isn’t kind.
So, I’ve gone on like this, picking people to get close to and molding myself to them as best I could. A shamefully large portion of my self image is based on what people have told me they liked about me, when I adopted those traits in the first place because I knew it would please that person. Fairly hollow, fragile little ego I’ve been building.
And here’s the thing: It didn’t work with Ben. I mean, sure, at first, it worked like a charm. I learned to talk like him, read his books, played his games, learned all about guitars and amps and pedals and a hundred other thing I hadn’t cared the least bit about before I met him. I gave up any semblance of control over my body or my sexuality in a way that continues to shame me every time I think about it. And it worked, but only for a little while. He lost interest in me remarkably quickly, but instead of pushing back or picking fights he just… Got distracted. It was like I was invisible. I’m the youngest in a family that fractured when I was fairly young, so I’m something of an expert at getting attention, even if it’s not always the kind I want. I learned more about his hobbies; he lost interest in them. I tried to get to know his friends; he stopped hanging out with them. I got desperate, resorted to the oldest and lowest attempt at grabbing a man’s attention: sex. It didn’t work. I picked fights; he stopped talking to me. I pouted and sulked; he stopped interacting at all. I tried every trick in my rather extensive repertoire, and not a one of them worked.
I was befuddled, felt helpless and worthless and alone in a way that I never had before. If he had rejected me outright I’d have had something to react to, some clue about how to better mold myself into what he wanted, but ignoring me like that turned out to be the most devastating thing a person could possibly have done to me. I spent the next year, give or take, locked in the worst depression I’d ever faced, and that’s saying something. I’m not sure exactly where I would have ended up if I hadn’t already been in therapy at the time, and I’m quite glad I didn’t have to find out.
But here’s the thing: I’m stubborn as all hell and loyal to the point of masochism, but I’m not stupid, and despite my rather stellar lack of a sense of self, I don't have a weak personality. Turns out, as willing as I am to shape myself to whoever’s around, I’m not at all willing to go without a self. Ben wouldn’t tell me who to be, didn’t seem to want me to be anyone, and somewhere in there I just started being myself out of spite. (Turns out he didn’t like that any better than the persona I created just for him.) And the funny thing? I really like the real me. Alot. Too much to let her go any time soon.
And you know how life just isn’t complete without irony, or some equally sadistic literary device? Yeah. There's this guy. And he’s intelligent, knowledgable, kind and just a little socially awkward, incredibly attractive, and he seems to think I’m the kind of girl he wants to get to know better. And, yeah, I can see already what he likes about me and what he’s not so thrilled about. And it is so tempting, would be so easy, and the sad fact is, I don’t really know how else to have a relationship.
Which is why this is Not. A. Relationship. And those of you who have been saying otherwise can just shut it.
This is just me and him spending time, while I get a better grip on who I am, hopefully giving him a chance to learn the same thing as I do. And we’ll just see how that goes.
Shocking, I know.
Leaving Ben like I did, forcibly cutting him out of my life and feeling so much better for it, that was well and truly a first for me. I don’t let go easily. (Stop laughing. I’m allowed understatement.) Each time I walked away from Ryan, it wasn’t so much like pulling teeth as it was amputation without anesthesia. And letting Livvy go… well, that wasn’t so much my choice, and I don’t know if I could have made it if it had been. So where did the impulse come from to do something so completely foreign to me? Why is it so surprisingly easy and clear now that I’ve got just a little space? Oddly, I think it has to do with the time I spent with Ben.
I’ve always been terrified of just being myself. Eighteen months of therapy trying to figure out the whys, and as long as the list is at this point, I know I still don’t have it all sorted out. I’ve learned over the course of my life to let other people tell me who to be. Sadly, I’m still not even that good at it, but I just kept plugging away, always looking for someone new to validate and justify and reassure me that I’m something worthwhile and maybe even a little loveable. I did what I could to mold myself into what I thought they wanted me to be (which is a rather inexact art to say the least), and when the persona I created inevitably failed to satisfy, I got angry. Usually I could hold up appearances and keep pleasing until they were in deep enough I could convince myself they owed me something. You don’t love the me I created just for you? Well, then, you’re a hard-hearted bastard who wasn’t worth the time, and I hate you, and please tell me what I’m doing wrong so I can be better.
My god. This is a terribly unflattering picture I’m painting of myself. Honesty really isn’t kind.
So, I’ve gone on like this, picking people to get close to and molding myself to them as best I could. A shamefully large portion of my self image is based on what people have told me they liked about me, when I adopted those traits in the first place because I knew it would please that person. Fairly hollow, fragile little ego I’ve been building.
And here’s the thing: It didn’t work with Ben. I mean, sure, at first, it worked like a charm. I learned to talk like him, read his books, played his games, learned all about guitars and amps and pedals and a hundred other thing I hadn’t cared the least bit about before I met him. I gave up any semblance of control over my body or my sexuality in a way that continues to shame me every time I think about it. And it worked, but only for a little while. He lost interest in me remarkably quickly, but instead of pushing back or picking fights he just… Got distracted. It was like I was invisible. I’m the youngest in a family that fractured when I was fairly young, so I’m something of an expert at getting attention, even if it’s not always the kind I want. I learned more about his hobbies; he lost interest in them. I tried to get to know his friends; he stopped hanging out with them. I got desperate, resorted to the oldest and lowest attempt at grabbing a man’s attention: sex. It didn’t work. I picked fights; he stopped talking to me. I pouted and sulked; he stopped interacting at all. I tried every trick in my rather extensive repertoire, and not a one of them worked.
I was befuddled, felt helpless and worthless and alone in a way that I never had before. If he had rejected me outright I’d have had something to react to, some clue about how to better mold myself into what he wanted, but ignoring me like that turned out to be the most devastating thing a person could possibly have done to me. I spent the next year, give or take, locked in the worst depression I’d ever faced, and that’s saying something. I’m not sure exactly where I would have ended up if I hadn’t already been in therapy at the time, and I’m quite glad I didn’t have to find out.
But here’s the thing: I’m stubborn as all hell and loyal to the point of masochism, but I’m not stupid, and despite my rather stellar lack of a sense of self, I don't have a weak personality. Turns out, as willing as I am to shape myself to whoever’s around, I’m not at all willing to go without a self. Ben wouldn’t tell me who to be, didn’t seem to want me to be anyone, and somewhere in there I just started being myself out of spite. (Turns out he didn’t like that any better than the persona I created just for him.) And the funny thing? I really like the real me. Alot. Too much to let her go any time soon.
And you know how life just isn’t complete without irony, or some equally sadistic literary device? Yeah. There's this guy. And he’s intelligent, knowledgable, kind and just a little socially awkward, incredibly attractive, and he seems to think I’m the kind of girl he wants to get to know better. And, yeah, I can see already what he likes about me and what he’s not so thrilled about. And it is so tempting, would be so easy, and the sad fact is, I don’t really know how else to have a relationship.
Which is why this is Not. A. Relationship. And those of you who have been saying otherwise can just shut it.
This is just me and him spending time, while I get a better grip on who I am, hopefully giving him a chance to learn the same thing as I do. And we’ll just see how that goes.
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