In the dream she completes me. Holds me. Gives me shelter, inspiration, and blowjobs. Joyfully. We explode into space together.
The flaw, of course, is my reliance on “her” and not “the lord.” That’s the message.
“You’re alone and not happy about it,” he therapist said. “You need to learn to be alone.”
No. I am great at being alone. I’m tired of trying to work it all out by myself. I want a hand to hold.
Unfortunately, the hand is my dead sister’s. I married her doppleganger when I was 27 and just graduating from college and expecting myself to be married by this time. There’s a lot of pressure. Maybe not so much for my kids. But I wanted it to work out with her, a Basque gypsy weighing in at 95 pounds dripping wet, as they say.
Here’s the first red flag: we met at an adult children of alcoholics meeting. She argued with the chair of the meeting. Firey. I wanted to grab her up and help her get over her anger and issues. I had no idea what was ahead. I guess we never do.
I imagine the girl in the white dress, or the reader and yoga teacher in Ft. Worth is going to give me what I cannot give myself. Hmm. What is that?
Sex? Not exactly. Touch and release is available. Inspiration? Yes. I want to be proud of you. Not your smile or boobs, you’re joy, your passion, your life’s work. If you, she, hasn’t figured that out yet, I am not going to be a good teacher. I’m tired of coaching my partners. I want a partner who drives her own agenda, and gives me a place at the table.
The Basque had a temper and daddy issues that I was not going survive. The coach I was working with at the time said, “You don’t have to put up with abuse.” I cried my eyes out.
At the partners of victims meeting I learned the phrase that has served me well ever since.
“I will be your trigger. I will not be your target.”
In love, we trigger each other. Most of those have little to do with our actions or interactions. When I am triggered I no longer hear anything you are saying. There is no relief. I need time alone. Time away. Time to regroup. Perhaps that’s a bit like my creative time. I need time alone. I can’t write with your tv program on in the living room. I can’t escape it, except by escaping it.
As my first wife pounded on the bedroom door, demanding to be let in, I escaped to the roof deck. I could almost not hear the pounding and yelling. She was a yeller. Beautful yeller. I learned from my coach, that I would be okay alone. Safe is better than scared. It took me another two years to get out. My tendency is try and fix things.
I cannot fix anyone else. I’m still working on myself. I don’t want to fix you. I don’t want to need you to change. I need you to show up fully empowered. Ready to go.
She needs to be seeking me too. That’s my new repose. I will stay in my lane, offer openings to girls in tennis dresses, and then let go of the outcome. I may never hear from her. That’s not the point. I am putting my energy out there. She responded. She is not the answer. My centered awareness is the answer.
Just like my therapist said, “You just don’t like it when you are not productive. You were not depressed. You were pissed off.”
That is not my problem at the moment. Cash. That’s the current gate. But, here’s the big reveal, it’s not keeping me from being happy, experiencing ecstasy. Even alone I lean into the peak experiences. I want to read Catcher in the Rye to her. Henry Miller’s “stay fucked” prose. Anaïs Nin’s diaries. I want to share, resonate, and listen to her epiphanies.
I want her to be in seek mode.
If there’s no momentum from them, I’m fine to be quiet.
All this outreach I do, Ft. Worth, the troubled “London” and even the girl in the white tennis dress, all need to come back to me of their own actions. What do they want? If it’s not me, that’s fine. I’m not going to generate 95% of the emotional desire anymore. It killed my marriage. The frigid and disconnected woman was still beautiful to me, yet, untouchable in the bed right next to me.
Remember that.
I could’ve been happy. I thought I needed her to be happy too. She’s not ever going to be happy. She’s running from the darkness of her past. Much like my first wife… Wait a minute. Fuck.
I go after unavailable women. Women still wrestling with issues from their past, demons that I no longer want to engage. I will stand beside you. I will love you to the fullest extent of my ability. You must do your own work. I think that was the error in my last partner. And my own error.
I wanted her to change. I thought I could be strong enough to wait and be supportive. That’s no how it works. When you are waiting for the other person to change it’s time to move on. They’re simply not going to change. They could. But, the motivation needs to come from them, not me, my advice, or our issues.
Our issue was not ours, it was hers. The sadness that infected her mornings, again, not mine to solve.
I need a happy woman, not a conflicted woman. “London” is gravely conflicted. Telling me how I did it wrong in my first contact in a year. Nope. Ft. Worth is unavailable. At least she was able to opt-out without stringing me along. White tennis dress is more of a muse. She’s not even really a goal.
My destination is internal. My partner is optional.
