Hope Dies Last

I used to be a huge fan of Susan Miller.

Most of the time, she would be eerily accurate (in a fun way) that for almost two years the first thing I would do on the first of the month is check out her predictions. This amused me until last January when I read something along the following lines.

‘On January 20th’, she wrote, ‘you will meet the love of your life.’

I usually do not pay attention to such grandiose statements, but her specificity impressed me so much that the date was etched into my mind. So when The Man asked to see me on that Sunday, ON THAT EXACT DATE, I was convinced that he was ‘the love’ that Susan had been alluding to in her January forecast.

The 20th came bright and blistery. And by the end of it, I was in his flat fawning over declarations of desire and thinking, “That Susan Miller is a bloody genius.”

But February arrived and The Man left. March followed quickly, just as bright but not quite as blistery, and before I knew it it was the 30th and I had not heard from him in far too long. Far too long for him to be the love of January let alone my life.

Susan Miller began to lose her balance on the soaring pedestal I had placed her–and ironically him–on.

***

“I haven’t seen you in ages.” Real had said.

“Yea, it has been a long time.” I had answered.

“It must be about a month.”

“Something like that.”

As I thought about it later, I knew exactly–even to the precise minute if I were actually neurotic enough to do the calculations–how long it had been.

On the day that Susan had predicted I would meet the love of my life? On that exact day while I was waiting for The Man to join me? It was on that day that I met Real.

January 20th.

The love of my life.

Excuse me while I scoff.

***

Susan Miller might be a genius but I am definitely not her groupie any longer. For when I discovered the apparent ‘love of my life’ turned out to have a girlfriend? Well then, she toppled over head first off that pedestal. Or maybe she was pushed. Whose to say? I honestly wasn’t there.

But old habits die hard. Especially when it comes to romantic forecasts and crushes that keep pestering you in your dreams AND who also ask to go out for drinks with you ‘midweek’.

Thus, after a much needed astrological hiatus I went back to Susan and this is what she had to say:

“Watch Wednesday, June 25, when there will be a lovely cooperation between the Sun and Saturn in the heavens. The Sun rules your solar fifth house of true love, and Saturn’s job is to stabilize and actualize what it touches. Saturn will teach you to be practical too, and by that I mean to keep your feet well planted on the floor, which is helpful for starting or keeping a long-term relationship.”

Which–much to my surprise–is quite similar to what my therapist had recommended earlier that day when I barged into her office, all jittery, and very nearly screeched, “Real is going to call me this week for us to go for drinks and you need to tell me what to do!”

After discussing it for quite some time, a plan was formulated. Not an evil plan of how I will get him to dump the British Chippie and DATE ME DATE ME DATE ME, but how to protect myself from a man who could potentially, probably, most likely kick me when I am already down.

In actuality, the plan we devised protects me from the person who consistently hurts me the most.

Myself.

***

All that remains is for him to follow through and then when he is sitting across of me I get to ask the following question as casually as I can muster,

“Are you still with your girlfriend?”

And then? If he replies ‘Yes’ or gives me a ‘Yes, but…’ answer yet asks to see me again I get to say the following,

“I really like you. But you have a girlfriend. If you’re ever single I’d love to go out with you again.”

THEN I HAVE TO FOLLOW THROUGH WITH THAT.

And since both Susan and my therapist are in perfect accordance, I think I will take heed and keep both feet on the ground.

So on Wednesday, on the day where there is lovely cooperation in my house of true love AND on the day that Real may call, I have already made plans to spend the evening with my girlfriends.

Because as much as I want the stars to be right? That on January 20th I may have met the love of my life?

I think the love of my life? My house of true love? I think that I would be much better off believing that that is me.

I found a note tucked into a book called The Lady Who Was Beautiful Inside by Edward Monkton. It was a note written in pencil from an ex-boyfriend. This is what was on it:

Essentials for Life

-someone to love

-something to do

-something to hope for

I’ve got hope back. And I’m on the path to finding something to do.

How are you fairing? 

I am named after my paternal grandmother, Hope, who was a lovely woman.

But, she whined. A lot. She would complain about almost everything and would hold on to past hurts and injustices with unwavering determination.  She argued with her husband and when he passed away she argued with her children and then in her last days she argued with her nurse.

My mother–a ray of blinding sunshine–recognized the pessimistic character of my grandmother right away. And so when my father suggested that the daughter growing in her belly be named after her she recoiled in horror.

“Why don’t we give her a combination of my name and your mother’s name?” she had offered. This conjunction produced a name that my father argued would make me sound like a singer. In his mind, that was not a respectable occupation for a woman.  But, my mother–a lover of the arts–ignored his rantings and decided unilaterally that that would be my name.

My father had other plans.

After my mother had given birth prematurely and was recuperating in hospital (and I was soaking in my first month in a glass box) he went, on his own, to issue my birth certificate.

“I did it!” I imagine him saying. “She has a name!”

“What? Without me? What did you name her?”

“Elpida, Zoi, Hara” my father must have answered matter of factly.

“You gave her THREE names? AND your mother’s name?” I imagine my mother’s voice rising.

He then explained.

“Elpida (Hope) after my mother who is a difficult woman, yes. But, the other two names will counteract that effect.  She will have a long life (Zoi) filled with joy (Hara).”

While I have never been crazy about my first name (because it’s not actually Hope), I have loved the other two infinitely.

***

Today is the one day of the year that I dread more than any other because fifteen years ago today the telephone rang and a series of events began that changed my life forever.

Today is the one day of the year that I never know how to feel or what to do. Do I have to be sad? Do I have to cry even if the tears don’t come? How should I commemorate the day my father died?

This year I decided that I would tell the story of how my father gave me my three names. I would tell the story because even though he is not here and even though I am not going through the easiest of times at the moment, it is still a story that makes me smile.

I smile because my father gave me two middle names–that I can turn to again and again, that I can repeat like a mantra, Life, Joy, Zoi, Hara, Life, Joy, Zoi, Hara–as if he knew that I would need them. He gave me two middle names filled with so much hope that it teaches me something I never had the opportunity to learn.

I am my father’s daughter.

He called.

I failed to pick up because it was an unknown number. But really, I failed to pick up because I was lying on the couch, numb from griefless grief. Twenty minutes later, my phone beeped.

It hadn’t stopped all day. (I do not recommend having a mini breakdown on your Name Day. The incessant phone calls from well-wishers get in the way of all the crying.)

I picked it up–uninterested–and looked at the number. It was the same, unknown number from before.

“Oh who the fuck is it now?” I thought to myself and clicked to read the message.

Happy Name Day! Hope you have a good night! Real

I rested my phone back on the table and continued staring at the carpet. It slowly dawned on me.

Real had called me. Then he had texted. He had remembered me.

***

The next morning he confirms my friend request on Facebook.

A day later, we chat on Chat. He urges me to watch Eurovision.

That Saturday, I text. “OK fiiiiiiine. You got me. It was fun in a trashy sort of way.”

We exchange texts well past 2 a.m until he Goodnight madame’s me.

The following week I have a question that I think he might be able to answer. Cue Facebook message.

Cue the reaction that I am, by now, so used to. NO REACTION. No reply. No nothing.

But, like Hillary Clinton, I do not know when to bow out gracefully. So I confront him playfully on Chat a few days later. He brushes me off. In the nicest way possible.

***

“You’re looking for trouble” my therapist said after I had spilled the above story; after I had manipulated my way into trying to get a trained professional to provide me with a professional analysis of his intentions, his motivations, his reasoning.

“Uh huh. But do you think he’s interested?” I smiled. Disarmingly.

“You’re looking for trouble” she repeated, clearly not willing to participate in my usual “Hey! Let’s talk about a guy! Let’s talk about a guy to death so that we don’t talk about any of the other deep-rooted issues in my life!” As my smile appeared not to be working, I attempted the doe eyes, puff out my lower lip and pretend to sulk route.

She was having none of it.

“I know that you think that a little attention from this man might make you feel a little better. And it might. But, it is not the solution. And did I mention? You’re actively looking for trouble? You seem to be going out of your way, Out. Of. Your. Way, to put yourself in a situation where you will get hurt.”

***

Dr. Wyatt [to Meredith]: Why is it that every other person in that room had the sense to hit the deck? You know people run away from this line between life and death. You seem to stand on it and wait for a strong wind to sway you one way or the other. You’re careless with your life. You’re not slitting your wrists but you’re careless. Probably because your mother told you you were a waste of space on this planet. The problem is you believed her. And if you don’t watch out one of these days you’re going to die because of it.

And so I sit and I mull over the way I live my life; the way I want to be loved so much that I forget about loving myself, the way I believe because so and so did not love me, I am not worthy of love. And I continue to fight to be noticed, to be loved in all the wrong places and in all the wrong ways and by all the wrong men.

And I wonder whether it is time to be a little bit more careful with my heart. And myself. Maybe it is time to start acting like a person who believes she can, and will eventually, be loved.

Maybe, it is time to stop fighting. And wanting. And waiting. And hoping.

Maybe, it is time to just be.