Hope Dies Last

Will I ever feel safe enough to reveal myself and my feelings to a man to a extent that he will fall in love with me and ONLY then choose to break up with me?

Somehow I think it would hurt less, you know, if I was dumped because of actual problems in a relationship rather than dumped because the man is unable to see himself falling in love with me. 

Turning the old adage (“Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”) on its head for a minute answer me this:

Would you rather be loved and then dumped?

Or dumped because you can never be loved?

(Previous notes from a singleton can be found here #1, #2)

Dear Attached Hope,

I’m writing this to you imagining that in some indeterminate point in the future you are in a loving, committed, healthy relationship with a loving, affectionate, sane man.

If you are, congratulations. You have wanted this for so long and I’m thrilled for you. In fact, my heart just hurt a little by the sheer possibility that you are there right now. In some kind of parallel universe to my own. I imagine that you’re sitting, perhaps its next to a fire place, and you’re reading this and you’re looking up and there he is. You’re smiling at him simply because he’s there and its him and you found him and because you’re smiling he is coming over and he is giving you a peck on the lips and because you’re unaccustomed to affection for no reason, for no express purpose you are looking up at him quizzically and he is saying, ‘I just like it when you’re happy.”

If you’re there and if this is happening, Hope, then I want to remind you of something. There was this day–August 18, 2009–where you were dumped in such a way that you believed that you would never, ever, ever find anyone that could care for you. You believed that you would always find men that saw you as a flawed woman whose sole purpose was to make their life difficult. You believed, on that day,  that you were a irrevocably flawed woman and that your flaws would always stop men from giving you a chance. Because these flaws, these flaws kill the attraction. Kill the chemistry and you believed that you just can’t ever come back from that.

As you’re reading this now, I want you to remember that feeling. Feel it, taste it, smell it. Can you feel the pain in your chest? Can you feel the heaviness in your body? The resignation? The sadness? The anger that despite all your hard work at improving your flaws they still get in the way of making meaningful connections? Do you remember all of that? I’m sure you do because you have a tendency to hold on to all those negative beliefs and experiences for as long as is humanely possible. But you may be living in your happy bubble right now believing that this relationship has changed you. So, I want you to remember that day. Remember those thoughts. Feel them. Are you there, in that moment where another man left you? Are you there, in that moment where you felt that your world had come to end? That it was all pointless?

Good.

Now I want you to release it.

Because deep down, I don’t care who this new man is. The one that is standing there, giving you the kisses that you need, whispering sweet nothings on the top of your damp hair. I mean obviously  I care. But I don’t care care. I’m digressing. Hope, my point is that it doesn’t matter what this man thinks of you. (Although, he better think you’re the bees knees) The only thing that matters is what you believe about yourself. Don’t base your value and your worth and your self-esteem on the latest man’s opinion of you. No matter how much you love and respect and value him. All relationships will end. You, however, will go on alone.

So, I want you to remember (and can you–from the future–remind me the same thing from time to time) that you are a beautiful, vulnerable, strong, compassionate, witty, smart, thoughtful, talented, headstrong, emotional, sensual and kind woman who loves fiercely but lives quietly.

You are all those things; with or without a man. You are always all those things. That’s a constant. And that should comfort you.

I love you

Your alter ego

(dumped and still) Single Hope

I am in dire need of a break from thinking about my most recent romantic entanglement.

Enter Peter.

Peter, who I ‘adore’, (and who has also written a novel that you should have already read, but if you haven’t, you MUST) is holding a drabble competition over at his blog. A drabble, as I have learned, is a fictional story told in exactly 100 words. This is my entry. You should enter too.

Enjoy my attempts at literary greatness!

***

I fell in love with her fourth sentence.

The second sentence I uttered was, “Awkward. What would happen if you caught me?” (I had just unintentionally admitted to her–the host–that I wanted to covertly steal her jukebox.). “Uh, I think I just did.”

I looked at my ring finger and back up at her. “Nope.” She laughed, “Slow down, mister.”

I pressed on. “What would happen if you caught me?” She gave it some thought.

“I don’t know”. Third sentence.

My gaze dropped. A conversation killer. I looked back up. Her eyes flashed with certainty.

“Isn’t that exciting?”

I have seen this expression before.

I have seen it before and it all begins and ends in the eyes.

This look comes with glazed eyes. The kind of eyes that have lost hope. They are not sad. Sad eyes are full of expression. They are full of pain. Torment, even. These eyes are full of nothing. Resigned eyes. Eyes that have already made up their mind. Eyes that are waiting for the decision making part of the brain to catch up. The look also comes with firm lips shut.There is tension in the jaw. But, this tension along the jaw does not hide anger. Angry lips are taut but never silent. Angry lips and angry mouths they froth at the corners. They rage. Angry lips are tight but given the chance, they loosen. These lips, this mouth, it is resolute. You can see no teeth because the teeth are hidden inside. Just like all the things he will never tell you. Just like all the things he will never simply tell. They will sit in a silent, taut as tightrope mouth, and he will simply grind and gnaw and bite.

The voice, the words that come with this look may say, “I don’t know where we stand.” But the lips, those eyes, those teeth, they already know.

And because I have seen this look before, because I know this look, I know too.

The end is near.

This is the way it works after you’ve been disappointed or broken or burned.

I mean–I suppose–that this is how it works.You test, and you attempt to conceal and you give away very little.  You give, I suppose, just enough for her to be slightly confused. It is not a rejection. But not an acceptance either. You’re careful. Far more careful than you should be because this new person is new and so it stands to reason that she has no real power over you.  Yet you’re still careful.

You spend all day preparing a glorious meal that will be enjoyed by your closest. You worry if there will be enough for all. You worry about the seating. The music. So, you spend all day preparing. You enjoy the preparation. Your voice bubbles over with excitement. But you still worry. You worry about the way you should introduce her. Then, in order for there to be no confusion, you call her and you inform her–matter of fact–that you will be introducing her by her first name. Done. Now what’s next?  You spend all day preparing and when she arrives you’re so busy that you fail to introduce her to anybody.

But, she manages to make introductions all the same; without your help. You’re not aware of it completely but you imagine that she is smiling and making small talk. You worry when it comes to your attention that your friend knows her sister. You joke, “That is not good at all.” But your joke lands on three blank stares. Then, you realize that you have no idea what that meant. So, you laugh. The laugh that you know she likes in the hope that you’ll unnerve her into forgetting. Then, you’re off again. Executing. Controlling.

This is you.  This is your life. And it needs to be perfect.

***

You try to avoid the slurred “I did not know Greek women were this beautiful” and you attempt to steal already stolen glances in his direction. He’s far too busy creating a perfect evening to notice. Jet lagged New Yorkers hop from single girl to single girl and somewhere in the middle you realize that you are in the middle. Not yet wanted exclusively. But not rejected completely either.

So when when you meet a girl who knows your sister and this girl who knows your sister asks you, “So how do you know him?” you do not know the correct response. And because you haven’t been accepted (but not rejected either) you vaguely reply, “Oh, you know through so and so.”

You fight back by now redundant tears because you’re tired of this. You’re tired of drunk men that use flattery to pass the time at a party. You’re tired of not knowing where you stand. Not with this particular man, at this particular time,  but the collective men that have gone in and out of your life. Can just one feel like it will stick? Just one time. Please let it be this time?

You look out into the midnight sky and find a star that you think is a star but its so bright that it could easily be a satellite. A silent satellite orbiting the earth capturing snap shots of disappointments that are so strong that you imagine scientists that study these images are sitting in offices wondering, “Did you see that? Did you see that pulse? There. And there. And there. What IS that?” you imagine them whispering; these scientists.

It is the collective rise of a breath filled with hope and that pulse? That is the collective intake of breath, as single woman after single woman is sucker punched in the gut. In that exact place where all her feelings of ‘certainty’, of female intuition come from.  You wonder if any other single girls out there are accidentally wishing on satellites (instead of stars; in that case you’re not the only one fooled by brightness)  and you wonder if this is the reason that you’re all still single.

Then, a soft–almost sad–giggle escapes your lips.

This is  your life. This is you. And you’re nowhere near perfect.