One Hope.
Four posts.
Four men. Four different men.

I am sorry for misleading you. I really am.

Are you disappointed that the snippets of conversation I presented are not part of some larger beginning?

Are you disappointed that they’re not all the same man?

Are you disappointed that the last four posts aren’t what you thought they would be?

WELCOME TO MY LIFE.

This is how it invariably unfolds.

I meet men. And once in awhile there will be one that makes me want to stand up straighter. Once in awhile, there will be a man who puffs out his chest for me. There will be  flirting (some of it worth recording) and, in rare cases, a connection.  Our respective senses of humour will match. The conversation will flow; our gestures will mirror each other. Numbers might be exchanged, friend requests accepted or casual plans made on the spot. I’ll send a text message (or he will) and we’ll meet again. The banter will continue and,  if I’m still intrigued, I’ll show my interest.

And that’s when it all comes to a grinding, screeching halt.

Here’s what really happened.

Left field never called.

Unforgettable was all talk.

So was Trembling.

Sunrise saw right through me and didn’t like what he saw.

There have been others this year, littered across these pages, this one and this one and this one, all sucking up my bandwidth. They are all indistinguishable from each other now. Their lines are so similar; their compliments feel like cliches. They’ve become one man. The same man.

And you know, it would be easy to become angry at their empty words. It would be easy to become jaded in the face of these meaningless connections.

And at night this is what I choose: easy. I remove my mask, I take off my armour and I slide into bed. A pair of tears escape before my cheek even hits the pillow. Usually, they drop quickly and quietly. I’ll wipe them away, close my eyes and force myself to dream. Other times, especially this summer, there have been unforgivably long nights where I have bitten into my arm to smother my frustrated screams.

[And before you think this is a post about the hardship of being single, it is not. It's far more complex than that.]

You know, for a long time I believed that the one who loved me would eventually leave me. It was the lesson I learned from that snap abandonment of losing my father. It wasn’t realistic, but it felt true. And then, for a long time, I tried to knock down that distortion. I forced myself to visit his resting place, and I forced myself to grieve. And in my delayed grief, I found something else. I found anger. And with that I thought that I had to forgive him for leaving me.  And I felt like such a bratty little bitch. He died. He was killed. It was not his choice. He didn’t need my forgiveness. And because I could not justify my anger, my very real anger, it grew into guilt. And then the guilt began to eat me whole. And then I was told that I had to forgive myself. I had to be reminded that a 12 year old girl does not understand life and death the way I understand it now. And then I felt so sorry for that girl. I felt sorry that she didn’t know that it was an acceptable reaction for her to cry at her father’s funeral. I wanted to turn back time and punch her in the face. Anything. To make her cry.

Because every tear she didn’t cry then, I have made up for now.

Each man that leaves me -whether it is symbolically in the form of nonreciprocating want or realistically in the form of a break-up- has been on the receiving end of one of my deferred storms.

And now I am so tired of baptizing each new tear with my father’s name.

These casual men with their casual lines and their casual connections have broken something inside me. I don’t believe their compliments, I don’t believe their promises, I don’t believe their intentions. They are all talk. But their talk has taught me a lesson that I should have learned a long time ago.

You see, the one who dies is the one who is lifted up to the sky and can do no wrong. The ones who remain are flawed. I got to know my father when he was being elevated. And so for a long time my perception of men was built on this foundation. My perception of myself was built on that too. I believed that men were perfect. And that I wasn’t. I believed that the one who loved me would be ideal. He would have all the answers. He would save me because I couldn’t. He could not disappoint me, or lie to me, or manipulate me. He could do no wrong. Only I could do that.

These men have shattered those beliefs.

And I am grateful to be learning that men aren’t the saviours I’ve always thought they would be. I am grateful because now I can relate to them in a way I’ve never been able to: they are my equals. They are people too.

Their casual lines and their oftentimes hurtful behaviour have little to do with me.  They have their own life stories, their own distorted lessons, their own unrealistic truths. And I’m grateful to have finally seen that. Because now I know that the man I want will not save me from my past. I do that on my own every single day. The man I want is the one who has struggled with dignity and honesty to face his demons. He will not want to be a life-long victim of his circumstances. He will want to let go of his past, not hide from it. He will be real. He will want real. He will see real when it is standing right there in front of him. He’ll stop running.

Because I’m already here -immovable, solid, complete- waiting for a man with the same kind of courage.

On the Thursday, I walked into The Bar and was faced with two particularly awful sights. One, I came face to face with the object of my unrequited affection out on a date with another woman. Two, I came face to face with the newer man; who after I had decided to take a risk and text him, had remained inexplicably and predictably silent.

On the Saturday, I walked into a church and watched a couple I barely know tie the knot in forever-ness.

On the Monday, I walked into therapy and proceeded to spew such hatred for the human race–particularly for the male subset of our species–that my therapist was speechless.

On the Tuesday, I walked into an emergency room and allowed doctors to admit me overnight for a Crohn’s related infection.

On the Thursday, I walked into The Store to unload brand new items for the Christmas season.

Today, I walked into a church and watched as my nephew was baptized.

***

In the last ten days, I feel I experienced the full breadth of a life. And this is what I observed:

It is beautiful and it is horrible.

In its beauty we learn to pause. And in its horribleness we learn to move.

My therapist believes that I am on the brink of a breakthrough.

This is all at once an exciting and terrifying change of pace; ever since she’s known me I seem to have been going from breakdown to breakdown.Actually, ever since you’ve all known me I seem be going from breakdown to breakdown.  Right?

These mini-breakdowns have all been preceded by some form of rejection or abandonment by a man.  I have always known–intellectually, at least–that I have daddy issues. Father died abruptly at a critical juncture in my development. Of course, I have daddy issues. I have watched enough movies, read enough books and related to Meredith Grey far too well to not know this. I did not need a therapist to point it out to me. But it seems that I did need a therapist to dig a little deeper and allow me to understand this on an emotional level.

I did need a therapist to show me that my daddy issues are not there simply because he died. “Isn’t it strange” she asked me, “That in 16 months of therapy all I know about your father is that he died? You spent 11 years with him, Hope. How was your relationship with him when he was alive?”

I was floored. Yes. At some point in my life, I did have a father.  Spontaneous, soft tears burst forth and I used a phrase I have never used in therapy before.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Resistance. This is the stuff that therapists’ wet dreams are made of.

But in her wily shrink ways she had been preparing me for this moment for 16 months. All those sessions led to this one session. For 16 months I danced around the topic. She let me. Today, she probed further. And I finally broke down and allowed her to do her job.

Today I know something that I didn’t know yesterday.

Every time a man leaves me, or rejects me or doesn’t want me I allow myself to finally grieve for the father I never mourned. Not because I didn’t want to or because I didn’t feel to, but because I just didn’t know how to.

Yes. I am definitely on the brink of something here and I really, really hope it’s a breakthrough.

If you do nothing, nothing will happen.

If you do nothing,  nothing will change.

If you do nothing, you will have nothing to say.

(But, you will cry a lot in therapy)

Easy: Finding evidence that always confirms that there is something wrong with me

Hard: Taking that evidence and interpreting it differently to conclude that I am just normal

Easy: To think  ”I don’t blog for the comments, I blog for myself”

Hard: Accepting that comments aren’t the alpha and omega of my existence

Easy: Letting my life pass me by 

Hard: Grabbing it by the (as my mother says) balls and living it

Easy:   Writing

Hard: Writing well

Easy:  Talking to my friends

Hard: Talking to my friends about feeling left behind as they get engaged, live with their boyfriends and make plans for their combined futures

Easy: First dates

Hard: Finding someone who I would actually want to have a first date with

Easy: Coming up with the idea for this post

Hard: Coming up with the actual content for this post

Easy: To say “I forgive you”

Hard: To mean it

Easy: To have good intentions

Hard: To put them in practice

Easy: To love

Hard: To be loved in return

What are you finding easy/hard?

A new year cannot really feel like a new year until the previous year has been dissected, right? So in a nutshell, this was my year. 

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?

A guy on the second date. 

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I do not recall making any resolutions last year. This year I’ve decided to make a list of small goals I want to achieve each month. 

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Nope. But, my sister is pregnant again! 

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No but people I am close to lost people they were close to. 

5. What countries did you visit?

Zero. This makes me sad.

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?

A social life.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory and why?

January 20st. You can read all about it here.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Quiting my job and cigarettes.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Starting the cigarettes again. 

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Yes. I refer you to this post and this post. 

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The Complete West Wing Box Set.  

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

My nephew’s. Each time he entered a room he was applauded. Each time he made a new sentence-ish six ‘bravo’s’ exploded around him. Just yesterday he used the superlative ‘bigger’ and this merited a scream, a hug and an Eskimo kiss from me. 

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

All the citizens of Greece that threw rocks at buildings and burned public and private property.  

14. Where did most of your money go?

To doctors. For both physical and mental ailments. 

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Most of the things I got really, really, really excited about this year were potentials, hypotheticals if you will. Take for example: Barack Obama and the entire US election. I was far more excited about what could happen if he was elected than the moment it became official. Or like how the ‘relationship’ I had with The Man in my head was ten times better than the actual experience. Or how Real made my heart a-flutter when he wasn’t there.  

Perhaps, my expectations are too high? 

16. What song will always remind of you 2008?

My Mistakes Were Made For You| The Last Shadow Puppets

17. Compared to this time last year, are:

a)happier or sadder?

b)thinner or fatter?

c) richer or poorer?

Sadder, thinner and poorer. 

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

More acting. 

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Less thinking.

20. Did you fall in love in 2008?

No, no I didn’t. [So we're now entering Year Six of Hope's Hopeless Love Life for anyone left counting.] 

21. What was your favourite TV program?

New Show: Life on Mars

Old Show: Grey’s Anatomy. 

22. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Hate is such a strong word. But the writer’s of Grey’s Anatomy really pissed me off this year regarding the whole Return of Denny Fiasco. 

23. What was the best book you read?

Don’t Move | Margaret Mazzantini

24. What was your greatest musical discovery?

The Kings of Leon

25. What did you want and get?

I wanted a pet and I got one in the form of crazylovely Diego. 

26. What did you want and not get?

*Cough*Boyfriend*Cough*

27. What was your favourite film of this year?

There was no film that really resonated with me this year. The Dark Knight left me wanting, Sex and the City made me want to gorge my ears out with all the adolescent shrieks and Burn After Reading was just OK. (Although, I desperately loved George Clooney in it.)

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I drank some beer, laughed, blew out candles and wore shoes that hurt. I turned 27. 

29. How you would describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?

The older I get the closer I get to dressing the way I wanted to in high school. In fashion terms that would probably mean I’m only 20 kilos and 40 absurd outfits away from resembling Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. 

30. What kept you sane?

My mother, my sister, my brother-in-law and my brother. 

31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Jon Stewart. 

32. Who did you miss?

The Best Friend, my Sister From Another Mother and The Man. 

33. Who was the best new person you met?

Hit myself over the head, spit on my neck, step in a piece of poo because the truth is? Real. Fuckity fuck fuck. 

34. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008. 

Make sure to remove all racy undergarments from car before having it washed. 

35. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year. 

To the Universe: ”You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl.” U2 | One

I found myself, recently, entangled in a conversation that I had no particularly want in having.

It was only until the heart palpitations began, only until I felt that my head would explode, only until the thought “Oh fuck. I’m going to have a meltdown right here, right now” vibrated around the walls of my mind a couple of times that I realized just how much I didn’t want to hear what this person was telling me.

I didn’t want to hear about how despite being in an eight year relationship she has fallen in love with another man. A married man. I didn’t want to hear that he had fallen in love with her too. I didn’t want to hear about their illicit phonecalls. Or their ‘celebral’ connection. I didn’t want to hear about how much it sucked that she had two men that wanted to be with her. Nor did I want to hear that she was  ’scared to be alone’.

I didn’t want to hear any of it. 

***

My brother doesn’t like hearing about my dating life. So, I never told him about  The Man. Yesterday, my Brother In Law slipped and casually mentioned his name. My brother’s response?

“I don’t want to know.”

***

Sometimes, I don’t want to know either.

I don’t want to know that while I’ve been single all these years,  the words “I love you” have grazed the small of your neck  from the breathless whisper of five different men. I don’t want to hear your “I’m never going to meet anyone’s!” five seconds before you’ve ended your relationship.  What could you possibly know of ‘alone-ness’ when you haven’t been alone long enough to feel its grip choking you as if The Grim Reaper himself were just around the corner?  

Don’t you know that I, and only I,  have controlling shares in Solitude? 

(And apparently, in a Shit Load of Bitterness.)

So, I don’t want to hear about how having to choose between two men is awful. I don’t want to hear that he’s too this and that one is too that. Because all I hear is that TWO MEN WANT ME, nanana, nanana. 

I don’t want to hear that “I’ve been alone for one month. I–like–can’t deal. I now know exactly how you feel, Hope.”

Er, do you know what you sound like? You sound like a person who skipped breakfast yesterday and is a) complaing  that they are starving and b) commiserating with who? 

AN ETHIOPIAN WHO DOESN’T HAVE DRINKING WATER LET ALONE BREAKFAST FOOD. 

Sometimes, I don’t want to hear  ”Hope, you should find happiness within yourself. You should find love and passion outside of a relationship.” Perhaps, if your head wasn’t stuck so far  up your boyfriend’s ass I would take your advice a little more seriously.  

I don’t want to hear ‘You should stop looking and then he’ll come.” As if a good, honest man who loves you is like a misplaced set of keys!

***

After I had vomited out every bit of bitterness my therapist asked,  

“Why did that conversation bring all of this up?”

“I don’t know but the entire time she was talking to me about her two men I kept thinking, “WHY IS THE UNIVERSE GIVING HER TWO AND I GET NONE? ITS NOT FAIR!”

“You feel that there is a limited supply of men?”

“Yes! I feel like I’m surrounded by women and we’re all drawing sticks for love and when it comes to my turn THEY’RE NO STICKS LEFT.”

“Hope, what would you tell a friend that told you what you just told me?”

 ”I’d tell her that she was being ridiculous. Finding a partner that will make you happy is not like drawing sticks.”

“Well, at least you can see that.”

***

It seems that lately my biggest problem is waiting for my bitter heart to catch up to my bloody rational head.

But, you know, I’m thinking it could be much worse.  

My therapist says that I have a tendency to distort reality. That I don’t really have any evidence to support half of the many thoughts that float through my mind throughout the day.

I think she may be right. Case in point.

***

“Has someone complimented you recently? she asked.

“”Yes.”

“What was it?”

“You look really beautiful and you’ve lost so much weight.”

“Did you say thank you?”

“Of course I did.”

“Of course you did. But what went through your mind when she said it?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“And you’re laughing again.”

“I’m just so predictable aren’t I?”

“What did you think when she said that?”

“OK. OK. I thought she’s only saying that because she’s put on weight and I am thin compared to her but if she was thinner she wouldn’t have complimented me.”

“So in essence you’re saying that it doesn’t count as a compliment in your mind.”

“It DOESN’T count.”

Silence.

“I have a long way to go still, don’t I?”

My restlessness, at the moment, is directly proportionate to the amount of crushed iced I chew.

The glaciers are not melting because of global warming, but because I am slowly and meticulously gnawing my way through them. I apoloigize to my grand-grand children in advance but Giagia Hope is just trying to survive.  You might be hot, but you’re alive because of me, is what I’m saying.

This restlessness has been building up all summer. Egged on by my emotional deterioration I summoned all the patience I had to wait it out. Things eventually get better. And they did. And then, just as I began to feel alive again, they didn’t.

So, I chew ice and drum my fingers on my therapists couch; my hair sticking out in a rather fashionable haphazard bun on my head. Dark circles under my eyes. I almost look like a tortured writer with no words left.

“I don’t think you’re not moving.” she is saying. I snap back to attention.

“What do you mean? Look at me. My life is stagnant. I don’t go out. I’m not working. My fridge is empty and yet my cupboards are all Stepford-like. Everything is changing but nothing has changed.”

“You have been working behind the scenes for months though. Hope, right now it is as if you are on an airplane. You never feel that you’re moving when you’re sitting on the plane. It’s only when you get to the destination and get off the plane that you realize that you’ve actually been moving all along.”

I smile.

She continues.

“You’ll see, two months from now you’ll be somewhere. You’ll have moved on from this place.”

I really hope so.

If only for the poor ice caps.

Dear Nephew,

While I was sitting on the couch today, my therapist asked me, “So how do you feel about the care you recieved?” She was referring to the wee vacation I took last week. In hospital.

I replied that it was all fine and that the doctors were professional and the hospital was fine-”BUT” I said, “I didn’t feel comforable with the nurses.”

“Why ever not?” she asked.

“Because hello? They were MY AGE. How can someone MY AGE TAKE CARE OF ME? I didn’t really trust them.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust yourself?”

“No, off course not.”

“That’s interesting.”

Nephew, because I am your aunt and because you have three uncles that will tell you to be strong and fight, I’m probably going to sugar coat a lot of things in your life. But today I am going to be honest. Life is going to be tough and without meaning to people and situations will take your life and lift it up into a spinning tornado until you can’t feel your feet, until you don’t know which way is up or which way is down. Then as suddenly as it started, you will fall-PLONK!-and left to sort out the mess for yourself. You might, if it suits you, choose to go to therapy instead. And if you do? You will learn that the “That’s interesting” comment of your therapist is ten times more terrifying than that spinning tornado of doom.

Because ‘That’s interesting” actually means that you have just revealed an important truth, that only SHE CAN SEE, and you know that you have to see it too, but it is like a blind spot in a car and you JUST CAN’T MOVE YOUR HEAD IN THAT DIRECTION.

“But I survived so I guess they were fine!” I said dramatically and swiftly changed the subject.

But then later, much later, I went over the conversation in my head and it was as if a light went on in some part of my brain. My head turned and I could see straight through into the blind spot.

I didn’t trust the nurses because they were my age. Ergo, I don’t trust myself. But I am fine! They did their job remarkably.

Cue head turning and light flooding.

THAT MEANS SO CAN I.

Nephew, today you are two years old. In the last month you have grown so confident. You climb and you run and you throw yourself off the couch onto pillows shouting with an uncanny DiCaprio-like roar  “I’m the king of the world.” Every time you do it I want to tell you to be careful. I want to protect you. I want to very nearly stop you.

But I promise from now on when I look at that smile and when I look at that unadulterated joy and excitement in your eyes every time you achieve something new, I will stop cringing. I will smile.

Because even though, you are 25 years younger than me you already trust yourself.

And that makes you pretty damn special in my eyes.

I love you.

Mama Yo