Over dinner the other night, with friends and family,  my brother and I sat at the end of the table catching up. This is our conversation.

Him: I’ve got a date on Monday.

Me: Cool. How did you manage that?

Him:I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and remind you that my servers host your blog.

Me: True dat.

Him: But to answer your question, I know what women in their late 20s and early 30s want to hear.

Me: What’s that?

Him: They feel like they’re running out of time, so I propose to them.

Me: Marriage? You propose marriage? The first time you meet them? And that works?

Him: First of all, it’s not the first thing I say to them. It’s not a line. Secondly, it’s obvious that I’m joking.

Me: I don’t get it. What do you say?

[Puts on his charmingboyishfunnycasual voice and smiles]

Him: Do you want to be my first wife?

[Despite myself I burst out laughing.]

Me: OK. That’s a little funny. I can see why that works.

Him: Really?

Me: Yea!

Him: Why does it work?

Me: Isn’t it obvious?

Him: No. Wait, is it?

Me: Oof, you know nothing about women.  The reason that line works is simple. You joke about it which means that you’re comfortable about the idea of getting married. But not that comfortable so as to appear desperate. You’re exactly the right amount of a commitment-phobe. Basically, you present yourself as the  type of guy that a woman thinks she can actually change. And that’s hot.

Profound silence.

Him: True dat.

Me: Your surprise offends me.

Him: I think I underestimate women sometimes.

Me: Yes dude, we’re smarter than you think we are.

Him: Agreed.

Me: Thank you.

Him: But let me say this: A woman is smarter than what a man thinks she is, but she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.

“This guy is walking down the street when he falls into a hole. The walls are so steep, he can’t get out.  A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up:  ‘Hey you! Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes out a prescription, throws it down into the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up: ‘Father, I’m down in this hole. Can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down into the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. ‘Hey Joe. It’s me. Can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says: ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’

The friend says: ‘Yea, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.’

- Leo McGary | The West Wing -

Interpretation: When you find yourself in a hole, ask for help. There will be people that will try to help in their own way. Their help might not help you. Keep asking. Eventually, someone will jump in with you, hold your hand and show you the way out.

TRUE STORY.

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.

He left me….

…while laughing.

…a sea shell. A common shell that once lived with its other half somewhere in the dark.  He gave it to me on our second date. He was the one that could dive deep into the sea with his eyes open;  whereas I floated on the top blindly squinting in the sunlight.

…confused. On the Friday, he had said, ‘This is a serious relationship, right?’ and on the Monday it was over.

…with one question. Wait, why did we break up?

…guarded. I am finding it increasingly difficult to believe the words and the actions of men.

…and I am stronger now.

He left me…

…a hot pink and black scarf from his travels.

…a copy of  ‘The Painted Veil’

…with a huge crush on Will Shortz.

…with hundreds of archived emails that still make me smile.

…with a new friend.

…and I am smarter now.

He left me…

…because we didn’t have another choice.

…with petals of lies in his wake that I still find scattered wherever I walk.

…a cocktail umbrella.

…thinking that all men really need to be much taller than me.

…and I am braver now.

He left me…

…for another country.

…convinced that in order to be loved I needed to fundamentally change who I am. (Thankfully, he left and I let him.)

…broken. (But I built myself back up beautifully.)

…with an intense need to be a writer.

…a delicious chocolate cake recipe.

…and I am so thankful for it.

He left me…

He left me…

…on my eleventh year.

…his last pack of cigarettes.

…fatherless.

…an intense fear of knives.

…his temperament. Quiet, studious, wise and impatient of fools, liars and bigots.

…and I survived.

What have the ones who have left, left you?

(Idea stolen from the ethereal Alexia at Say Another Lexi)

A new year cannot really feel like a new year until the previous year has been dissected, right? So here it is. 2009.  (2008 can be found here)

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a hard time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?

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.

A little over three months ago, I confessed that I had not been on an airplane in two years.

As usual, you were all lovely and understanding and flooded my comment box with tips and stories and advice. I was ready to get on a plane and make the trip for my best friend’s engagement party.

Except, when the big day arrived,  I did not get on that plane.

I managed to get to the airport. I managed to wait in line. I managed to check in–while sobbing uncontrollably. But I never managed to even begin walking to the departure gate.  The Xanax didn’t work. Somehow, my panic was no match for the chemicals.My fear had paralyzed me.

The next 24 hours rank right up there with the most traumatic experiences of my life. In all my adult life, I have not  felt like such a failure as I did that day. In all my adult life, I have not felt less understood as I did on that day. Slowly, as the news trickled down to all the relevant people, my panic grew fiercer. The reactions were diverse. An overwhelming silence from the friends that were already on the island waiting to pick me up at the airport. Rage from my brother who believes in ‘tough love’. Anxiousness and guilt from my mother. My sister and The Best Friend were proud. “You fucking made it to the airport! You checked in! You took your first step!”

Over the course of the next month, which coincided with the first three weeks of my relationship with him, I self-medicated myself with Xanax every single day. I was chain smoking. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep without a pill.

I told no-one.

(I don’t recommend this strategy)

Sure, there were conversations had–here and there–about what happened. And all of them made me feel worse. He was a good distraction from all these things. My mind was filled with him; purposefully. If I allowed myself to not think of him I would have to deal with the plethora of guilt, disappointment and fear that I felt inside. What kind of person misses their best friend’s engagement? What kind of person can’t get on a plane? What kind of person can allow irrational fear to consume her in this way? But the one question that replayed itself over and over in my mind was the most frightening of all.

“Was this going to be my life for ever?”

I say I was at peace when I met him. And I was. But, beneath the peace was all of this. I was dealing with all of this while trying to begin a relationship. That it failed, therefore, is not surprising. That I broke down–completely–when it ended was inevitable.

I am not ashamed of my panic attack disorder or the depression. (The two seem to go hand in hand.)  But, I do hate it. It gets in my way. It ruins relationships–friendships and romances, it causes tension in my family and it stops me from living exactly the kind of life that I want to live. But, it is here. Over the last year, I have tried to avoid it while also trying to defeat it. After the troubling summer I had, I realized that I can’t avoid it. I can’t control it. I can’t defeat it without the proper tools. I learned that this is one battle that I have to face on my own. That those around me will never, really, understand it.  I learned that others will never really accept it.

These realizations were–and continue to be– isolating.

But, I know that I”m not alone. According to the UK’s National Health Service, at least 10% of the world’s population suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder. There are a lot of us out there. And so I wanted to put out part of my story. Its fragmented and all over the place, I know. But, its fragmented and all over the place in my head.

Perhaps, in time, I will be able to make sense of it; express it more eloquently. But for now, the admission that I am a phobic is all the sense I can make.

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.

1. To smile is to be beautiful.

2. Cleaning pots, pans and utensils as you’re cooking will leave less work for you to do after you’ve eaten.

3. To never leave the house without lipstick on or lip gloss. You never know who you will meet.

4. How to make tzatziki.

5. That flowers are beautiful; especially the ones you grow and pick from your own garden.

6. A new recipe is a great excuse to bring people together.

7.  A woman can do anything a man can do. And if she can’t? Just hire someone to do it for you.

8. Do not overstay your welcome when someone opens their home to you.

9. How to be a gracious host. 

10. To always carry your own set of towels when travelling.

11. The words to ‘Que Sera, Que Sera‘ 

12. That no matter your age hold on to your child-like enthusiasm. It will make life that much easier.

13. How to hand-wash my clothes.

14. Strength.

15. To not only tolerate those who are different from you but try to find a way to understand them.

16. Pride for myself, my family and my heritage.

17. It is OK to ask for help.

18. How to panic.

19. Love.

20. That pretending to eat babies’ feet will make them laugh.

21. To always have paprika and oregano in my kitchen.

22. How to pick a watermelon.

23. How to weave a wreath from wild flowers.

24. To be there for your friends through the good and the bad times.

25. During the bad times? Tea, biscuits and an ear can make all the difference.

26. The difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

27. How to stand up for myself.

28. That I can always, always come home.

What have you learned from your mother?