M

I still miss him.

I've come to the painstakingly slow realization that the 'him' I miss may not be the man I watch move around me when I enter that cafe. That man is not kind.

When I first met M, I was not in the mindset of dating or even possessing an attraction to men as a whole. He was the stereotypical musician working in the service industry, although his talent allowed him to periodically tour. I thought to myself, I've seen this guy before, and I don't even want to be his buddy. We are co-workers and I was good with that. That began to slowly shift after our first employee outing; the transition picking up speed when I found out he was experiencing a really low period in his life. We began to talk about music, sadness, alcoholism and recovery, and the shitty feeling of not knowing what the fuck we were doing in life. I began to look forward to the days we'd meet outside; the cover of an umbrella being our only protection from rain or sun. I wanted to share my day with him. I began to ignore what my intuition was formerly screaming to avoid.

I remember the two days I thought, "Wow. This guy is someone else. I am wrong." The first being the day I came in so fucking sad and exhausted. I was barely hanging on to my sobriety and I was not a functioning adult. I was in survival. He turned on Taylor Swift and had put out the ingredients for my comfort coffee. I felt seen. I felt cared for.

The next being the day I was upset that Taylor Swift may not align with what is ethical. I was worried that I was wrong in continuing to listen to her music. Frankly, I imagine he gave zero fucks but I was upset and so he put in the effort. He reminded me of all the amazing things she had done during her rise to fame. We talked about where she had started from and the things she has had to endure. I felt calmer after talking to him. I felt heard.

I had thought that I was helping him when I first opened up my heart. Instead, I found myself understanding that something else was occurring. I was smiling more. Laughing felt strange and unfamiliar, but with him I floated through the weird. I was living again. He had seemingly helped me.

M seems to carry himself in a quiet confidence. I had respected that about him. He didn't seem to have anything to prove to anyone. If you ask someone who hasn't dated him, he's a great dude. My walls came down in so many ways. The push and pull kept me locked in. We spoke of the futures we envisioned. I shared my weaknesses, my desires, my fears, and my hopes. He always said he wasn't good at talking, but the collected hours I spent listening would beg to differ. One day it would feel like it was the day my future would begin, the next would leave me reeling in my deeply rooted fear of not being enough. We were by all accounts, a tale of two fools. An addict in recovery falling in love with someone who had no plan or actual desire to ever recover from substance abuse. A Womxn with trauma and low self-esteem with a man who used bodies when all else failed.

In the end I remember only feeling invisible, alone, anxious, and voiceless.

I can now live in the what-ifs or the maybes, or I can remind myself of this fact: His treatment of me changed at certain points. How he treated me before he found interest in me, there's truth in there. How he treats me now, could hold an answer.

Whether he is a lost boy or he is right where he plans to stay for the rest of his life, that shouldn't matter anymore. However, I cannot stop the piercing voice in my head that says: he is better than that. 

Whenever I exit from the place of -he deserves friendship, patience, kindness, humor, and safety- I crumble under guilt and shame.

I don't know how many people he has had who truly see him and have loved him through it all. I can't pretend to know much of anything about him anymore. What is clarity? Where was the honesty? What I do know is that I didn't have anyone who believed in me. Now I do, and the impact that has had on my trajectory is immeasurable. I still hope the man I miss is in there... somewhere. I hope he is real.

But that belief is fading as I feel myself moving further and further away from that framed painting which sat on the floor rather than being hung.

Studying Politics

As sad as it is to admit, this is the first time I've never run into the arms of distraction while feeling heartbreak.

Did it almost take me out? Yes. I entered a bar, tracing the line, almost falling back over the edge. I sit here today, still sober. Another man has not profited from my prior destruction, and because I've been pushing through, I have discovered two new eyes sitting within my skull. My ears don't just hear, they grasp the lesson. I believe what I am being shown outside of stories and paintings of possible futures; empty apologies mean nothing. What do I see and hear right now, in front of me? I pay attention and I notice how my body feels.

How often have any of us accepted treatment we've been told is normal and expected? Boys will be boys. How often can a man say something cruel while labeling it a joke? How does our reaction so often become the topic of debate?

I will continue to sit back and listen. How do people believe they can talk to me? Why? How do they talk to other people? Did the way they talk to me change as their likelihood of being fucked decreased/increased? What if they realize that likelihood never existed in the first place? Do they get resentful about a lack of payoff?

What I've learned is that a recovery program does not make someone a better human being. When a person wants to be your friend their behavior does not jump around all over the place, there is consistency at the core of their existence.

When someone wants to be your friend, they do not expect you to be their mother, maid, therapist, sexualized fantasy, and muse; who they'll most certainly replace once they are bored or find a better supply. Those who are not your friend definitely hate boundaries.

I've said it before and I'll say it again now: I have dated and held connections with those who have wanted to have a hold of me, not be with me.

And because of my time reflecting, through spirals and falls into the dark, I see more clearly now why I would have seen that as "being enough". My parents did not see me as enough. They never taught me what healthy love was. They did not love each other; they were dependent on one-another. They existed in a dysfunctional system and that system caused devastation to their children.

Keith was demanding and needy, he controlled everyone he could. He used his childhood to gain sympathy and to achieve the largest benefit of doubt. I was told he wasn't abusive. His anger and displeasure were the fault of everyone else. My mother sucks the air out of the room. There is no space for anyone else to exist. She needs to be the one cared for, protected, and carried. She stole my voice to protect her abuser, and the abuser of her children. I became who I became, a Womxn I no longer need to be.

I hope to be someone different. I've never known better, but that doesn't mean I can't be and do better.

I deserve better.

I'm going to start by healing whatever broken part of me still cries over a dude who doesn't know my birthday or how old I am, even though we spent my 34th birthday together.

It has been a long week.