The proverbial straw broke the camel's back this morning. After 2 months of accomodating my boyfriend's hectic study schedule, and a total of 9 months of patiently interpreting the emotional hieroglyphics of a detached man, today was the first day he had a free moment. He woke up in my bed at 11:30, and left. I was stunned and hurt; I have never dated a man who seemed so averse to spending time with me. This has steadily chipped away at me, and today I felt like I had literally been smacked across the face. You stupid girl! Why would you think you ranked higher? He's busy, he has commitments, he has priorities. I alternated from being furious, to being hurt and gutted.
We had a heated discussion over the phone shortly after he left. It began with him explaining that things will change, that I am a priority, that it would be cheap to tell me he loves me over the phone, but in fact he does. In my mind, I knew that there is nothing cheaper than a man telling you he loves you only because he knows he is about to get dumped. I grew progressively more and more frustrated; for a man of so few words, he operated like a litigator. Before I knew it, the conversation had turned, and the man I was so devastated to see leave my arms went on the offensive, essentially painting me to be a needy girlfriend who demanded too much.
Do I demand too much? I have asked myself this question since this relationship, if it can be called that, really took off: am I too needy? These puppy dog boyfriends that I so enjoy, men who are delighted to be with me, say "Sure, love, wherever you want to go", who seem proud to hold my hand....did they spoil me? I told my father one night that I want a man who adores me; he said, "Buy a dog". So I am looking for a balance, someone with his own life and ambition and dreams, who thinks that I am worth having and sharing with.
As I walked home tonight my stomach kept lurching, and I resisted crying every few blocks. How little do I value myself? I express my unhappiness to my boyfriend, and he can't be bothered to call or write on the same evening to try and hold on to me. How little does he care? I think I will be much cooler with the next man I date; I have trained myself to be satisfied with so little affection and communication that I will be grateful when the next boyfriend says, "Shall we get breakfast?"
This frustration isn't the result of one morning; it is 9 months of slights and coldness. You can't make someone love you more, or see why you are valuable. It is beating your head against a brick wall, and the wall wins.
I can't do this again, can't knowingly settle into a relationship that will never work. I don't know how people survive divorce; silly break ups never get easier, no matter how many I go through.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Letter to my Katy
My dearest Katy,
I was thinking today about the cliches we have always been told, the many explanations of why we "blossomed" so much later than so many other girls. I guess the boys didn't come beating down our doors in high school, and it was very easy to chalk it up to being taller, louder, smarter. We never laughed quietly, and suffered no fools. As I wrap up another failed foray into the dating world, I naturally find myself wondering why this is so damned hard. Why did dating come so easily to some girls, and not to others? Its like a language we can't master; the same crippling anxieties come back over and over.
My father likes to comfort both of us, and though we dismiss him quickly because we love him and believe him to be biased, I think he is on to something. See, did you ever think what the most popular flavor of ice cream is? Vanilla. The most popular scented candle? Vanilla again! Most people don't want exotic flavors; they like safe, basic elements that mix and blend easily. Eggshell walls and white cotton sheets. Beloved Katy, we have never been vanilla girls. I don't know why people want vanilla when they could taste every color of the rainbow, but I guess its just easier and simpler. I don't understand it...but that's what it is. This is the same conversation we had when we were 16, and I didn't believe it then, that people are intimidated by big personalities. Experience, however, has changed my mind.
I looked at that brunch table and thought about the different paths we all took. We have each ended up where we wanted to be; some married, some with families of their own, and you and I, far from where we began our journey, and still anticipating big turns in the road. Big leaps don't have safety nets, and being alone can be terrifying. I have had more weeping breakdowns in the last 6 months than any other period in my life. But I believe, Katy, I really do, that he is out there for us. I am certain in my bones that our partners are out there, doing their own thing and going down their roads. I have tried both types of men, the ones (few and far between) who really embraced me with all my quirks and didn't mind the wackiness, and the ones who just didn't know what to do with it. I would prefer to be in my twin bed picking at my toenails than suffer the latter again. Its demoralizing to feel that someone doesn't accept you.
I don't think there is an easy to-do list for us, other than continuing to become the women we want to be and doing our best to stay in the game. We can't get bitter, Katy, and we can't lose hope. We'll keep facing our fears and knocking down roadblocks, and hopefully finding time to see each other more. Katy, I won't pretend that I am happy today, and I know you aren't either. Some days are worse than others. But I know for sure that we ain't stuck with the wrong man, and it can only get better from here. I love you desperately.
Love Always,
Corrie Megan
I was thinking today about the cliches we have always been told, the many explanations of why we "blossomed" so much later than so many other girls. I guess the boys didn't come beating down our doors in high school, and it was very easy to chalk it up to being taller, louder, smarter. We never laughed quietly, and suffered no fools. As I wrap up another failed foray into the dating world, I naturally find myself wondering why this is so damned hard. Why did dating come so easily to some girls, and not to others? Its like a language we can't master; the same crippling anxieties come back over and over.
My father likes to comfort both of us, and though we dismiss him quickly because we love him and believe him to be biased, I think he is on to something. See, did you ever think what the most popular flavor of ice cream is? Vanilla. The most popular scented candle? Vanilla again! Most people don't want exotic flavors; they like safe, basic elements that mix and blend easily. Eggshell walls and white cotton sheets. Beloved Katy, we have never been vanilla girls. I don't know why people want vanilla when they could taste every color of the rainbow, but I guess its just easier and simpler. I don't understand it...but that's what it is. This is the same conversation we had when we were 16, and I didn't believe it then, that people are intimidated by big personalities. Experience, however, has changed my mind.
I looked at that brunch table and thought about the different paths we all took. We have each ended up where we wanted to be; some married, some with families of their own, and you and I, far from where we began our journey, and still anticipating big turns in the road. Big leaps don't have safety nets, and being alone can be terrifying. I have had more weeping breakdowns in the last 6 months than any other period in my life. But I believe, Katy, I really do, that he is out there for us. I am certain in my bones that our partners are out there, doing their own thing and going down their roads. I have tried both types of men, the ones (few and far between) who really embraced me with all my quirks and didn't mind the wackiness, and the ones who just didn't know what to do with it. I would prefer to be in my twin bed picking at my toenails than suffer the latter again. Its demoralizing to feel that someone doesn't accept you.
I don't think there is an easy to-do list for us, other than continuing to become the women we want to be and doing our best to stay in the game. We can't get bitter, Katy, and we can't lose hope. We'll keep facing our fears and knocking down roadblocks, and hopefully finding time to see each other more. Katy, I won't pretend that I am happy today, and I know you aren't either. Some days are worse than others. But I know for sure that we ain't stuck with the wrong man, and it can only get better from here. I love you desperately.
Love Always,
Corrie Megan
Roman Holiday
We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.
I went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk. The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.
We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.
I went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk. The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.
We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)