9:25pm It was earlier today that I had a great soliloquy or monologue, a definitive statement, passionate response and reaction to the recently all too brief not quite but almost possible something. It was said that it was the kind of thing I should write down and post to the blog, that the words I spoke and what I said and how I said them, it was moving and heartbreaking and I know it sounded beautiful. Beautiful and sad. But I didn't write it. I used up all the words in speaking them out loud to the cats and the apartment and the person I live with. I should have gone straight for the computer and typed it all as it came to me instead of speaking it out loud. I have heard that writers should write their stories first before they talk about them. If you've said the thing it's like you've done the thing but you haven't but your brain doesn't know that. The way I spoke, my mind has already written the lines. All of the phrases, the poems, the paragraphs - everything was written and now there is nothing to write down.
I have to go to the washroom but I'll come back to this after I'm done.
9:43pm Nothing. But there are more sirens lately. Emergency vehicles headed toward the hospital, taking the highway. Recently, so much noise as the never-ending work project on part of the facility across the street continues. I was so frustrated at six-thirty this evening that I shouted out the door, "GO HOME!" part in plea and desperation. For one thing, that's far too long a work day to have such noisy noise in a residential neighbourhood. And the other thing is how many years that building has been worked on - the entirety of my time here (over 3 years already!) and it was started years before then. In the meantime, condos have gone up from nothing, neighbourhoods have been torn down and built up, things have been accomplished. That is what makes me think the site is just a work project from the city, which is fine, okay, I get it, but if the extra effort is because of the spotlight on care facilities during the pandemic, perhaps put money and care into the nearby facilities then, instead of just making a lot of noise. The thing is, after I yelled that out, the person stopped. The jackhammer stopped. Timing or the fact it was way past time to go home, it did stop.
I put the kettle on so that I can sip on peppermint tea in a bit. It will need to cool but I need the fluids. I also need to take a long walk. Today had a sky of puffy white clouds and the blue sky and it was sunny. It would have lit the autumn colours in a - 9:54pm - maybe it was five thirty when I yelled for them to go home. I don't know exactly now. I can't remember. It was still daylight. I just want to be clear that I don't remember exactly now. I'm unsure. I know that they were working later than they usually do and the noise was going on much later than it should. I'm doubting myself the specifics.
The last time we spoke, it was Wednesday night. After over two hours of text conversation, it concluded with a phone call of nearly half an hour. It was at 12:34am this morning that I deleted the thread of conversation. Deleted the text messages in one press of the button. I had to ease into that. Earlier in the evening or was it earlier on Friday, sometime around there maybe, I deleted the contact info from my phone. But having the messages still with the number attached, holding on to that for the time I did, it was really going to be the last thing I could do. Now, I can't contact them. I didn't save their number. I didn't make note of it anywhere. They have more information on me than I do of them so if they wanted to ever reach me, they could. I left it to them.
Prior to the wrong number, my focus was entirely on my classes and staying on track. That, and navigating the stressful flare-ups of day to day life. The pandemic. This situation. I felt restless enough to have applied again for work that I am unsure I can attain, given the gap in working. I was entering into the phase where I think about apartments in The Beach/es and long walks by the lake - the lake over there being the same lake over here but to me, a different feel because of when I last lived there. I'm a free spirit, as even the person who lives with me called me so, recognized in me again today, spoken aloud. I don't feel free because I'm not. I've been described as the woman in the high tower by someone else. I realize I've put myself into a cage with an amazing view, but a cage nonetheless. I'm spoiled in my confinement. I have so many books. So many games. All the music and other distracting delights one could hope for - and I do have my solitude, just not alone. And doesn't that make it something to feel all the more grateful for? How many people would beg to have my spot, this place and space that I take up? I am fed well. I have good coffee. I have good tea. My cats are safe around me and with the other human that they like as well. I remember the time I had another man over here - last December was it? - and when one of the cats was getting his attention (allofthem), I was upset by it - feeling that only this other human should be able to do that. How easily the cats will accept someone else. It didn't feel right at the time. But the cats were well when he was gone. I took care of them (with our combined income) and I scooped the litter, took out the garbage, fed and watered them, pet them all, had long cat naps together. One of them in particular that feels this person is her human, she was much more settled without him here. She was less neurotic in her patterns because she knew I wouldn't put up with it and they weren't all trying to figure out their order of dominance, or line up for favour. I give in to that and don't line up at all but his presence and how he indulges them makes them think they should indulge in him. I do the opposite. I'm the most disinterested cat in this one household.
But back to last week. I was caught off by surprise. A curious text message. I thought it was someone else at first, someone from Tinder days who had my number still, would message me once in awhile "accidentally" sharing a pic. I'm sure I simply closed the message. But when receiving another message another day, I replied. Playful. In a mood. New moon energy? I went with the flow. They were looking for a Sue. Someone from a party (who has a party in a pandemic?) and I suppose they were given the wrong number or they did not enter the right digits (or did they?) and from there, an exchange of easing their embarrassment over whatever photo they may have sent. They kept calling me dude, as if to call out the fact that I wasn't one. I don't know. It intrigued me. We messaged further. I confessed.
My name is not Sue.
They were a wrong number. But - our words exchanged naturally, easily, playfully, stimulating me on the intellectual level and in the conversational tone. I miss dialogue and why is it so much more fun with someone you feel some chemistry to, some attraction too, unseen or unknown but felt somewhere, like the invisible energy that is bending between each one of you. It was clear by the second or third exchange of messages that there was something going on. Tingles of excitement and arousal of not entirely a sexual kind but of the mind. The part of me that craves not simply attention but focus of language and direction of intention. It was hot. It was needed. It was wonderful.
If I told you that we were finishing one another's sentences - via text - and that I would sometimes answer a question while he was typing out the question - sent at the same time - it was breathtaking. Before too long, images (not simply the photos exchanged but) visualizations of that human being and my human being (being me, myself, this person I can be, want to be, would like to be) existing in shared space in moments not happening yet but could - he even described some - from morning coffee to reaching down to put fingers into my hair while reading - to read to one another - to listen to him rant and ramble about anything - to imagine myself being able to rest my exhausted self that yearns for that, in hearing someone else talk so that I can be silent and take it in - oh, I sighed with the wanting of it just now. I would love to hear his stories. To hear his feelings - the fact that he could articulate emotion and thought and opinion - I crave it.
But in that last night, he called me "baby" - a pet name I enjoy but haven't been called in so long - not in a way where I could receive it with a straight face. That dynamic does not exist in the situation I am in. I have not actually let someone call me something like that for awhile and the last time I did, I think that I was upset by it because I knew they were not calling me it with any true understanding of what it means. I am no one's baby until someone can be able to confidently say, "you are mine" and for me to feel it true through and through. And in knowing when they call me theirs, they would have to know as well that I am very much someone who belongs to myself. So for them to be able to call me theirs, I would be submitting in trust and love and did I mention trust, oh yes. This is not impossible - in fact, I felt it all too possible recently - but I would at least need to have had it go on a bit longer than it had. I have given of myself so easily to some people in some recent years and it has resulted in heartbreak. Whether by my own choice or theirs, it did not become anything more than what it was and that was not enough.
11:12pm I just listened to someone's self-indulgent self-pity and I could entirely relate (excluding the being successful at their art thing) but right down to the sleeping pills, I could relate. And I call bullshit because I think that if you want to take a break, take a break. If you are questioning if you're doing what you should because your heart isn't in it (or it's broken) then geesh, take a damn break. Much of the rest of us haven't the luxury - either we don't have anything to take a break from or we can't stop what we're doing - which is likely not what we love - and can't even manage to spare the expense of dwelling on the argument of whether to indulge in our existential dread and how we waste the hours - oh, but even in my failure of a life, I still do those things. I did or do all the things that I surprisingly can, and none of the things that I might surprise myself that I can.
Anyway, I distracted myself with someone else's heartbreak as art and did not continue writing my own. Long story still long but I can attempt to abbreviate I was falling for someone but holding back / reigning it in during the last interactive exchanges because I did not want to put so much on the wish before ever meeting. I do not deny even now that what I was feeling was something throughout my body, from mind to centre of my absent womb. I felt the tingles all the way through. I was just trying to practice temperance. Because the more we text and talked, the more I wanted to meet, to know for certain that face to face, it would be the same and verification this was truly a beginning - because my belief extends in and out of dreams and I want to feel it in my waking hours so that I might have hope that it will continue there.
Between my push away of the pet name "baby" (was it misinterpreted, as though I was the type who wouldn't like that and other names? Or did they assume that I am called that by someone else, when I am not - do not let them call me that, as the trust is long gone and I was never fully theirs, ever) or what? What was it? The break of flow? The slight suggestion that I may not be agreeable at first to all things. Or the push away they might have felt, not realizing, it was just a protective momentary thing. If we were to have met under this upcoming full moon as I had hoped to, if the same want and feeling was there - how I would have swayed to that word.
Or was it the insistence that we should meet soon? They seemed agreeable but also, it did seem they were delighting in the tension, the rising frustration, the wanting of it between us. Practically, or, on practicality, I could see that meeting anytime soon could also be a bad idea, given that there is a pandemic. While my bubble has consisted only of one other person and four cats that stay indoors, I know they have at least one person they care for (their Mum) who they would have to be considerate for and I would not want to be of danger to their loved ones. They also seemed as if they would have friends and other people in their life - (after all, the first texts were because of them being introduced to someone at a party) and while I can not relate because I have a much more confined existence since making the decision years ago to move away from Toronto and moreso since the return, I can understand any precautions one might want to make. Even if it was related to me that our meeting was fate.
11:29pm and so I am back to silence. the silence of having all these things I would like to express and share with someone that I can't. back to the numbing down of knowing I am going without. I am back to withholding, holding with myself the parts of me that I wanted to share. I am an open book to one who can read me. I am turning pages for someone who is good with their hands. I am prose, I am poetry, I am fucking language to someone who devours words like I do. I am a muse who is inspired by musings. I feel the fire lit and I write with it. I want that. I want that into my later days, the nights, the time that will continue passing until I do. I want that more than time wasted in wanting.
I never planned to settle. Now, my plan has had to be to settle for the time being until I can plan a better way to preserve the safety of myself and the cats and the person who has been there for me these years, carrying one another in the fumbling way that hasn't worked out but is, as he put it today, "better than worrying about living with a roommate that might steal my stuff." And to be honest, I have far more stuff to be stolen but yes, we have at least that level of knowing and trust with one another. We know the ways we harm one another and the ways we do right. But I have been so tired.
If I could leave or live here on my own with enough money to take care of myself, I would. If I could hold to the promise we have of "not f'ing the other over" and I could either live on my own again (with the four cats, granting him visitation of course because we are family) or if I could take the time it would take, however long it would, to know I could be with someone else and not be an awful person by messing up our finances or putting either one of us at risk of the things that can happen in such a situation, I would. I would because I know that I have tried for years. Years and years. Even before the officialness of it all. I had tried and did what was right at the time but it was also wrong. I know that I should have stayed where I was in 2012. I also don't entirely regret having left. It was what I did for my best friend and they were there for me too. We experienced things together. I had hoped for more growth. Better. I have had to realize more than once that a person can only go as far as they want to or will allow themselves to, so far as personal stuff goes. That includes myself. I have wanted to - go further, I mean - and I think I have. But it's only so far and then I am up against the same corner that I can not find a way to turn yet. I have tried, on my own, to do this. I recognize the points in time where I had the means and did not. I must forgive myself for that. Other than that, I am not terribly unhappy - just terribly sad.
He only wants me to be happy. He could continue on this way, even with all that I don't give, that I keep away - (though I am painfully blunt and open and honest about my thoughts and feelings and experiences) - but what I do withhold is this way about me that I never kept from others that I loved in the way that I would like to love again, only better, now with my learned experience and compassionate self. If I could just settle, be okay with not having the types of conversations I yearn for, the touches I wish to give and receive, the intimacy and trust I want to open up to again - if I could just be okay with this - but I'm not and I won't be.
So, this recent experience was just a reminder of what I already knew. Another reminder that I still have a beating heart and sensations of flesh and that connection to brain activity that gets so little action in my current circumstances. It was all awakened and I was thankful. Now, I am mourning again.
I'm not crying over someone I didn't even get to meet, let alone only messaged back and forth a few days, a couple phone calls (though still, more than what I had in a longer span of time with the person I share living space with) no, I am old enough to not be crying over that. No, it was that it was almost real and then it was gone. It was there. Shown to me in the thoughts you have just under your day to day mind, and it was felt in my chest and I was reminded with the example of it how much I desire that, need that, want that, hope for that ---
and then nothing.
The loneliness magnifies itself after that. Even with a consoling hug from the person I share this space with. Even with their understanding. The recognition of their part in this. And the parts they can't have. It tossed me through the waves of the times I was someone's - where I gave myself to them fully, as fully as I could during those times - and how I want that again. Did I even get to mention how much this wrong number liked my words, the language - oh and he did not even get to hear the half of it. There was so much more if we had gone further.
I wanted to go further. I wanted to meet halfway. At the bridge. At the full moon. To know for sure (even if I had thought at the time I knew for sure already but tangibly, I always thought people should meet as soon as possible so as not to be disappointed - a combination of my own feelings of self-consciousness and the rare instance when the chemistry is not quite there in person - saves time) but now I don't even know why at all.