The second night was far better than the first night. Perhaps five weeks, or even six if you count from when the romance started, was perhaps really not that much. The French girl said that I am hurting because I built up all these feelings and all these hopes for the future, so when they come crashing down, it feels a lot worse. She's right, but I somehow don't think I would have done any differently if I had known about this little simple rule. I behave as my feelings dictate, and, as a few of my friends say, that is something to be proud of, that is something many human beings are incapable of doing.
Still, I was hurting in the 24 hours since the pianist dropped the bomb on me under the George Washington Bridge. The sense of hopelessness, guilt, frustration with myself, poured through my body and heart like the roaring Hudson River on whose left bank that bomb was dropped. The anti-poetry of the situation can't escape my mind: we started out in the cloudy, misty day of the hurricane's tail, and ended it on a hopeful Indian summer so full of sun and smiley people on the same bank of the same river.
Nonetheless, last night was far better. I woke up before the sun, but then again, it is October already. I woke up a little before 7AM. That is an improvement from the 5AM that began many alternations of bizarre dreams and sitting up surfing the web for answers. For what answers? Something to make sense of all this when my mind was incapable of making sense of anything.
Last night I talked to my sister and everyone of my friends that I told about my unpleasant Sunday afternoon. I was tired by the time I returned the last call. But everyone made me feel more secure in one way or another, and each had a different perspective to offer. In every difficulty, there's the opportunity to learn something about myself, as I mentioned in the brief blog entry last night. And it's obvious that I learned again how caring my friends are, how great a person they see me. This reaffirmation of the love I am surrounded with is so far the most powerful counterbalance to the loss of all the love I have given away and I would have given away. I initially felt shameful that after telling every one of my closest people I was dating someone special to me, the relationship was over. But instead of shame, I felt love. So perhaps it is fine to share my joy with them, and when that joy is gone, they won't be shaking their heads with an I-told-you-so.
This morning I woke up feeling surprised, a little, that I have recovered so soon. But it's not a full recovery. I didn't feel the pain so much, barely, really, but then I couldn't stop thinking about her. I wondered if she thought about me. She must have. She was on Facebook, with that green light on. We never chat on Facebook, something I hate doing in general, and so I wasn't thinking about talking to her, but that green light was almost glowing, as if the devil had animated those pixels.
I thought about her and started imagining a letter I would write to her. I wanted to tell her that it didn't make sense to just end it like this when she still liked me. It was more a matter of figuring out a simple solution. If she wanted space, we can just agree to see each other less frequently. Be disciplined about it. It would be a shame to throw away what we had built and what we would have gained.
But who was talking? Who was devising this letter? I wondered if it's part of me that is scared to lose what might be the only chance left for happiness. That would be the irrational part. My tango buddy said that I had everything to be the good man a woman would want. I didn't need to be better at anything. What keeps me from being with the right woman is the disconnect within myself, but nothing that someone else would want. And remembering that is where I stopped imagining that letter to the pianist. It is not about her, not about her readiness, her walls, her inability to really love and be loved. It is about how I am disconnected with myself, failing to take care of myself, failing to give myself the space. When I know how to give myself space, which is yet another manifestation of love, it would be natural for me to give space to the person I want to love.
Right now, less than 36 hours after the Hiroshima by the Hudson, I should stop thinking about her and start the journey back into my heart, that inner journey the French girl calls "The Mission." The mission to rediscover that beautiful person that somehow all my truest friends see but I don't. I start out today with a lot more optimism. I hope I don't drift back into whatever road of mistakes that would bring back recurring suffering with this pianist. However, at this stage I miss her, and I do wish that she would come around and take little steps toward me. But I have a feeling she is too stubborn to do that, too fatalist, too easily giving up on relationships. And to be good to myself, and to her, I have to stick to my promise to her that I would give her space.
So that was the morning, very optimistic. Why not? It was really just a five-week relationship. We held hands, we cuddled, but not much more. So not much to miss. I should just go on with life. Easy. But then the day started to roll out its carpet of memories and dashed hopes. I started wondering if she would text me. At the weekly group meeting, I saw the tips of the trees outside turning red and remembered that she wanted me to take pictures of her for her marketing material in the fall colors. That is now just an echo from the past. And then I remembered how she often would call me up around 5. I would be anxiously waiting for her to call and be so happy to see her name on the phone. That wasn't going to happen today, and not going to happen again. Still, when 5 o'clock rolled around, I let my last remaining hope puncture my nerves. Throughout the day that familiar feeling hang in my head, like a stinky wet shirt that never dries in the humid air. It is the feeling of despair. It is very familiar. It was there when the French girl told me she was with someone else, when the India girl left my house (twice!) after saying it was over, whenever someone left me. It is as old as when I was in the old apartment of my parents before we all moved to a house they bought. The feeling of the sun being eclipsed by something impalpable, something dreadful. I remember being in the old house and feeling afraid. Afraid of being alone. The demon of loneliness was my only company. I am not sure where my sister was. I was just alone. And at work today, that curtain was there, blocking out the morning sun that made me feel so optimistic that I thought perhaps the recovery succeeded.
She, of course, didn't write me an email. But there's nothing to say. I am smart enough to know that it is impossible for her to change her mind, and even if she did, it would be bad for us for the reasons she had said, the same reasons I have elaborated. I have to stop wondering about her, and start figuring things out with myself.
One more point is about charm. Not mine, since I am not aware of it much. One of the reasons I am afraid of losing someone is I feel I am losing the effect of that charm on me. Whether it is the charm of a Southern voice and posture, or the charm of French humor and way of seeing life and food and wine, or now, the charm of the piano keyboard, the charm of a Jewish background, the the attractiveness of Israeli life, I am afraid when things end I will not have another chance. I was half joking with the Swiss pianist that she should find me a nice, single musician (I didn't say pianist since she would instantly figure out who it was that dumped me). I miss the sound of piano while I fall asleep in a nap. I miss how she plays the piano, with so much enthusiasm, love, that dance with the beautiful machine. I want it back. I know that the rational thing is to just love the experience I gained, feel grateful that life exposes me to all this amazing experiences led by charming women. Now I am not crazy about finding a Southern Belle, or a French girl with that sexy voice and charming sarcasm. And so this obsession with musician may simply pass as well. But for now, I miss her. I can only wonder how long this will last, considering how quickly I am recovering.
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