Sometimes it would be nice to have someone hold my hand as I go through an ordeal. But I suppose I’m destined to grab for air…
Do you ever get an image in your head that you just can’t seem to shake loose? Something that happened in your past and once it comes to the front of your brain, it’s like its been imbedded, engraved in the backs of your eyelids, tattooed into your frontal lobe…
And it’s never a nice memory. It’s something embarrassing or something dreadful – something you really, really want to forget. Forever. But there it is.
Maybe it’s been a year since you remembered it last, maybe longer. No matter how long it’s been, it doesn’t seem to want to go away. And so you relive that horrible memory over and over again until it fades away and eventually you stop thinking about it. Until it comes back again…
I killed a gecko today. It was unintentional but I still feel just awful about it. I opened the washing machine to put my laundry in the dryer, and there was this beautiful Gold Dust Day Gecko – the bright emerald green with the red spots on his back – just laying at the bottom of the tub. I don’t know if he was in my clothes basket and got thrown in or if he was already in the machine, but I killed him…
There are so many things I’ve wanted to say to you
But they are all filled with anger and spite.
You hurt me with your lack of enthusiasm.
You hurt me when you wanted someone else.
You hurt me with your lack of trust.
I am angry with you, yes,
But most of all I am angry with myself
For trusting you,
For opening up to you,
For allowing you see a side of me I’ve never shown to anyone.
I am angry that I have to close myself off again
And rebuild walls that had taken years to break down.
I am angry that I found a part of myself I didn’t think I would ever get to share,
Only to have it yanked away from me.
And I am sad that I don’t have a way to express that side of me anymore.
Tonight I was told that the only thing I’m good for is a one-night stand…
On my bus ride home today there was a very pretty girl sitting across from me. When I say pretty, I mean she was naturally gorgeous. I don’t think she was wearing any more makeup than lip gloss and her face was beautiful, her eyelashes naturally long and lush. Her face had that healthy glow that most of us women use pounds of makeup to achieve. Her hair was straight and flowing – she probably doesn’t have to do more than brush it out in the morning. She was slender but curvy, with the curves in all the right places.
I’m sitting there thinking that this girl (about 20 or so) has no clue what it’s like to be fat, ugly, and unloved. She’s probably never had a boy say no to her. She’s probably never known rejection, never seen the look of disappointment on a blind date’s face, or been turned away because she didn’t fit in. She’ll probably never have to dress to hide her flaws – tummy flab, stretch marks, jiggly arms.
I almost feel sorry for her, having such a perfect life. But then I realize she will probably never know the degree of sadness and despair I feel when I see someone like her cuddling up to her boyfriend on the bus. Of course she has the better life…
The hero of this book knows what to do, what to say, he knows what the heroine is feeling and he accepts it – without question. When she freezes up during a kiss and then runs out on him, he doesn’t ask why and he doesn’t assume he did something wrong. He already knows what the problem is and instead of running after her, yelling “Did I do something wrong?”, he calmly waits a few minutes to let her gather herself.
Now, there is no man in real life – no woman for that matter – that can know how someone works, know what they’re thinking and feeling, so precisely within a few days of meeting them. I’m not fooling myself into thinking there is, and I never have. I know fiction when I read it.
The moment of truth hit when I realized how hard the hero was working to “fix” (for want of a better word) the heroine. He feels a need to get her past her nightmares, her insecurity, and her need to close people off. The truth lies in that no man in real life would work that hard for a woman, not for one he’s just met.
Women (in the general scheme of things) are the fixers of all things emotional. Physically, we nurture and mend, and we make sure everyone gets what they need. Men (in the general scheme of things) are great at fixing things in material reality but they run like a wildebeest with a lion after him when it comes to emotions.
This is why I will never find my perfect mate. The man I need would have to fix me, because I’m broken. I don’t think and feel like most women. I can’t categorize my feelings into tidy little boxes and store them away, never to take them out again. My feelings are more volcanic. They spew out like Mt. Saint Helens with no provocation and, like ash and lava, I can’t just tuck them back in to forget about them again. It’s out, it’s on fire, and it’s burning through my brain.
Ironically, I get these bursts of emotions in any form – happiness, sadness, anger, passion – but it has been so long that I’ve had happiness in my life that the only emotions I’ve had surge forth lately have been negative.
So I retreat and hide within myself, knowing I will never have that HEA moment.