I have one parent who takes the Lord’s name in vain and another who chastises anyone who does so while still allowing some choices phrases in her vernacular like,"Jag-off," which I think means, "One who jerks off." This feels to me like being born with a devil on one shoulder sporting a mandorla and an angel dressed like a prostitute on the other; the angel, however, in staunch denial that she's got hooker heels on and a Devil's tail protruding from her leather mini. After all, she's as innocent as the vanilla ice cream she eats religiously, 3 scoops, 1 sugar cone, whenever she watches TV.
I used to approach relationships the way I approach traffic and pedophiles, with serious hostility. I'm angry that I like you, I'm angry that you like me and I'm angry because, "my life was going so well before you fucking showed up," or so I like to tell myself. I actually felt bad for the men in my life who have crawled through the broken glass of me telling them to fuck off while beckoning them closer with a loaded shot gun in hand and, of course, an aromatic batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the other. I unconsciously think that if I send these men through a gauntlet of flames, sharp stabbing knives that can shank them from any direction, pools of lava and a cat o' nine tails straight to the balls that they will be safe enough for me to open my heart to them. That I can be vulnerable and I won't get hurt. Wrong. And wrong again. Usually, (read: always) these guys just have the same insecurities as I do, so they would just mirror all my bullshit back to me as we do the unconscious, fucked up tango of our collective dysfunction.
I had just met someone recently in what seemed to be one of the most serendipitous ways you can meet a hot stranger: flying 33,000 miles up in the sky during a blood moon lunar eclipse. The three-hour flight felt like 20 minutes; we talked, we laughed, and then exchanged names and numbers. We finally parted at baggage claim (he didn't have any baggage, but I did. Wait? Was this a metaphor?) only to randomly meet again face-to-face a half hour later on the Air Train back to the Jamaica station. It was eerie. And cool. And I was kinda hostile with him when I saw him again. I think my exact words were, "what the fuck are you doing here?" before I invited him to sit next to me on the train. I'm such an asshole. He waited with me until I got on my next train back into the city. Part of me really was upset that I was into this mysterious, sexy stranger from Brooklyn. More on this later. Maybe. We'll see. Long story short, what seemed like an awesome connection fizzled in the dank gutter of NYC. Or did it? Time will tell. By dank, I mean the actual definition of the word dank, not the urban dictionary version. The point is, I'm learning how to take care of my heart and myself without preemptively stabbing people. This is hard for me. Oh how I love to stab people preemptively. Just ask any of my ex's.
One of my good friends was just going through a similar situation with the guy in her life. The once seemingly available and seemingly charming man was now very aloof and not responding. Did he lose interest? Did he get back with an ex? Did he randomly drop dead in Midtown from an aneurism tripped off by the mayhem caused by tourists entering and exiting Penn Station? It's one of my favorite go-to's to assume that if the guy hasn't called, he's dead. There are only two logical options to me: 1) He doesn't like me, or 2) Dead. There is no 3) Maybe he's busy... or 4) Perhaps an existential crisis? Nope. Only options 1 or 2. Those are the rules. My heart bled for my friend. "I know your pain," my heart squeaked. She had gotten him a little trinket while on a trip to Yosemite and was now at the point where enough was enough. You know the point. It's the, "this person is clearly not into me so I'm going to cut this bullshit off before I get any more invested than I already am because I am already in a lot of pain because of this rejection," bullshit. So, she wrote a letter. I've done this before. It was an email. Worst mistake ever. It actually just pissed the guy off and had the opposite effect. Yet, I'm not really sure what my intended effect was, really. She had the trinket packed with the letter inside and was about to mail off her, "Fuck off, Namaste," package when she mentioned it to me. I said, "NO!" "No, no, no, do not send that!" And I made her promise to hold onto it just for another week. I'm not saying that it all turned out to be cupcakes and fairy farts, but I was asking her to at least contact him from a place of centered clarity. I asked her to show up for the lesson. It's so easy when things get uncomfortable in this vulnerable stage of connection to just cut all ties and run. This is the "Fuck You. Namaste." Translation: "I wish you well, but fuck off. Get the fuck out of my life, you suck. But I mean that from my heart. In the highest consciousness, with love, light and peace, go fuck yourself."
I used to be caught between, "He's dead," and, "Fuck you, Namaste." I don't completely buy into either at this point and I know that both are irrational. They both come from a place of trying to protect myself. The only thing I can offer myself, first and foremost, is self-care. I use this connection as a lesson to learn more about myself and take a look at my tendencies to stab and run. I showed myself some compassion knowing this was the best I could do at that point in time. And lastly, I remind myself of my standards of, "My Wesley will always come for me." Yes, this is a line from the Princess Bride and yes, I know I am not Princess Buttercup, but what I do know is that I can't mess things up with the right guy. He will stick around, he will come back for me as long as I'm open and I put the knives, cat o' nine tails, and loaded rifle down, lower the drawbridge and offer up my plate of freshly baked cookies, asking for nothing in return. Suffering is optional.
Thank you for reading. Until next time, with love: fuck off and Namaste.