I went downtown to find conversation and look at women. Conversation is now a nutrient to me, whereas for a long time it was an allergen.
I look at women, these days, for its own sake; tell me there is anything more artful than the walk of a confident, and athletic woman and you will need to bring proof. Show me something more beautiful than a she who feels right in her own skin, and lets that ease radiate. Show me...
Wait...that's not the point.
I ran into someone I though must have died ages ago. He was a perpetual shit storm before I went to Michigan, and he seemed determined to stay that way. He was certain that drink and drugs would fix his mood disorder, and make him sane.
On seeing he wasn't dead I half panicked. I didn't want to talk to him. I wanted to look at the young lady who looked like Scarlett Johansson's slighter cousin. I wanted to watch the Cylon Model 8 coming down the street. I wanted...
He recognized me. He had a look that said life had beaten on him, but he wasn't ready to be taken out with the trash. I ended up talking to him for quite a while because
He was in a nearly identical
spot to what I was when she and I started the split.
I could practically hear Murphy The Almighty saying "Right yeh selfish wee prick. Be of some feckin' use to someone. Listen, and feckin' advise. And above all LEARN."
And I did. Listening to someone newer to this whole self disassemblage thing, who's actively resisting still, was a trip. I felt a little embarrassed thinking about some of the responses I've gotten from people listening to me these past 2 months.
I also remembered hearing "Everything is happening for a reason, though you may not know now what it is." Grrr....but...
This guy was afraid of losing himself. He'd never had himself in the first place, though. He was nothing but a collection of interactions with others: lover to Her, enemy to Him, burden to Them.
He was nothing but what he did to, for, or with others.
And he realized that, having lost absolutely everything else that he valued in his life that now was the perfect time to be, and fix him. And it terrified him.
I knew it would; I am Jack's Complete Familiarity With That Terror.
He and I had begun talking before I went to Michigan because we had writing and mood disorders in common. He hadn't written ANYTHING in 5 years. I told him that words had kept me from offing myself during the worst of all this, a true thing I hadn't shared with anyone yet. I told him that, in my belief, not using a creative talent was, for a creative type, a self injury akin to suicide. He admitted the fear of confronting himself. I gave him a piece of paper with the words "Litany Against Fear from Dune By Frank Herbert" for him to refer to, and look up later. He asked for my pen, and wrote a page while I sat.
I gave him my number, and went on my way, knowing he knew more than he did before I saw him. And so did I.
I then went home, and reflected on where I am, mentally, and emotionally. I realized that I had seriously hoped to skip some of the worst parts of recovering from the end of my marriage. I had wanted (say it with me recovery people) An Easier, Softer Way. There isn't one. Which fucking sucks like a hole in a spacesuit, but there it is.
Two weeks ago today I found myself in the midst of what turned into a Category 5 Crush. Being one of the greatest highs known to humankind, even in the best of times, finding myself feeling that way in the midst of heartbreak was nothing but AWESOME. I mean like Northern Lights, evidence of the Divine AWESOME.
Having, but scant days before, been holding on to the will get through the night by my nails I suddenly felt...cured. Heartbreak has the same neuro-chemical activity as crack withdrawal. It doesn't suddenly get cured; it just goes into remission for a bit.
The danger with Crush-induced remission is the instinctual drive to get more of the high, like with any addictive behavior. People become addicted because they want to feel differently, and become dependent on one thing to provide that.
I'd like to say that I had the sense to change my behavior, but life intervened, details irrelevant. I also think I may have acted like a goon, but that's about my speed right now.
(My *facedesk moment is that, in other circumstances, I could totally fall for her, as she is just plain amazing. But circumstances are...not those. But if she kissed me...nevermind.)
Some dumbasses with totally distorted views of romance may be saying "But what if she's willing to be the drug for you?" If you thought this then please refer to the beginning of the previous sentence. If that's confusing then DUMBASS: Drugs are inanimate objects that you can use to change some feeling, either mental or physical, in yourself BY CONSUMING THE DRUG TOTALLY. Human beings need reciprocal action of some sort, not to be devoured whole.
I tried to escape this truth, but it's a Juggernaut. I'm all fuckered up, and will be for a while. But I remember what it's like to not feel that way, and I don't think I could have survived without that.
So I have a memory to use in casting my Patronus on the dark nights, when the Dementors are trying to suck my soul out, a simple, perfect good feeling, of being worthwhile in the eyes of someone wonderful, with no poison, work or obligation attached to it. Good stuff. Works very well, even better with snob chocolate.
(Now if I could only sort out whether my Patronus takes the form of a cat, a horse or a rooster I could stop snickering in my own head.)
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