The Bus Terminal

I have to leave you behind at the bus terminal. It is time for us to board our separate buses. I want to be on your bus, but my ticket has a different number on it. I avoided it for a while by taking a longer layover, but in the end, I have a different destination from you. And the longer I delay my departure, the more time that passes before the inevitable will be clear to both of us: that I should have heeded my original bus ticket in the first place, when I realized we had different tickets.

You, who are kind beyond measure with my PTSD and dissociative disorder -I wish you were on my bus. But, alas, we are not even on the same busline. I will miss how you gently rub my head when I shake unexpectedly, and the fab way we baked that chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting from scratch in my kitchen. We learned the difference between unsweetened cocoa and Dutched cocoa. I still have that container of unsweetened cocoa we accidentally bought at first, not realizing our mistake. We planned on doing something with it sometime. But sometime never came, and now there it sits on my pantry shelf. It will likely remain there. I like looking at it, thinking of you in this kitchen, bringing it to life with your presence.

Aside from baking and a fondness for board games, we have little in common. Before I forget, please keep my copy of Power Grid, the board game. I had not played it in years. Let it live on with your friends. Games should be played instead of gathering dust in a study. I will miss playing games with all of you.

My heart does not yearn for you the way it should when two people are in love. We have little to talk about, unfortunately. I think that’s why we usually tried to “do” things together because we both knew, on some level, there wasn’t a connection, a passion, a love -none of that was there. What we had was a friendship, for which I hope some day can be revived if you forgive me for all of this.

I yearn for your companionship, but not your heart, and that’s why my bus ticket is different from yours. We’ve hung out in this bus terminal for a good while, and it’s been a lovely, but I should catch my bus and stop dillydallying. My bus ticket is nonreturnable, and so is yours. As hard as it is, I must wish you well. It was the best layover ever, but we can’t spend our lives in this bus terminal. It’s time to find out where our buses will take us. One last hug, but I can’t turn back when I walk away.

the love drug

I’ve awakened to a startling clarity that my love addiction works overtime, patiently waiting for a weak moment to reassert itself, like a dormant sickness that lies in wait for stress to shake down your immune system.

For a few years, I’ve been matter-of-fact about my sex and love addiction, running around with the false belief that if I no longer had casual hookups that I was fine. I drew this conclusion because I was well aware that I had been destructive and hurtful to others in my carousel of casual sex encounters.

Yes, this was a good step, and a fine start. What I failed to recognize, until recently, was the fact that this was only part of my problem.

I failed to see that my love addiction was and is more entrenched in me than sex or alcohol. Alcohol was a gateway to forgetting my pain, and running from it. Sex was much the same way, and it provided a way to numb out the feelings in that moment. Though it became a terrible cycle where I needed more in order to keep the feelings at bay.

But love addiction is much harder to harness. We all need and desire love. I find myself stymied with the challenge of not getting consumed with pursuing love the way a marathoner pursues a faster pace per mile. In fact, one should probably not pursue love. Love should find us. The love we have with friends or family has grown over a period of time. It is most definitely not pursued.

It seems like as soon as I figure out one challenge in the love addiction department another one pops up, almost as if the universe knows that it has my full attention again so it says, “Here’s another one now that you figured out that old issue. Take care of this one too!”

Earlier this week I successfully avoided replying to my ex-husband’s email. I was happy with myself that I did not give into my feelings. I was smug with myself for all of a hot minute when I found myself at dinner with this ex-boyfriend from 2008. Since I recently decided not to move in with him as his room-mate we’ve been on okayish terms. I took him up on his long-standing offer to go tv shopping with me since he’s an electronics connoisseur, and I’m barely aware that they don’t make tube televisions anymore.

I love the ease of our friendship in which I pass my yankee bean soup to him while we’re having dinner at the diner before tv shopping. This freakishly big bowl of soup came with my dinner, and I ate some of it, then passed it on to him so that he could eat some as well. We consumed the bowl of soup that way, passing it between each other and eating from the same bowl until the soup was gone.

In spite of the fact that we have few commonalities, I found my heart leaping up and down for him that evening. There’s a comfort in the way we just link arms or hands without even thinking about it.

He’s back together with this gal that has an admitted jealous streak. I only learned of their recent reconciliation at dinner that night right before tv shopping. Thankfully, he told her about going tv shopping with me, if you read on you’ll see why that was a good thing.

We had given up on tv shopping for the night, and the store had an arts and crafts section that I availed myself of with the chance opportunity in that store. I rarely set foot in this establishment because of it’s vast size, and my own discomfort with it’s sizable influence in the market. This store has such an influence that I will not give them any further advertising by naming them here.

We turn the corner so that I can look at their assortment of felt stickers, and there she is, the gal he’s dating again, with her house mates. She’s tall, svelte with black hair and fair skin, and she’s waving around Hershey’s chocolate chip bags in her hands when we come upon her in the aisle. She asks me what I’m doing in the store. I say, “shopping.”

“Oh,” she says. “For what?”

“Stuff,” I say, and turn around to go back to looking at felt stickers.

Admittedly, this was a total bitch move on my part. I was aware of it in the moment I did it, and I did not care. While at dinner my ex-boyfriend asked me not to text or call him in the next three weeks because she departs for her home country for good in three weeks, and they are “together” for her remaining time in the United States, as she successfully defended her dissertation a few weeks ago. Apparently, she has a tendency to search his cell phone, and interrogate him about what she finds.

When he made this request of me I laughed at him, and said “Sure, I rarely call or text you as it is. But what the hell happened to you that you’re putting up with this?”

He admitted to me that jealousy is her major flaw (indeed it is, a few months ago she called me from his landline after she found my phone number programmed on his phone), a big reason they do not have a long-term future; however, he proclaimed that she is “a quality woman.” I was stunned that he would put up with such stupidity, but I finally recovered from my stunned laughter, and allowed myself to be dragged into the world’s most controversial store chain in order to shop for a tv.

Back in the ginormous store I’m looking at felt stickers, refusing to move from my spot. She and her house mates are a mere few feet away. Out of the corner of my eye I see her grab onto his arm, she asks him something to the effect of when he will be done so that he can come pick her up, and then I hear her kiss him. Or, rather, I presume she kissed him. The kissing sound was unmistakable. How apropos that this Jerry Springeresque experience was happening in THIS store.

I felt myself become enraged inside my being, all the while aware that I had no right to feel this way. He and I have not been together since 2008. I started thinking ridiculous thoughts like,”Why does he like her over me? I’m crazy, but not that crazy. Did he choose her over me because she’s so beautiful?”

In reality, it was never between her and me. He and I broke up a long time ago, and remained apart for good reason. We’re not right for each other. He’s still one of my best friends, and sometimes that friendship messes with my head. I get mixed up because at the point I met him no one had ever shown sweetness towards me the way he had. His Asperger’s way of overthinking dating behavior, and his awkward, yet sweet demeanor caused me to fall in love with him soon after we met. Only years after we broke up did I realize that I loved him so because no one had ever shown me such pure kindness with a dash of sweetness. Part of me wanted to bottle it up forever in the fear that it would never again appear from anyone else.

He knows I don’t do well with surprises, and that, as much as possible, I like to know what to expect. Even the task of removing my huge tube tv from my third floor apartment was stressful for me, and he knew this without me even saying so. He appeared at my apartment with a dolly and rope. As I opened the door I just said, “I”m freaked out about this.”

He said, “I know. It’s okay. No big deal. Put on some gloves if you have some, they will give you better grip. We are going to lift this tv together. Let me know when you think you have a good grip, and we will lift together. We only have to go a few inches. It will be over before you know it.”

I appreciate all the over explanation that he has a tendency to give in almost any situation. It’s his signature, over explanation. My signature is anxiety about nearly everything. Over explanation is welcome for someone who likes to know what to expect at every juncture.

I have to let him go. I can still be his friend, but my heart has to trust that I can find that kindness and sweetness in the right person. And even if I don’t, he’s not the right one, in spite of the fact that I wanted him to be.

upon reflection …

I’ve had second thoughts since my last post. You’ll notice I altered the original post a bit. It was presumptuous of me to paint a brush and declare that reporting sexual assault is the best thing a person can do. It was the best thing I could do for myself, and the prime reason it was the best thing for me was the fact that I had an impartial investigator, and an employer that was committed to doing the right thing. Without those elements, a person can find themselves in a precarious situation. By no means am I saying that a person should not report in the face of a less than ethical employer, just that I understand when the situation is too difficult or too risky to one’s life or livelihood to report.

In the early days after the assault I spent a great amount of time vowing to the few people around me that I let in on my secret that I was never going to report what happened. My therapist was slowly trying to convey to me that even if I decided not to report what happened that there were other ways I could speak my truth. I think she was actually close to mentioning the possibility of confronting my director with the truth. She never said this, but I had a strong instinct she was headed in this direction.

It’s hard for me to opine on what would have happened to me had I not reported it. Three weeks after the assault I reported it, though it was not planned, even in that instant of reporting. I was found out, and outed. My Assistant Director announced to me that he would not be able to accompany me on the upcoming business trip, and that the Director was going to accompany me instead. I started shaking, and walked away from him in that instant. He then followed me into my office, closed the door, and said, “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m just over reacting, ” I said to him as I tried to pay attention to the nothingness on my computer screen.

“Bullshit. I’ve seen you overreact, and that was the real thing. What the hell is going on? Don’t think I don’t know that something is going on. You have not been yourself for weeks. You’re making mistakes that you would never make. What the hell is going on?”

Through my tears I said to him, “Please just give me half an hour. In half an hour I will do the right thing. Until then please leave me be.” We both looked at each other, and I knew he knew by the look on his face. With that moment the entire trajectory changed in that instant. My world was forever altered the very moment I filed my report. A domino effect was put in motion that’s still going to this very day. Sometimes I can see the division in the universe between today and what would have been had I not reported it. Then there’s another universe that exists in the neverlands if this thing had never happened in the first place. But then I get annoyed at myself when I start thinking about these alternate universes because in many ways I’m better off than I was then. The person I am today is more authentic, less of a bullshitter to myself, and more accepting of others.

Still though, there’s part of me that pines for that time when I was the noncontroversial gal in the workplace, the new promising recruit with nothing but a stellar reputation. We have such a new recruit in our current ranks, and she reminds me of the me back then in a number of ways. She’s well-liked, has a lot of promise, and possesses oodles of self-confidence. Unlike me, she likely does not have an underlying problem with alcohol, co-dependency, PTSD, DID, and sex and love addiction. Something bad was bound to happen in my life with that combination of struggles I brought to the table. I did not start working on any of these issues until the sexual assault. Strangely enough, it seems I have my assault to thank for the progress I’ve made thus far because I’m certain I would not have stopped my addictive behavior without something big and awful happening.

Bottom lining it: I’m glad I’m working on my shit, but I still wish it never happened. Sometimes, as shallow as this sounds, I wish I could just be the pretty popular girl I was back then. Not so much for the popularity, but for the ability have plans any day of the week I wanted. I miss having people in my life on a regular basis. Truly, that’s been the biggest casualty of this whole thing. That day in 2008 unmoored me to such an extent that my friendships suffered or just ghosted out for a handful of different reasons.

This post certainly went in a different direction from what I intended. Another abrupt ending, I can’t write any further on this tonight.