This morning was nice, got up earlyish, and went down to the market for “fun.” Though it isn’t much fun to have to tangle with people who hug you and make jokes in your ear about how desperate they are for me to come back. Sorry, I say, and shrug, with this awkward laugh. I’m so sorry. I’m not, though, because I can feel this tension floating around and if I reach out my hand even a bit, it will stick right to me. They were out of lemon bars by the time I made my way to buy anything, but it was a beautiful day and my mentor invited me to chat with her and her husband at her garden at her house which wasn’t but three minutes away. I’d never been there before but it was really lovely even if I was in a hurry to get to my hair appointment.
During said hair appointment, I had an email arrive that did nothing to clarify my situation with Mr. Confusion. Officially christened as of today. Cause I don’t get it. Essentially, without doing a close reading of the thing, my guess is that he’s really depressed. At the same time, he doesn’t believe me when I offered to meet, that I’m being Eeyoreish (!!) – that it’s out of as the song goes, “desire, not consolation.” He’s such a fantastic writer, at the same time, gah. I was diving off the high board and it turns out the water is congealed gravy and the board wasn’t high enough to warrant scoring. There was something legalistic in his tone. Refusing to repeat himself. A bit of Willy Wonka addressing Charlie again. That Good. Day. dismissal.
So, I had a bit of an emotional reaction and I wasn’t sure if I was going to write about it here. At least, not today, but I want to get the post done because I have some laundry to do before the family arrives tomorrow to install flooring and opinions. And it’s in my mind. This is, despite how thematic it would be, not a horse race and I don’t know how I feel in a pithy, five hundred word way, (hyphenate that properly in your mind, please) though, so I can only imagine how vague and unpleasant this might end up being to read.
I’m really trying to not put my requirements of emotional perfectionism on this. I don’t want him to be depressed, I know what that is, I don’t want anyone to be depressed. But, I mean, none of this makes feel anything except misunderstood and frustrated. It doesn’t make me feel romantic or wanted at all. I was fighting for this because it’s the bird in the hand, it’s the nearest thing to being cared about, because I need experience, because I want to see the other side of frustration…because who knows, because I was curious, because it mattered as one stone further on this bridge of life. Not necessarily because he was this guy I was desperate to meet. And maybe that’s a disingenuous stance to take, but I think it’s equally disingenuous to email me to inform me, in his view, that he’s not going to email me any more because of whatever’s going on, because emailing is exhausting and then treat my offer to meet as lazy, insincere.
And I suppose if he’s arguing anything, he’s arguing that. But fuck, life has to allow for a little look-see. But I don’t know how to get caring if we can’t have letters and we can’t have meetings. He’s pretty much, well, you can write me, I’d like to write someday in the future when I’m feeling better, but right now, who knows. And that’s…I deserve more that that. I can’t care if that’s all there is…just waiting for me to have an impact with no method. Ugh, I don’t care. And if I don’t care, then, it’s back to square one.
Another day of storms and thunder.