Category Archives: man

Memories

I refuse to say his name. It brings back memories, playful and painful, loving and absolutely cold. I have stopped talking about him. Everyone and their brother is probably sick of hearing about him.

Weep, mope, get angry, feel self loathing, wonder what is wrong with me, more self loathing, weep, feel sorry for myself, repeat. How many months?

To distance myself from him I stopped saying his name, and simply began referring to him as The Man Person. I never had to explain it; it was clear who I meant. It was simultaneously affectionate, cute, and impersonal.

I would longingly speak of him until I realized how unhealthy the whole business was. Really I realized it was unhealthy months ago when I decided I was happier fantasizing about him than actually being with another man. But then again, I have never been a health nut.

Thinking about it one evening, and probably in a state of anger, it dawned on me that I had spent the larger part of the past months making excuses for him, continuing to adore him while getting little to nothing in return. My remarks of missing him getting outright dismissed and ignored, essentially the nonverbal equivalent of “fuck off,” and somehow got translated into “I am sure he cares in his own way.” The fact that I wasn’t even worth a five second text message simply didn’t register with me. Oh, I am sure he is just busy, or tired, or something. That is perfectly logical, right?

We had a wonderful time together while it lasted, but then, when I no longer entertained him, he threw me away. I know that is not how it happened (and maybe even unfair on my part), but that is what it feels like.

He left because he didn’t like X. I changed X. Then I changed Y and Z. I switched to the cryllic alphabet and learned hieroglyphics. So where is he? Oh, yes… that is right… it is not X, it is me. I was the problem, and that cannot change. And I have no excuses left. He is not here.

And I am an idiot.

Talking It Over

I would like to think him leaving is his loss, but really it is mine too. There were many things about him I enjoyed, but one thing in particular I miss most. Actually what I miss most fluctuates, but right now, this is what I want.

I loved telling him about whatever I was reading, studying, teaching (although the latter is a new development and not one we discussed in detail).

I can’t explain it, except that he always knew. He probably thought I was ridiculous in my odd fascinations, yet he humored me anyway. I would find whimsy in the strangest quotes, but still, he knew.

Whatever I had studied, or was reading, he most likely already read, and had an opinion on it. I enjoyed hearing it, constantly getting me to think about something else, new, and maybe different.

I think my favorite part was making him figure it out. He would and I would squeal and giggle in delight, reading his email or text that unraveled whatever random thing I would send.

I sometimes wonder if he enjoyed it, and viewed it like a game the way I did.

There was one time I thought it would amusing to create something formatted like the reference in the title of this blog and see where it went. Pick a subject, any subject, and go from there. The end result would have been entertaining.

If we were still talking, I would tell him about my lesson planning for next week: ¬†“on ne nait pas femme: on le devient.” He could easily figure out what/who I am teaching… but the why… especially considering my opinion on the subject… ¬†that would be a whole different puzzle.

Well, I guess if I want puzzles, then I will have to go back to Sudoku.

The Imaginary Man

I am in love with an imaginary man. It has been long enough to where I thought everything would surely by now fade into sepia.

I like to tell myself that once in a while he may imagine me, because the alternative hurts. But I can well guess the truth. I didn’t fade into sepia. I was probably not even an afterthought. If he ever does think of me, it is probably in passing, and nonchalant. Just like he doesn’t physically exist in my life, I don’t exist at all in his.

I also like to think that he is happily with someone else, because the alternative hurts. An alternative in which I was so undesirable. An alternative in which I gave him all of me, my love, my kindness, my body, and he chose nothing over everything I had to offer. It makes it easier if I just believe there was someone else.

He is not perfect. No one is. But to me he was. Next to him all others pale in comparison. And he lives in my head. I ache for him daily, and tell myself it will pass. I long for the talks, and the walks, and everything else.

I used to await the day I could love him without inhibitions. Now I can openly revel in his memory. Oh joy.

I probably should get him out of my head. But I don’t know how.