Do you ever sign in to Facebook in the morning, and almost immediately fight the urge to put your fist through the screen when it autogenerates random memories for you?
No? Oh. Ummm... okay, me neither.
Here you go, Crista... One year ago today you were being dumped by the last man you loved while the two of you were vacationing on the lake.
Thanks for showing me that. And for showing me memories of dating fiascos for the entire year before that.
And just think, as every day passes from here on out, Facebook will help me relive all the dating debacles since then, too! Yippee!
Aye yi yi.
But those complaints, those memories or those men, are not the meat and potatoes of this blog. They're kind of an appetizer for the main course, though.
So, what's the primary dish for tonight's ravings?
I know, not very palatable.
A short while ago, I wrote a blog about what I like to call the "feel/flee syndrome." Which is just a phrase I coined for men who run away from feelings.
Don't get me wrong, I don't believe ALL men are afraid of feelings (but perhaps a good majority of them are), and I know that women are sometimes afraid of them, too.
Fucking petrified, actually.
Last summer on that lake, I was reminded of how it felt to have my heart broken. It had been intact for quite a few years, after having survived my last ex-husband. And that heartbreak was enough to toughen up that ole muscle for decades!
Or, so I thought.
What a surprise it was to me when I was suddenly crying every day. Mournful, forlorn... devastated.
I guess I thought it was no longer possible.
Anyway, fuck that dude.
My point is, at least, I think is... Feelings are frightening. Absofuckinglutely terrifying. Dangerous.
Especially when you're an emotive empath who develops them quickly and intensely (sometimes irrationally, I know). It's a fucking curse.
In the last couple of years, I've dated a dozen men, probably. At least, I think. That I can remember. Anyway...
Thankfully, aside from the one who broke my heart last summer, I only had feelings for one other. Nowhere near what I felt last summer, but I could have loved him. Knew that I would, had it continued. Knew it was happening. Regardless of the bouquet of red flags. Luckily (although it did not feel fortunate at the time), he walked before I had a chance to fall.
But I did have feelings for him. And boy, weren't they hurt when he left.
I've felt a connection to a couple others, perhaps, but nothing ever grew from them. Which was perplexing to me. Feel-flee.
With most others, I spent a lot of time trying to determine if I "like" them, if there were any feelings. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out if it was anything more than just physical. And then spent the rest of the time trying to figure out if I actually cared if I figured it out. (Did you follow that? ...It made sense in my head...)
Weird? I don't know. People would advise- "Well, if you don't know if you like him, that's probably your answer." Is it? Was it? I guess I'll never know. Then again, if I'm not mourning them? Well, that's probably my answer.
(Insert Jeff Foxworthy/Bill Engvall/Larry the Cable Guy, etc... "Here's your sign!")
What's worse? Some I knew I didn't actually like, yet still dated them (let's just call it "dating," for my mother's sake). Why? Eh, who knows. Probably because I was lonely, craved attention. Or bored. Likely both. But, goddamnit, I sure have been lonely.
I complain about being alone/lonely almost every day. Going home alone, living alone, vacationing alone, doing things alone, blah, blah, blah friggin blah. And it's true. The loneliness sucks. It literally sucks the life right out of me, almost daily. If only I had love in my life again, right?
But, but, but....
It's SO. Fucking. Horrifying.
Hence the keepin' on with the guys that I may or may not have liked. They were safe. There were no real feelings.
But, but, but...
But I want feelings!
No, wait. I don't. Yes, I do. No... Yes... No...
The normal trepidation that accompanies emotions is only heightened for me, now. For a few reasons...
1. My asshole radar seems to be broken. And when it actually does work, my ability (willingness?) to pay attention to it is obscured. And I don't mean asshole as in outright jerk, more like the subtle insincere, dishonest, deceptive kind of asshole. Or just plain fucking weird.
Last summer's heartbreak was a perfect example of its malfunction, and my inability/unwillingness to pay attention to it when it did operate properly.
But, fuck that dude. Anyway...
2. Over the last couple of years, I have at least figured out the "types" that feel safe to me, and the "types" that I am inexplicably and fiercely drawn to. The types that ignite so many sparks. But are more prone to turning into wildfires. The ones I should probably run from, but don't.
And, 3. Somehow, over the last couple of years, my once thick skin and hardened heart seem to have lost their impenetrable qualities.
I still can't, and may never understand the irony of it...
How the most amazing, wonderful things in life come with the most risk.
Swim with sharks, you might die.
Skydive, you might die.
Rock/summit climb, you might die.
Bunjee jump, you might die
Fall in love, you might die.
I would never do any of the first four things on that list (or any other life-risking activity, for that matter). So why on earth would I do the fourth?! And even worse, continue to do it again, and again, and again?!
Dear Jeezus, we are stupid humans!
I wish I could be like those feel/flee guys. I wish I could turn it off. Oh, how I desperately wish it were so.
And that's about where I fell asleep last night.
This morning I woke up with a raw throat, stuffy nose, plugged ears, and a somewhat nasty cough. Evidently, I am allergic to feelings. Which only reiterates my theory that they are hazardous to your health.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fight off them off with some antihistamines, cough suppressants, and probably some chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.