Why Not?

It must seem weird and maybe a bit icky to some, the fact that I’m writing about this intense shit while it’s happening. I was apprehensive at first, but I couldn’t think of any good reason not to. I think my hesitation was just a vestige of Midwestern reticence about anything emotional. It’s distasteful to show strong emotion, even to your family.

Most of my work has been, in some way, autobiographical. The real-time aspect of blogging heightens the effect, but I can’t see how it’s any different sharing this experience now as it’s happening or sharing it 2 years from now in a book or something.

And, anyway, while I’m sitting here composing sentences and paragraphs I feel sane and focused, and I will do just about anything right now that will make me feel that way. Because I’m going a little crazy.

Expectations.

I, we, talked so much about my expectations. I expected too much. I depended for my well-being on a certain outcome. As if there’s something wrong with the expectation that our connection would endure and deepen, when we both explicitly expressed that desire. But it's you who became apprehensive. It seems to me that this moment is about how the relationship didn’t meet your expectations. What did you think I was that I turned out not to be?

Another Day.

I picked up my friend P at the airport today -- she’d been to Indiana for a family wedding -- and she treated me to brunch at Blue Star Cafeteria. It was crowded and we ate at the counter. I cried, she listened and cried and gave me good advice. P is a social worker, she works with the families of people who are dying, and I don’t know if she ended up doing that work because of a natural talent for maintaining equanimity in the presence of other people’s pain, or if she cultivated that talent by doing that work. But she’s good and very wise, and I felt and still feel a little better after spending time with her.

When I got home, I had a lovely, heartfelt email from someone I met briefly last year through some old friends who came to see Lizzie Borden in New York. She’s been reading this chronicle and felt compelled to send words of encouragement and support, for which I’m grateful. It helps.

I watched Palindromes last night on Netflix streaming. It’s beautiful and brilliant and a few times while watching I felt a little brightness, a little optimism about art and being an artist. I also felt sad because it’s the kind of film that M and I would have enjoyed together. I think Todd Solondz’s sensibility is one of the places where our tastes coincide: that mix of deep emotion and fucked-up weirdness. Hilarious, freaky, painful, and deeply true all at the same time. But maybe not. Maybe we both like that kind of thing but see it in completely different ways.

By the time the film was over, I was pretty drunk, but I started watching The Puffy Chair. I enjoyed it for a while, but when I saw that it was going to be all about the couple -- at some point, they were in bed and the woman said to the man that they needed to talk about the relationship -- I turned it off and went to bed. I couldn't do it.

I’m neglecting my other blogs: The Austin Chronicle and Bilerico. I don’t know what to write about. Nothing is very interesting to me right now but my own suffering. I read a little bit. I spend hours doing nothing in front of my computer: checking the hits on this blog, wondering if M is reading it, scrolling through tumblr blogs of pictures of sexy men, avoiding photos of redheads, waiting for another day to be over.

Nightfall.

The pain gets worse as the day goes on. Yesterday and today I had a moment or two just as I was waking up when I felt optimistic. It’s as if I wake up forgetting how sad I am but then it comes trickling back into my mind and by the time I’m making coffee I’m weeping again.

The evenings are especially painful. I run out of things to do to distract myself. We spent our evenings together.

Tonight after dinner, I went out to get beer because we were out. The cheapest, closest place with good beer is a gas station convenience store sort of near M’s house. On the way there (which is not really on the way) I drove past his house and then drove past it again on my way home. I pictured myself knocking on the door and telling him how much pain I’m in, asking for a hug, just a hug, if ever you loved me, if ever you thought of me even as a friend, you’d give me a hug and help me get through this because look how much I’m hurting. I don’t think anyone was home. Thank god. I watch myself doing these things and know how ridiculous they are, but I’m unable to stop myself.

By sunset, the whole weight of it is back, sitting on my heart. Heavy drinking helps. It helps to be not quite conscious of going to bed alone.

Things I have to avoid because they make me start crying:

1. Anything about Mexico, including the Spanish language and Mexican food, and especially anything about Mexico City.
2. Anything having to do with the Medieval period, the French language, and France.
3. Mad Men.
4. Movies or stories about people falling in love or being in love or staying in love.
5. Cooking.
6. Eating.
7. Liberty Bar and East Side King (the little food trailer in back of the bar -- it was our favorite).
8. The drive down Springdale and west on 12th St. (the route I took to and from M’s almost every day for the last 7 months).
9. Most of East Austin and the U.T. campus (where M lives and works).

#1 is the toughest one. I fell in love with Mexico City and M at the same time. It was on our trip there that I let down my defenses, let myself trust that we’d be together for a long time because he told me that’s how he felt. It’s important to me to verify that I was not telling myself a story based on my own fantasies and desires; I never took a step before very carefully confirming that he was taking that step, too. I don’t want to blame M for any of this, but I do want to know that I was not delusional, that I did everything I could to avoid being hurt like this. I want to know that I am not a complete idiot.

In Conclusion.

The world is a bleak and lonely place filled with unspeakable pain, so we pursue various pleasures (drugs, sex, romance, laughter, art), but the momentary relief they give us from the underlying misery only makes it hurt more when pleasure recedes. Love is a sham. It’s just an optimistic name we give to a neurotic mix of sensual pleasure and fear of loneliness.

Trying to Break It Down.

Trying to make sense of this despair by breaking it into components is, perhaps, a bit less painful than just sitting here swimming in it. Is my reaction to this breakup out of proportion? Nothing in my life – and I’ve been through some shit – has had me crying uncontrollably for a week. I’m frightened of the anguish I’m feeling now. Maybe if the rest of my life had some order, I’d feel like there was a way to recover.

I am almost 50 years old, I can’t support myself, and I am alone. I live in a room in someone else’s house. I don’t have any routine to go back to. All I have to return to is the howling anxiety of everything else in my life that hasn’t made sense for years. Any semblance of order I had before I met M is gone now for having been neglected. I have no home to hide in while I heal. I have no job to throw myself into to keep my mind occupied. My work is some consolation. I’ve done a little shooting and writing for my high school diary film, but it’s hard to stay focused. My ideas, and my confidence in them, are fragile -- because the work is new, because I haven't had success with anything I've done in the last 5 years, because I'm unsure even of what medium I should be working in -- not strong enough to withstand the waves of sadness that hit me over and over.

M was a bright island in this sea of anxiety about aging, poverty, and failure. Being with him, I could at least feel that someone found me attractive. Maybe somewhere deep down I knew I was hanging everything on that, but I didn’t have anything else to hang anything on at the moment. For him to lose interest in me confirms all my worst fears: I really am dull, unskilled, not as smart as I think I am, not talented enough to be successful, and, if that’s not bad enough, unattractive, too.

So, to recap: 1. old, 2. stupid, 3. untalented, 4. a failure, 5. unlovable, once you get to know me, and 6. super-pathetic and extra annoying and unattractive because I’m so goddamned insecure.

Fuck my life.

Friday Night.

I got very stoned with J and watched Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion. That was good medicine. There were a couple times I sobbed perhaps a little more than was appropriate, but it felt good for my crying to be, for a time, abstract. And I laughed hard, a lot. I hadn't seen it before.

Strangely, writing about this helps alleviate the pain, at least while I'm focused on writing and don't let my mind wander too far. Even though I'm sitting here examining and analyzing it, it's a relief to be doing something I feel like I have control over. And my thoughts come into focus when I write.

I wrote a a long letter to M and dropped it at his house this afternoon, along with his house key and a few gifts he'd given me. I felt a little ridiculous giving him back his stuff, so dramatic, but for some reason it felt necessary. It hurts too much to have that stuff around. I have so much to say to him. He's the one that I've shared my thoughts with lately -- I can't stop framing my thoughts as if he were my audience. I made a big effort to keep the letter sane, to express myself simply and to ask straightforward questions. I'm trying hard to understand what happened.

J had plans tonight but postponed them and took me to P Terry's for dinner. I've been living on smoothies, beer, chips, and tacos from El Chilito for a week. I feel like I've forgotten how to cook.