Here’s something a lot of people don’t understand or don’t want to understand: you can be in love with two people at the same time. It’s not a crime, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it just is.
See, I’m in love with you. I’m also in love with my husband, and I know you’re in love with your wife. One of my friends – I tell so few people about this that the ones who know are ones dear to me – said you should be my hall pass, then had to explain that to me. You’re not a celebrity, you’re not a rock star, you’re just you. Talented, funny, and sometimes so serious and awkward that I can’t help loving you.
I get the feeling sometimes that you have some sort of feelings for me too. I certainly know at the very least that you care about me. Whether it’s a favorite on Twitter, a like on Facebook, or just a passing word that you remember where I live when I don’t even remember telling you, you tell me in these little ways that you’re keeping up with me and my life. You were the first to say “Happy Birthday” to me this year, even before my family. You asked me how I was doing when you saw that my marriage was on the rocks. Like I said, I know you care. I just don’t know how much.
My husband thinks this is hilarious. Hell, he encourages it. He says things like “what if he likes you?” in a tone of voice you usually only hear from one middle-schooler to another. He knows how much I love you and he accepts it. It’s one of the reasons I love him so much.
I never want to lose my husband like I would never want you to lose your wife. But I can’t stop loving you and I can never, ever tell you how I feel. We’re friends and I wouldn’t want to lose that, but sometimes when we talk all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss you. When you hug me I want it to go on forever. And when you stand beside me I wonder if anyone would ever think I was your girlfriend.
Sometimes I cry because I have these feelings for you, this need to be with you and hear your voice and see you smile. I want to talk to you, to email or text you just to say hi so we don’t break our connection, but I’m afraid you’ll think I’m overbearing. If I ever held your hand I would probably just burst into tears. It’s like a sappy romantic comedy, only one-sided. You’re near me but just far enough away that I would never be able to reach you.
You toss around “love you” like it’s nothing, not knowing what it means to me. It drives me crazy but I never want it to end. I never want this feeling to end.
I’m stuck in a long distance abusive relationship with a man who will most likely kill himself if I leave. I’m all alone on the world’s scariest amusement park, sure there are some highs to it. But with every high comes a stomach turning, I-wanna-throw-up fall, sometimes several in a row before another small high. The gates are locked and the key has been thrown away, I’m all alone. There is no way out unless I want to live with the fact that he killed himself because of me. There is no way I can do that, I try so hard to help everyone who wants to or has attempted to kill themselves.
So I’m alone in a sometimes wonderful hell hole. Then again, even in hell, people need a little bit of water to live and will miss it that much more when they get thirsty again. Not to brag at all, but there are multiple men I can call, text, email, or go visit and tell them that I want to date them. They would treat me well, let me explain when I seem in the wrong. It would be so nice and perfect. But no, I day dream about it while we talk then get snapped back into reality by his harsh words. I want out, I want fucking out of this nightmarish hell. There is no way though, because he will kill himself if I leave.
I am not because I do not want to reward you for the way you’ve treated me and my family. Sweeping all of the hurtful words, derisive glares, and contemptible stories told to extended family members under the rug and pretending that everything’s coming up Cunningham is unhealthy. I need to start teaching you how to treat me.
I wish that these feelings, and your actions, were limited to the last ten months, the time frame when the true dysfunction of our relationship came to light, but they’re not. In truth, while you’ve never raised a hand to me (or my sister), your abuse has been going on as long as I can remember. (Don’t you sometimes wish emotional abuse showed scars? It would be so much easier if you could point to a jagged white gash on your arm and say “this was from the time he called me ‘fat.’ I was ten.” If you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.)
You wanted boys. It is so clear that you are disappointed that Mom gave you daughters. It was clear in the way you dismissed me, tried to create a “tomboy” out of my sister, and then, when that didn’t work out, lavished attention on our male cousins and your first grandson. It is still clear in the way that you almost completely ignore your beautiful granddaughters, and when you’re not ignoring them, you treat them as inferior, people you must put up with in order to see your grandson.
Of course growing up with you wasn’t all bad. You made us beautiful things, bed frames with bookshelves (because my sister and I have always been big readers), a closet-sized toy chest, and a stand-alone playhouse in the centre of the yard (which lasted one summer before the spiders took it for their own and we refused to enter it again). You took us out for sundaes at least once a month, on Fridays after school (of course you did neglect the opportunity to get to know your children by picking up a newspaper as soon as we darkened the doors, but we were always excited to get that ice cream). You made sure that we got out camping several times every summer, and packed canoe trips and hiking adventures by the dozen into our family vacations.
You just never seemed to buy in to your relationships with us. Maybe with my sister, with whom you seemed to have tried to forge a connection through organized sports and hockey fandom, but never with me. We don’t have any common interests, isn’t that the excuse you used? I always had my nose in a book, played music with a community band and was more of a dreamer than I was practical. Thing is, I also really enjoyed hiking, got into inline skating (you played hockey and really enjoyed to skate), loved to go for long walks and even took up an interest in war history movies (when I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai, I watched it for you. I did thoroughly enjoy it, but I was twelve(ish), it wasn’t in my wheelhouse to source late ‘50s Alec Guinness flicks in the ‘90s).
Later on, I followed your urging and applied for a job (I should never have applied for) in your company of employment. I hated that position with every breath I took (and I didn’t last long in it), but I relished having that little bit of something in common with you. I was over-the-moon when I had the chance to “talk shop” with you, but you were dismissive of and disinterested in that, too.
I tried, Dad. I tried really hard. The counselor I saw at the end of last year suggested that I have been seeking your approval for my whole life. That wasn’t something I had considered, but when he said it, a cartoon light bulb lit up over my head. He was right on the money.
I have been trying to make you see me for all of my almost thirty-two years of life.
I can’t do it anymore. You have said some heinous things to and about me, especially in the last year. You have ignored me, looked through me and glared hatefully at me. I understand that I have made decisions that you don’t agree with. I understand that I have done things that you don’t like. I even understand that some of these things may have hurt you, but this isn’t the way to deal with that. I am better than that. I am more than that. I am worth more than that.
I would love to have a relationship with you. I said to my husband just this morning that I wish that tomorrow was going to be a day of celebrating him, and his very first Father’s Day (he is an amazing father. So supportive, encouraging, devoted, and completely wrapped around our son’s tiny fingers), as well as a day of celebrating you. I wish I had a relationship with you to celebrate, but there aren’t enough macaroni necklaces in all of the land to sway your affection toward me even an inch, are there?
I hope that changes some day, Dad. I hope I can hug you, tell you I love you, and trust you again.
I once had this guy friend who was as obsessed as I am with shoes (and clothes, but we’re talking about shoes today). He was smokin’ hot, too, but that is an issue for another post or my sponsor or something. Anyway, back to my friend who loved shoes. When his birthday rolled around, I gave him the most perfect birthday card I have ever seen (except it was probably created with woman in mind and he was most decidedly a man). It said something to the effect of “the feeling of wearing new shoes while you’re on your way to buy new shoes” was what I wished for him on his birthday. He totally got it and he loved it.
At the time, I thought I got it. And I suppose, given what I knew at the time, I did get it to some extent. New shoes make me happy. In the pants. Wearing new shoes on my way to buy more new shoes? Is kind of a shoe-junkie’s idea of nirvana. It was a card that wished great happiness on my friend. We all deserve to experience great joy, right, but birthdays should be even more joyous.
However, recently I gained some new insight into the idea of “the feeling of wearing new shoes on your way to buy new shoes.” I’ve been having ankle problems after a mild injury, and had been buying some new shoes with flat-ish heels. Those who know me know how devastating this was to my psyche.
However, I wound up with several bad-ass pairs of boots, so I was ok with it because boots generally convey a certain attitude that says “get outta my way or these boots are gonna walk all over you,” and who doesn’t like feeling like queen of the universe every now and then?
I also had broken out an old, much loved pair of oxfords that I wore to death last summer while working on my feet all day. Those oxfords saved my feet last summer, and they looked far worse for it. The soft leather was gouged up in several places, and I asked my Sunshine if I could have a new pair of flat heeled shoes.
Being the bright and shining Sunshine that he is, my Sunshine handed me his card and told me to order some. I went to my go-to site for online shopping (same site that blessed me with the oxfords I wore to death) and found a beautiful pair of loafers on sale. I ordered away and waited with anticipation for them to arrive from Italy.
I’m glad my boss was away on vacation when those shoes arrived. I’m also glad that all of her hotel guests were out doing other things off the property. I’m pretty sure the noises I made when I opened that box would have rivaled the noises Meg Ryan made in that infamous scene from “When Harry Met Sally.” These loafers are made of the softest leather I have ever had the pleasure of touching, and I have touched some fine leathers in my life. Hell, I have tissue-thin leather leggings that feel oh-so-good on my legs that didn’t feel this soft and buttery to the touch, but I digress…
Those loafers were made of some seriously soft leather. Even the soles were made of quality leather. They were beautiful, too. I couldn’t wait to get these shoes on my feet.
When I got home and actually got those shoes on my feet, I almost cried. Not only were these shoes beautiful to look at, but these shoes felt better than any other shoe I have ever put on in my life (and I’ve put on many a pair of good shoes in my life). Even after I wore them all day to run errands, my feet did not hurt.
Now, that’s saying something. I have freakishly high arches and now I have the ankle problems. For something to make my feet feel that good even after hours of running around town and running through multiple stores was amazing to me.
It made me realize how right my Sunshine actually is when he says that your feet have to be happy for you to be happy.
My feet didn’t hurt at all for the first time in months.
When the physical body is comfortable, it makes it much easier for the emotional body to be comfortable. When the physical body is comfortable, it opens the door wide for the spiritual body to experience joy.
So, today, on this Monday, I would like to say that I wish you “the feeling of wearing new shoes on your way to buy new shoes,” but I can’t. I have to take it a little further and wish you the feeling of wearing beautiful AND comfortable new shoes on you way to buy beautiful AND comfortable new shoes. Because you deserve to have physical comfort and spiritual joy.
All the shattered hearts and broken promises that I thought I was angry about all seem so irrelevant now. I know that separating is probably the best thing for both of us, but it’s killing me. I no longer care about whether I pass or fail in school. I no longer care about graphic design. None of that matters without him.
How could I have been so blind? So stupid? I got so lost in the things that he had done to me that I forgot about the girl he brought to life. I may not be able to prevent the pain he causes me now and again, but I am in control of MY actions, and my actions have been deplorable.
This isn’t me. I don’t retaliate. I forgive, and I move on. When did I lose sight of that girl? His mistakes should have never been repeated no matter how much I wanted him to understand. He’s a man. He will never understand the emotions of a woman. I sure don’t understand the emotions of a man.
It’s probably too late for us. I simply hope someone else can learn from our mistakes. Forgiveness is a wonderful thing, and by forgiving your spouse you can make a stand. You can say that you will not allow the darkness to destroy what you both have built, even if you have to build the walls on your own.
The happiness in our eyes has been gone for quite a while. Once they told the world a story of a love that few would ever experience. Somewhere along the way, we forgot how lucky we were to have found each other. I wish I had been better at showing him how truly grateful I was to have him here. And while many might say that I should use these lessons for the next guy, I know, without a single doubt, that there will be no other for me. The attention that I was seeking from others never managed to replace what I was desperately in need of from him. And because of my foolishness, there will always be a break in his heart that won’t heal, and that I am responsible for. No matter how many times I assure him that I never followed through, he will always believe I did. Maybe that’s even worse. He will spend the rest of his life hoping that my words are true but never truly believing.
Dear God, what have I done? I ruined the only thing that was truly pure and beautiful in my life out of pure spite. My life has never had any light in it until he came along. The day I met him, everything sprang to life. The grass was greener; the sky was bluer. Exactly when did I lose sight of that? Was it the first time he slapped me? Was it the day he broke my tailbone? I seem to recall a spark up until the moment that I felt that a single promise from him had become necessary – that no matter how our fights ended, if something ever happened to me that he would not panic and kill our children as well. Anything that was left after that died the moment I pleaded for my own life.
I know this relationship isn’t healthy. I’m fully capable of taking a step back and screaming to the girl before me, “For God’s sake, run!” But I stand by a decision I made one night in our Blessing home: if I intended to love him, then I was going to love him to the end, whether it be tragic or happily ever after. It looks like tragedy is the theme of this play, but at least the heroes in question have lost only their souls and not their lives.
