Maybe I’m Just Stoned #2.

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To My Lovely Gentlemen Readers:
You know I love you guys and this IS NOT a clown or jab in the direction of the male persuasion that comes from a mean spirit; it’s all in TRUTHFULLY told, good, clean, fun…and weed….lots and lots of weed.
~~~
Maybe I’m just super stoned again tonight…we’ll see I guess…

Okay, so, is it just me, or…
Is the willingness to commit when it comes to conversation between a man and woman VASTLY weakened, in comparison to his willingness to commit to another man (not in a romantic or sexual way)? A lifelong friend of my roommate Dice stopped by tonight after work for a visit. It’s been a while since we saw this particular guy, as he has been buried by the project of a DIY home remodel – a huge project, indeed. Dice is single (something that his mama doesn’t appreciate as she is itching for grandkids) and as long as I have known Dice, his intention of remaining “single” for the most part has remained unchanged; he is just the kind of guy who answers to nobody and recognizes that relationships just aren’t his thing, I guess.
I have heard this man argue any and every valid (or invalid) point behind his lack of any desire to commit himself to any ONE woman; he even ended a relationship he had been in for several years because the grip kept tightening in his perception. I feel that I can fairly make the statement of:
“Dice is no friend to commitment when it comes to any exclusive inter-personal relationships with others.”

Tell me why it is then, that within a matter of moments after sitting down with his friend to catch up on the construction of his home, the word “we” is being thrown around like a fucking cheap hooker. I swear to the Gods, it was as if Dice has had a hidden mouse in his pocket all day or is suddenly in a second person narrative! It was shocking to me, seriously…and yes, I was possibly over-stoney and reading too much into things, but damn…

“We might also wanna think about…”
“We could look into building up from beneath…”
“If we fill in the ditch, we will have plenty of room to…”
I mean this is the same guy who won’t even collectively chip in on household products with me because it feels too much like a binding to him somehow for Christ’s sake! Yet, when it came to construction (or, last weekend, the stripping down of an ancient Land Cruiser belonging to a different male friend of his)…it was pretty profound in my own pothead opinion.

But, maybe I’m just stoned.

The Empath and The Opportunist (Still Going).

Last night I had a “date”; not really like a date, because it wasn’t a new person and I didn’t go anywhere…okay, last night I spent time with the Opportunist because I was lonely and emotionally weakened by recent life events.
I shouldn’t have even looked at my phone yesterday at all based on my state of mind over my daughter, but hey – old habits die hard I guess.
He texted me some smart ass remark how nice my ass is out of the clear blue at like 7:30am though, so it was kinda hard to ignore; not to mention the fuckin’ guy’s timing…he must have a sensor of some kind that tells him when my guard is down or whatever, because he pops up without fail (as a good opportunist only should) when I am weak.
Anyway, so yeah…he ended up coming over and we watched Gunslingers and some lame show about gold mining in the arctic or some whack shit. I gave him whatever opportunities he needed last night…and that was that. He says I need to “work on my people skills”…that being asked to get dressed and go home after sex would be highly offensive most guys and I’m “lucky he knows where I’m coming from”…I guess it was always like that between us – even when we lived together, I slept separately at night because I wanted to.
In summary, having a “date” with the opportunist last night only re-affirmed how well-suited someone so shallow is for me at present…because I am still an emotional and social train-wreck, apparently.

Denominator.

I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.

1421876244430-1Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.

math_friends…which brings me back to my original point with this:

Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?

Reversed Rejection.

It was as soon as I walked through the threshold of my front door to the front porch that I heard the cries of a child – the screams that a child makes out of true panic – the scream that comes after the initial fall or impact of an injury – the scream that tells ANY mother within a three block radius that a child has been hurt.
My ‘mother bear’ instinct kicked in right away, of course; and I was instantly down my driveway and into the middle of street, trying to visualize the source of the crying, to no avail. I once again (and this is always something that tickles the shit out of me) located the source using ONLY my “good ear” to guide me. The child was across the street, up over the other side of a footbridge that begins adjacent to my house. As I huffed and puffed (I’m a smoker) my way over the bridge and down the stairway on the other side, a little boy came rushing at me with a look of sheer terror on his face – I recognized him immediately as one of the two young boys belonging to the man down the street (who totally hits on me constantly, not disrespectfully so, but it’s awkward, and I become the PTSD poster-child whenever he talks to me – yet he keeps trying!).
“Are you going to go get your Dad?” I hissed at him, not even bothering to wait for his answer as I sprinted quickly by his little form.
“Yes…” I heard him reply as he rounded the upper-corner of the stairway to cross the bridge, and disappeared into the fog. I was nearly upon the younger boy, who sat, wailing in panicked breaths, almost “Indian-Style” at the bottom of the final step of the steep, concrete stairway – with his Roller Blades still on.
“Oh Jesus…” I muttered under my breath, upon noting that last detail. Soft bones or not, it can’t be very comfortable on your ankles to sit that way with Roller Blades
“You’re okay, Buddy! You’re okay!” I realized I was already saying this from a few feet away from him. He looked up at me as I reached his tiny frame in the mud with a look full of gratitude and fear and relief and shock all at once: brightly lit blue eyes like darts into my heart. His little, shivering arms both shot upwards and outwards for me, his mouth hanging open, trailing snot and spit from his bloodied lips, still covered in a layer of loose gravel.
“You’re gonna be okay, shhhh…come here…what’s your name, again?”
I scoop him up off the ground, as I had already visually found no serious injuries outside of a bruised ego and a busted mouth.
“Alan.” He says, muffled by his own little forearm as he wipes his face with his sleeve, leaving a crimson-smeared work of booger art across the entirety of it.
“What happened, Alan – did you jump those stairs in your Roller Blades?” I ask him, obviously being silly. We’re talking 50+ steps.
“No…my brover pushed me…” He begins to cry harder again and digs his dirty, bloody face into my armpit out of shame and embarrassment.
“He did!?”
“Yes!” His voice is so full of betrayal as he answers me, his little body wracking by the sobs he can’t help but let out. My heart was so hurt by that teeny part of the entire episode, though. He digs his small fingers into my neck and shoulder as I ease my way up with him on my hip.
“Let’s just sit up and check out your battle wounds, okay?”
“Kay…” His slowly calming voice sounds infused with helium.
Just then, his Dad and brother came booking down the stairway towards us, I said “I think he’s okay…sorry if we alarmed you…”
I handed Alan off to his grateful father without any further incident, or so I thought. Ever since that day (about three weeks ago), Alan and his father have come to say “hello” to me on two separate occasions. Yesterday, they invited me to go out with them…it’s tough because I don’t know to tell an adorable little button-faced boy (and his Dad, more importantly) that I’m broken and a waste of their’ time and energy.

Farewell to my Umpteenth Meaningless Relationship

And so the story goes:

I am unable to emotionally attach myself in a romantic way to any male creature alive, despite how hard I may try and how badly I may long for that connectedness that I only experience in the form of a giant void of greyness. I am honest and open about my shortcomings in the realm of romance and relationships – I am truthful up front about my short attention span and lack of co-dependency (and often times this very up-frontedness winds up being a “deal breaker” so we can both cut our losses early on and be don with it). I am honest about my inability to truly trust and harmonize with a counter-part, I am open about my consuming fear of abandonment and about my lack of commitment.

Sometimes, he’s willing to go for the ride and sometimes, he runs as fast as he can in the other direction…

but every time, regardless of what he decides after he learns of my many handicaps in the arenas of “relationships and commitment”, the trip will be short-lived and disappointing to both of us in the end.

Disappointing to me because I always hold out this stupid ass hope that I might actually have a male counter-part out there floating around, and might still be lucky enough to bump into him…and no; once again – WRONG.

Disappointing to him because, well….who’d want to sign up for a go at a relationship with somebody who basically disclosed up front that any relationship you may have been thinking about cultivating with her is NULL?

I’ve known this latest “go” has all but reached his wit’s end with my indifference towards him and what he does, and I could care less. I know that I would not appreciate my behavior if I were in his shoes, and I also know that I wouldn’t want to be lied to on top of several months of wasted time – so I don’t act like I give a shit about what he’s doing either.

He started packing his shit yesterday…

I started helping him this morning…

that wasn’t well received and he was burned by my assistance…

his stuff is loaded into his truck now, and I gave him a hug and said, “Thank you for not being a dick about this…”

He’s gone now.