When I grow up...

Grandma liked to tell a particular story. I can’t remember how many times I heard it – it could have been once and just stuck with me or could have been multiple times that encoded it into memory.

“When Aunt was little,” Grandma said, “she was sitting in school one day. The teacher asked them to go around the room and tell what they wanted to be when they grew up.

“Aunt came home that day and was so sad. She told me about how everyone had made fun of her. How they’d laughed and laughed when she told what she wanted to do with her life.” Grandma shook her head disapprovingly and said I could be anything I wanted to be. And if anyone teased me? Well, they were just wrong. I was smart and special and strong. Beautiful and loving and kind. Like a princess, only better. (Grandma loved me a tremendous amount – I still miss her terribly.)

I miss having a constant source of support. Someone who rarely told me I was wrong. She simply offered comfort and love. Smiled gently and kissed my forehead. Radiated gentle confidence that things would work out because I deserved good things. God loved me and would care for me. It would all be OK.

I was thinking about Aunt recently after my first appointment with Dr. Counselor. He asked what I would like to be doing if I could be doing anything at all.

“That’s the thing.” I said, exasperated with myself. “I just don’t know! I think… I guess…” Then I twisted my mouth and thought – I want to be alive. I like myself, think the world is ridiculously funny and remarkably fascinating. So if I could have anything – do anything – what would I want?

I found myself making a statement similar to what Aunt said as a child, standing proudly in a classroom to take her turn.

“I want to get married.” She said with a smile, for she wanted to do what her mother did. What she saw as profoundly important and loving and right. “I want to be a mother and a wife.”

I’m afraid of picking the wrong man (justified if you consider my romantic history). I’m worried about giving too much and expecting too little (also valid). I’m terrified of ending up alone. Devastated over the idea that I might not have children.

I’ve thought about the last one though – I’m having one. I’d rather not do it alone – plan to try like hell to meet someone wonderful – but I can if need be. But I could also be good at being married – sharing my life with someone.

I don’t think my way is the only way. My heart hurts much more over the woman who couldn’t hold her daughter’s hand because she was smoking and drinking a can of soda as they walked down the sidewalk than it ever would over a strong, capable woman deciding children aren’t in her plans. I understand feeling awkward around children – I sometimes do. But when I think of my life and try to imagine being alone – having a career and pets, wonderful friends and the opportunity to travel. Time to read and write and have incredible hobbies. Money to indulge myself. All those facets – pieces of what sound like a good life – leave me with an empty spot. I’ll always be looking around, wondering where the man is, when the children will come. That's just me.

So I’ve been thinking lately. About what will be right for me. About the intense stomach flip that I thought I needed so much, but perhaps is just throwing me off. Perhaps gentle strength and stability is (or should be) more appealing than dark and brooding talent. (Ah, brooding talent…) Sweet sincerity should win out over easy flirtation. Respect should matter more than heat. I’m getting it, I think. It gives me no small amount of comfort that I can see what I need and can get used to finding it attractive. I might be moving closer to what I want.

While having these thoughts, life goes on though. I put up my Christmas tree this morning. Locked Sprout in his room last night so I could sleep – the running and noise must stop at some point (and by “some point” I mean at, um, 9:00 when I’m too exhausted to stay awake until later). I took Chienne for a walk this morning. Started a project for Carrie. Made progress on another for Steve. Submitted some revisions on a paper after meeting with Boss. Had another meeting with a good collaborator. I’m productive – even after heading down the hall to find clothes while moaning “I don’t want to go!”

I’m continuing to collect lists of charities for holiday giving. I’m eager to attend church on Sunday. I have therapy tomorrow (well, I’m dreading that a bit, but that’s OK. I’ll let him know I was dreading it and see what he says). I’m not feeling nearly so sad as I was at one time – Christmas reminders help me out a lot. (I really like my tree.) I felt guilty – miserably so – for being so vulnerable and hopeful in my search for someone to love. That particular pain – whether through time or prayer or something else – has eased. I think it’s good for me to want this particular future. It’s OK that I’m sometimes sad that a part of my life I consider important is missing.

I’m good at my job. I can do this, if only I find the energy to do so. I’d be good at having a family. I’m a good daughter, an OK sister, a fantastic aunt. I have my faults – many, many quirks and habits and flaws that make me non-ideal. But I feel good about my goals. I, after all, can do whatever I want to do.

Grandma said so. Mom and Aunt would certainly back me up. And these are women more amazing than any I’ve been lucky enough to know. I badly want some young woman to be able to say the same of me some day. And lately, for some reason, I'm oddly hopeful that she will.

Sickly and Single

[I've received incredible traffic today from people looking for "'arrival [preposition removed] hell' walkthrough" and have absolutely no idea what this means. But I'm curious. Will anyone help me out here?]

OK, on to my whining.

“Let me know if I can help.” Jill wrote this morning after she reminded me of her cell number. “I can come out anytime you need me. I know it’s terrible being sick when you’re alone.”

Friend said the same thing when I was so depressed. “It’s important for single people to have support networks. Friends. Because there’s nobody legally obligated to help you when you need it.”

I don’t mind being alone. It’s not like I come home every single day or lie awake once every 24 hours to bemoan my lack of relationship. It happens – there are times when I get morose and irritated and lonely – but for the most part, life is pretty good.

I’m more likely to seek solitude when I’m unwell – be it headache, mood swing or other ailment. I like having complete control over my environment. The noise from a television show can be fine one moment and the biggest of irritants at others. I’ve messed with the thermostat more times than I can count today – I’m hot, then cold. Then burning up. Then freezing. There is no happy medium.

So there shouldn’t be a problem. I would rather be alone right now, and – oh, look at that! – I am. It should be lovely. I’d like to be grateful for the way things worked out. It’s not a huge problem that I have no idea what I’m doing professionally – it only affects me. I can take a whole week to spend with my parents over Thanksgiving without negotiating. I can order pizza and eat nothing else all week. Then I can decide – upon looking despondently through take-out menus, then through my freezer – I want to cook. (I was dying for broccoli. I must be lacking in nutrients because it was beyond delicious.)

Yet I keep dwelling on an email exchange, which should surprise no one though I’ve been trying mightily not to talk about it all the time.

Me: Migraine. Bad. Need drugs and sleep.
Him: Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. Wish I were there to tend to you.

Simple. Effective. Easy to remember.

That headache was a long time ago, but I woke up feeling completely better and comforted by the fact that someone – a cute, male someone – knew I had been hurting and wished he could help (let’s say for the sake of argument that it was sincere, a fact we cannot confirm without independent hypothesis testing but will assume for the sake of clarity). I love the thought of someone checking on me – peeking in a dark room to make sure I don’t need anything. Making soothing sounds and smoothing my hair when I whimper. Feeding the cat because the smell of that kibble makes me gag.

The irritating part is that there are people who would do that. Friend would come check on me and has offered multiple times to fetch anything I need from the outside world. Jill treats me as one of her children anyway, so she could easily offer comfort – straighten my blanket as I nap, make sure I’m drinking enough water. Cousin could come over and feed that cat – would likely take both animals to her house for a couple days if I asked her. But that’s different. I want a partner – someone who knows when I want company and when to stay away. Someone I can cuddle one moment and order around the next. (I’ll be sick. I think it’s OK to behave a bit badly when I’m ill.)

So today – a day that was unexpectedly painful (because I should be feeling better now!) – found me pouncing on eHarmony’s free communication weekend like Sprout on a bug. (Which is gross, by the way. I’m deeply disturbed by the joy he finds in torturing the poor bugs. Then eating parts of them. Goodness, that’s quite disgusting regardless of my level of health.) So as I’ve been responding to requests for communication between finishing my paper revisions and curling up in a ball to decide why the pain continued, I’ve wondered why I can’t get excited about any of these men.

I have – in all honesty – walked into seminars over the past month, and demanded that I find someone attractive. Anyone. But, nope. Can’t do it.

I have – in moments where I continue to obsess about what went wrong and wonder whether I feel hatred, disdain, sympathy or gentle understanding – asked myself why I care at all. He was the wrong guy. Apart from good or bad, forgiven or not, fair or cruel – he was very, very wrong for me.

“So you’ve stopped hoping things will work out?” Friend asked me several weeks ago.

“Absolutely.” I confirmed. “Once a dynamic is established in a relationship, I think it’d be a struggle to overcome it. So my feeling is that I’d always be trying to get his attention and he’d always be controlling and cold because I’d let him. So, no. I don’t want him. No, no, no.”

But.

I hate that I still care. That the whole situation still takes up space in my head. That I recall certain lines or conversations. Then wonder why I blindly trusted someone so easily. Why I gave so much of myself and expected so little of him. Was I selected because I was so gullible? Our association certainly lasted so long because I was too weak to stop it. It occurred to me last weekend that it wasn’t like I turned men away because I was emailing some guy who lived far away. Even now – if I’m screwed up about relationships and find it difficult to trust, have confidence that’s severely damaged, can’t muster any real desire to get to know someone better – what’s the big loss? I hardly think there’s a cute, smart, funny someone out there who’s sighing because he just can’t find me. The very thought strikes me as ridiculous.

So instead of trying to list my good qualities – bolster my self-image a bit – or viewing profiles of men I’m sure are lovely – I’m faced with a single fact.

I choose men very poorly.

Even Ryan – my shining example of someone who wanted to marry me! – let me walk away. When asked if there was a reason I needed to stay, he couldn’t give a solid answer. Didn’t ever ask if I’d more seriously consider staying rather than going. So while it’s pleasant to pretend that it could have worked if I made different decisions, I don’t know that to be true. And even if he would have proposed had I not moved 10 hours away, I don’t think I would have accepted.

Then I was over-the-top excited about someone who was wrong. Even when it was so over-the-top obvious to everyone that it was making me over-the-top unhappy. I mean, really. For crying out loud. It's just so embarrassing. And I'm still not over it, which is just annoying. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I don’t want to be that unhappy again. So the whole dating thing seems dangerous if I care. But it’s really difficult to muster the energy when I’m so eh about the whole process.

But it would be good to have someone to feed the cat when I have a headache. Or tug the blanket from if I get cold when sleeping. Someone who could talk and laugh with me. I could take him home for Thanksgiving. Buy him Christmas presents (which might take away from the funds I’m giving to charity or spending on Little One for all these super-cool toys). Plan trips together.

So I think it would be really good to stop caring about what went wrong in the past (on any number of occasions) and focus on how to make things go well in the future.

I just don’t know how to make that happen.

Moving on: period or question mark

“So you’re just over it? You sound fine. Philosophical, even.” Rachel sounded dubious – the first of my friends (those who do not read the blog) with whom I’d deigned to speak. I’d sent them email – let them know basically what happened since I’d told them about him before. Regrettable, that. Next time I do something blatantly stupid, it’d be good to keep it to myself.

So after several concerned emails and missed phone calls, I sighed and picked up the cell phone last night to tell the story and answer some questions.

It’s almost surreal, to be honest.

“It’s still hard.” I told her thoughtfully. “But… I don’t know. It wasn’t real – it’s hard to mourn – openly mourn – something that was basically imaginary at best and lies at worst. I was lucky, actually. I had all these feelings for him – well, for the man I thought he was – but we didn’t meet. I don’t really remember what his voice sounded like. Have no idea how he smells. If he’d rather hold hands or put his arm around me. There were no kisses, no sex, no waking up together. Only fantasy. And even that may not have been sincere.

“I don’t know. I did love him. But what is there to do?”

“I would have thought you’d be out of it for months.” She said. “You don’t just fall in love. You’re careful and hopeful and I know how much he mattered to you.”

“Rachel, it was bad. Beyond bad at first. I lost it – lost myself. All that existed was pain. Constant, overwhelming misery because I wasn’t good enough. I was stupid. And wrong. I couldn’t do anything but writhe in agony. So maybe the intensity of that week shortened the duration? I’m not sure. But I’m OK now.”

And I smiled into the silence as she fumed.

“Well, I hate him.” She finally offered.

“I know you do.” I soothed. “I would too if I were you. But it’s OK. I understand what happened – at least as much as I ever will. I’d rather believe he’s a guy who made bad choices than accept that I made a truly terrible mistake. That the man I thought I’d love forever was truly and completely cruel. So we emailed and I forgave him and we’re moving on.”

“You still talk?!”

“No.” I quickly responded. “Not anymore. Not at all. He doesn’t read my blog and I don’t read his. No email. I don’t even know his phone number, nor would I use it if I did. It’s done, but it didn’t end as badly as it could have.”

“I wish you hadn’t forgiven him. He didn’t deserve that. He should always think of you and feel guilty and bad. Why do you have to worry about people so much? Be so nice and try to make everything better? It should only be better for you!”

“It felt right to forgive him.” I said softly. “Like something I’d want to believe I could do. And who does deserve it?”

“The chance to be happy? Lots of people! Not him. But other people!” And I laughed at her passionate response. It actually helps me when other people are dramatic – I tend to seek balance, so I tend to look for the bright side when other people are sad. Am more stable when talking to someone who is emotional. Feel sorry for myself when other people are incredibly happy.

“I don’t know. I was thinking more of forgiveness though. We all screw up – sin against God or each other. I trust that there is enough goodness out there to forgive my errors. That people will seek my heart and note the possibility of love and forgive the possibility of selfishness or cruelty. I prayed about it and felt good about wrapping things up on a more positive note.”

“You’re amazing.”

“No.” I shook my head and smiled. “Not even a little. Not at all. I don’t think I forgave him for him – I did it for me. I need forgiveness and want to know that I can offer it even when desperately hurt. I needed to find a good part of myself after that week. I wanted to do something God might like. I don’t want to be bitter or angry or plotting revenge. I want to let go.”

“And have you? Already?”

The truth? Since I’ve revealed so much already? I dream about him. My subconscious absorbs the scary feelings and in the moments where I’m able to rest, those thoughts are allowed some freedom. So when I wake, I curl into a ball, cuddle my pillow covered its silky case close, and force the dreams back. Trust that the neurochemicals will make me forget as I’m supposed to do. I’m not ready, I insist. I can’t hurt anymore. It’s too much, too hard. I don’t want to go back to the bathroom floor, lose sight of myself, drown in misery again.

I’ve spent much of today in tears. Somehow talking to a friend – telling the story and facing how I’m doing – has brought those thoughts to the surface. And they refuse to fade without some acknowledgment.

It’s mostly words, I think. I dream of text – in the Gmail font. Little lines of letters spanning my vision. I read them eagerly – trying to take it all in quickly, before I can remember that none of it is real. I want the feelings, the hope. But I don’t want the inevitable hurt – the lies. I forgave him, I lecture sternly. I’m not angry! I understand! It just happened. Stop reading. Just turn away from the words. But I’m compelled to read them – confused as to what’s real and what I'll naively insist upon believing. But I can’t remember the content when I’m awake – what I learned, what I decided. Just the feelings - the generosity of love, the sparkling hope, the dreadful shame that I wanted to believe something that wasn't true.

Apparently that was far too subtle though. So my subconscious stopped screwing around.

So the night before last, I dreamed that I was home – in my parents’ house. They weren’t there, nor was Brother. There was a dog – though I can’t remember if it was our family pet or little Chienne. But I looked around, smiling over the old portraits of Brother and me that hang in the hallway. Dusting the trivets that hang in the kitchen – they came from Grandma’s house. I’ve always loved them – heavy, black twists of metal that somehow manage to look elegant and beautiful. So I was thinking about how pretty the house was – how the past integrates so effortlessly into the present. How it was a shame that I was all alone – that nobody was around to hear me tell the stories of where items came from. That my parents used the same microwave since they got married nearly 40 years ago. Preen over a picture of the Little One – she looks like us, you see, and we think she’s rather exquisite.

I smiled when there was a knock at the door. I had just been hoping someone would come. So I walked easily through the living room toward the door, feeling a vague sense of unease, but pushing it aside to welcome the visitor. I don’t remember who it was – time skipped ahead and I found myself standing in the dining room, behind the half-wall that separates it from the living room. There were too many people, I decided. Men. Too many men. They were making too much noise, taking up too much space. And they didn’t want to hear my stories – they weren’t paying attention to me at all. Just sitting on the furniture without removing their shoes. Looking for food in the kitchen without asking permission.

One of them came over to me, raised his eyebrows and stared. I stood silently. Nervous. Upset. And completely quiet. The man smiled and turned to another woman. I hadn’t noticed them come in, but there were a few other females standing in corners. They looked moderately fearful – some beautiful, some average. But none of them spoke. So I decided that it was OK to be quiet. Perhaps my instinct to allow whatever the men wanted was appropriate.

Eventually, the women – myself included – were led to bedrooms. Mine resembled the one I have in my house. A large suite, though the closet was located in a corner of the bedroom rather than off the bathroom as it is in reality. I was alone in the room without windows, though sunlight came in through the open door to the bathroom. There must be a window in there, I decided. My feeling was that the bedroom was located near the center of the house, and I closed my eyes, trying to hear what was happening outside.

I was worried about the other women. I didn’t want them to be hurt or scared or upset. I took several quick steps toward the door, but stopped. Too fearful to move any closer to the entrance to my rooms – I was temporarily safe and I didn’t want to compromise that. Wasn’t sure how I would help the other women even if I found them in need. And maybe they were OK, I tried to comfort myself. Perhaps they didn’t mind being told what to do. It was likely easier than fighting.

I stood there, staring at the door, for a long time. I remember thinking I should lock it – make some effort at keeping people out. I decided it wouldn’t stop the men – locking the door – and would probably only irritate them. I didn’t want to provoke their anger, so I pressed my fingertips to my lips and stood frozen with indecision.

Then I turned, walked toward the bed, lay down and tried to sleep. To escape the consciousness of this strange, fearful reality. And I did rest for a while, I think. A couple of hours, perhaps.

When I realized I was awake (though still dreaming), I didn’t think anyone had been in the room with me while I rested. They’d forgotten I was there, I decided, unsure if I was insulted or relieved. Maybe it was good to escape their attention. Because I wasn’t very pretty. Or capable. Strong. Smart. Adequate. But that was OK – perhaps being of below-average desirability would keep me safe.

Feeling secure, I decided I wanted to change clothes. It seemed like a bad idea – removing the cotton garments I had on to exchange them for different ones – but perhaps I was too cold or vulnerable in my current outfit. For whatever reason, and though I was nervous, I decided to walk to the clothing in the corner of the room. I took off my pants first, deciding that my t-shirt would be covering enough should someone decide to enter. But I removed that as well, and that weird dream thing happened – when I know I should be moving quickly, making decisions, avoiding danger, but time slows and I’m frozen in place. Unable to choose new clothes with which to cover myself, though I very much did not want to be naked.

I turned to see the door opening, and grasped for a shirt. I dropped to the floor, sitting and pulling my limbs close – my body curling into a ball as I tried to cover myself with my arms and the small bit of fabric. I looked pitifully up at the man who entered – feeling at once repulsed and attracted.

He was relatively nondescript. Thick hair – reddish brown – and a full, but well-trimmed beard. Not overly tall, facial features that were average. A button down shirt. He didn’t look at all sadistic, and not all that powerful. But given that he was standing – dressed and confident – and I was cowering – naked and confused – the dominance was unmistakable. He looked at me, his expression more blank than anything.

I looked toward the open door, afraid that someone would look in and see me. They’d think I was trying to entice this man – that I wanted him to want me. Wait. Did I?

He noticed my discomfort immediately and closed the door behind him. To protect me? Or to have privacy to damage me to a greater degree? I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and continued to stare at him.

“Are you changing clothes?” He finally asked, then shrugged when I didn’t respond. Just blinked up at him, wondering what his plans were for me. “You can get dressed. If you want.”

I reached for a large shirt, trying to cover my body with one arm and my drawn up legs. I looked away from him briefly, considering pulling it over my head but not wanting to expose myself completely in order to don the protective cotton fabric. I looked up at him again, wanting him to turn around, but unable to ask.

“Go ahead. You don’t have that much time.” He said lightly. He didn’t come closer – was standing about 10 feet away. He just watched me, no strong feelings in evidence. Mildly curious - that’s how I’d describe him. So I scolded myself for sitting there, nude, and quickly struggled into the shirt. Covered, I felt slightly better. So I stood, letting the shirt cover my thighs, and met his gaze again.

“There are rules.” He said, and I remember thinking that it was my house. Why was he able to make the rules? I should get help – call someone for help. Or ask them to leave – I’d never done that. I should tell him to go. Then at least I would have tried – said I didn’t want this. Been clear about my feelings and desires. I was scared. I didn’t want him there. But I still didn’t speak and realized I’d missed his recitation of the rules as I internally debated.

“You get 2 hours each day for sleeping.” He finished. “But I assume you were in here napping?” I nodded. “So that’s over. You’ll need to come out of this room now.”

I backed away, toward the bathroom. I didn’t want to leave my room. What if it was worse in the rest of the house? What if there were men worse than this one? What if the other women were being hurt? I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to know – just wanted to be alone and safe in my room. To try to sleep again and hope that they were gone when I woke up.

“I’ll give you a couple minutes to get ready.” He sighed, and looked back at me as I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up and closing my eyes. I peeked at him through a squint and saw his face pull into a frown. He felt badly for me – that I understood. He appreciated my fear and confusion – I somehow felt he knew me better than I knew myself. He considered, in that moment before he opened the door again, letting me go. Coming back, offering his hand, lending me his strength and power, and setting me free. He knew I wouldn’t do it myself and the desire to protect someone weaker than himself was present.

In that moment, I hoped. I desperately wanted his help – I regretted that he was torn, but he wasn’t a bad person. In that moment, he wanted to be kind. Then, as though I was in his head – seeing his thoughts – he considered what I could do for him. Work, provide financially, clean, provide sex and perhaps children. Give emotional support if I ever decided to speak, or at least the illusion of power if I continued to cower in his presence. The sex I could see most vividly – He would enter the room at night and join me as I tried to sleep. There would be pleasure, I decided, but not love. And was it rape if I never said no? If I never said anything at all?

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, deciding to take me later rather than help me now. And as I began to emerge from the dream - still half-asleep, I urged dream Katie to get help if she was afraid. Call someone – the phone was right beside the bed! Open the window in the bathroom – it wasn’t locked! Finish getting dressed, exit the room, and demand these men leave! Help yourself, I urged as I watched her try to sleep – wanting her to escape from this situation she had done nothing to prevent. Had she encouraged it? I couldn’t remember as I opened my eyes and looked around the room, rolled toward the edge of the bed, stood up and slipped into my pink robe.

I know this is hardly good – I’m obviously very afraid and confused and lacking any real trust. Does it mean the forgiveness I prayed over then offered isn’t valid? I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m not angry at him and I’m grateful for that.

Perhaps my forgiveness shouldn’t stop with him though. I might need to offer myself the same gift – pray for me, tell myself it was OK to love someone, to encourage bad behavior, to hide the truth from him – and perhaps even myself – until the situation had disintegrated to a point where I finally was honest on my blog. I’m terrified that I accepted feeling inadequate and sad for so long. That I opened the door. I think I’m angry at myself – bitterly angry that I screwed up so badly. If I’ve damaged my ability to trust men who might be interested in me, I did so willingly.

And my thought – even now – is that had I not pulled myself from the dream and out of bed, I would have let that man in my bedroom have anything he wanted. Would have followed the rules I hadn’t heard but would later learn, would have offered him everything that I was and had. That’s a bad realization for me. One that leaves me feeling scared, confused, ashamed and terribly vulnerable.

So, am I over it? Completely OK?

Not so much. But I think I eventually will be. But for now, I’ve simply pushed it into my subconscious. Where it escapes in disturbing dreams.

Stupid Transitional Relationships

If you want to irritate me, mention transitional relationships. I’ve had multiple discussions with several people and there are varied opinions. So the hatred toward the concept is not mine alone. But you’ll notice I said I don’t like the idea, not that I don’t believe in it.

The premise, basically, is as follows: Let’s say there’s a woman – we’ll call her Emily. Now we like Emily, though she is hypothetical. She’s smart, funny, very sweet and completely in love with her husband. As time passes, the relationship changes. Perhaps she grows a little bored. Maybe he’s not very attentive. They might fight more than either of them expected. For many reasons, many of which have nothing to do with him, she’s unhappy. So she ends the relationship – whether by cheating and having him discover her betrayal, suggesting a separation that eases into divorce, becoming impossible to live with so that he leaves her – and her husband (um, let’s say his name is Joe) is devastated. He didn’t expect his marriage to fail and it throws his entire worldview into chaos.

I’m interested in the more innocent of the two parties, though it’s a gross oversimplification of the situation, I’m sure. So we’ll focus on poor Joe because he’s hurt and alone and struggling to escape his depression over this miserable turn of events. Maybe Joe spends some time on the bathroom floor. Goes to therapy to try to understand where he went wrong. Wants badly to avoid future pain of this sort. Is trying to move on.

Transitional relationships enter the picture here. The theory I’ve heard is that it’s necessary to find a person who is by definition temporary. Someone who will nurse Joe back to relationship-y health – make him feel sexy, confident, strong and very loved. Joe would treat this person badly – though likely not right away – as he works through his anger and confusion over his own hurt feelings. He’ll know on some level that this new person doesn’t deserve anything negative – she only wants to love and help him – but he’ll be unable to help himself. He’ll use her, hurt her, then have to move on with deep regret because he’s not a bad guy. He’s just having a bad time.

Proponents of this theory indicate it is vital once hurt feelings reach a certain threshold. When marriages dissolve, for example. If a breakup is particularly devastating for one of the participants. The pain has to go somewhere, so it will go to the transitional relationship. Or so it was explained to me.

“... I understand that when you speak of transitional relationships, you see them as something beautiful and real and lovely. I don't. I can't." I wrote to my friend. "I think it's selfish and awful and repugnant. I also understand that my thinking is painful to you and that bothers me. But this is going to be one of these points where I can't understand you and you can't understand me. Because I do, quite honestly and meaning absolutely no offense, see it as using someone to heal yourself. And that's something that I can't accept.”

I made her cry, I think. She was sad that I saw love as such a limiting experience, and didn’t appreciate that helping someone heal was a valid use of time and resources. And there were examples – oh, the anecdotal evidence that backed up this theory from any number of different people.

There was the couple who got married after Janet left Steve. Steve quickly met and married Mandy and they were quite happy for eight years, though he continued to confess his feelings for Janet to close friends. Janet got married at some point, and Steve and Mandy attended the ceremony. Steve abruptly divorced Mandy mere months later – he realized she wasn’t right for him if he retained such feeling for Janet. Mandy was miserably depressed. Steve quickly found someone else, married and is blissfully happy.

Rachel had an intense crush on Matt. He was seriously dating another girl, but encouraged Rachel’s attention to the point where they were quite serious as well. Rachel – aware of his girlfriend - was certain he’d leave said girlfriend in due time. He didn’t. Rachel – after clinging to email contact for months after graduation – met up with an old friend. He moved in within weeks, they married very quietly about a year later. She has contemplated not only divorce, but affairs. She’s just not happy with him.

Carrie and Aiden. Ross and Emily. Felicity and Noel. TV doesn’t lie, people.

“Eventually,” my friend advised, “transitional relationships fall apart. It’s just how they work. And if you're not careful, you will get hurt.”

I continue to reject the idea that this transition is necessary though. I prefer to think of them as a miserable option in the healing process. One that must be recognized and avoided, at least for me. I have no desire to pass the hurt around – send someone reeling from the knowledge that I didn’t care about him very much after all. I was just using him to work my way past pain that someone else had caused.

Why bring it up, especially when I abhor the very topic?

There’s a guy.

The eHarmony plan was put into play before things went terribly wrong here recently. I was in contact with a few different men, but it was mostly stilted and awkward – unimpressive. This could have been why I continued to cling to Peter. He was so good at the email – so easy and confident and right. I felt smart, funny and sexy when responding to him (well, sometimes. Others I felt needy and pathetic and miserable.) and I missed that.

Then there was Neil. Neil is quite cute, actually. My age, professional degree. Recently moved to the area. His profile was adorable – I smiled involuntarily several times after he initiated communication with me. We moved quickly through guided communication, then started to send email. But he scared me – I liked him much more than anyone else and knew – even a month ago – that I wasn’t in a place to start something. I was too confused and hurt and sad. This was just supposed to be a mild distraction.

So I sent an email in our first open communication. Said that he was very cute and I appreciated his interest, but his little short answer about flirting while dancing? Being dressed up and out at a club and moving together and knowing that things clicked? Ah, no. I don’t do that. I don’t even dance at weddings. So the mental picture of me, dressed up, in a dark, loud club, moving with some guy? Even a handsome one? I giggle. It’s just not me. I’m more the stay at home type, I explained. I like small groups, quiet rooms, coffee and conversation. Cooking dinner and cleaning the kitchen together. Reading books while snuggled under a blanket. So I wished him luck, predicted he’d find someone very quickly and prayed I’d start to move on eventually. Because the guy I wanted to do all those things with was not interested in playing his part.

But Neil wrote back – started with a “Dearest Katie” and ended with a “I really look forward to talking with you soon. Please don’t disappoint me.” And threw a bunch of text in the middle. Charming words about how he tended to make people feel comfortable – he thought he could get me to dance at some point, even if it was in the kitchen as we cleaned up after dinner. Talked about how he loved coffee, books, conversation, cuddling under blankets. People are multi-faceted and he hoped I wouldn’t judge him too harshly for liking to dance.

I allowed myself the flutter – I missed the tingle in my stomach so very much. So I wrote back, flirted shamelessly, and waited to hear back. I didn’t – not for over a week, I think. Then, well, stuff happened. Bad stuff. And I didn’t really think about Neil anymore.

My eHarmony membership runs out tomorrow. So today I checked one of my email accounts with the absolute expectation that someone would want my attention from the dating site. Because that’s how things like this work – I’m ready to get my hair cut, so it looks adorable every single day from the second I make the appointment. I want to quit online dating? I hear from the only guy who captured much of my attention.

“Neil…” I sighed as I clicked over to see what he said. “What are you doing to me?”

“Sorry for my delayed response.” He wrote. “[Insert grown-up excuse.]” And I was hooked. There’s something about confident men who are vaguely apologetic yet fully expect that they’re special enough that you’ll forgive them any lapse in polite behavior. He was busy with professional stuff. That’s fine – I was quite occupied with being crazy. I read his short note - he apologized for the lack of charm in the email, and promised to make it up to me. I smiled, shook my head and went for a walk. And found myself – not unusually – composing email in my head as I tugged Chienne around the neighborhood.

I came back, responded to some of his other topics, then wrote as honestly as I could manage without looking overly weird.

Do you mind if I ask you something? Or maybe I just want to talk through something. Does dating ever make you tired? It's just... not miserable - I find it entertaining and funny for the most part, and it's kind of a rush to go through the nervous/exciting parts. And being serious with someone - from what I remember - is really nice. But there's so much stilted awkwardness with some men. And I try to guess at motives and what men are looking for - I even wonder what I'm trying to gain here sometimes. I read emails that are misspelled and lack capital letters (not sexy). Or go on dates where I listen to monologues or try to figure out what the hell D&D means or look at someone who's bright and charming but realize he's not all that attracted to me. In all honesty, my average is about 50/40/10 (I don't like him/he doesn't like me/there's mutual like or dislike). Which isn't the greatest average, right? So going out with friends or visiting my cousin and her family for dinner or having a glass of wine and writing Matlab code for work starts to sound more appealing than answering short answer questions and reading personality profiles.

The point of the whining is that my month of eHarmony is up - tomorrow, I think. And - sporadic email from cute, charming men notwithstanding, of course - the thought of another month makes me sigh. Not a good sign, right? As tempting as it is to find out how you'd make it up to me (though the charm still comes through, my dear. You're good at what you do.), I think I'm sticking with my plan to not renew at the moment. Which means I think you'll have to contain your extreme disappointment at not getting to know me better. Sad day for you, I'm sure. :)

I'm not sure if I'm glad you replied to my reply or not, Neil. It was good to hear from you, but I had to go through my 'look for someone else and good luck with that' speech again. I really am tired though - with manuscript revisions needing to be submitted and upcoming travel for work and my parents are arriving late this week to stay for 7 days or so (they watch my dog when I'm out of town) - I find myself looking away from my pile of paperwork and toward my couch, longing for a quick nap. So, again, congratulations. I'm happy for you. And I very much hope you don't get tired yourself before finding someone wonderful.

Katie

[The links were added for you guys. I did not direct the poor guy to my blog.]

And a couple hours later, I got his reply. He empathized with my exhaustion and frustration. But he was intrigued with me, very much wished he could get to know me better. So perhaps if I made it through my mountain of paperwork and back to my keyboard, I’d consider sending him email at his personal account. If not, he’d understand. He’d very much enjoyed reading my email and “getting a glimpse of this mystery woman I might never meet.”

Is he – in a typical, male move with which I’m very familiar – just chasing because I keep backing away? Is it wrong to flutter over him a little? Send email from my personal account and offer up my name?

It just feels so good – so validating – to have someone interested in me. Even in a very casual way. He seems good – charming and sweet. And I would very much like for someone like that to genuinely like me. Even if we never make it out of email. Just to soothe my poor heart. Give my mind another man to think about when I need a break from work. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I could think about Neil – a possibility – rather than squeezing my eyes closed because thinking about love – or the lack thereof – aches.

After all, I would never have a transitional relationship for my own benefit, right? Because that would just be wrong. Very, very tempting. But wrong.

Right?