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Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for Godot, or I’m in Sartre’s Hell (l’enfer c’est les autres- hell is other people).
I’m afraid to leave and miss out on something, and I’m afraid to stay and miss out on myself.
Sometimes all I want is a clean, sad, thanks for the memories goodbye.
Or cut it out like appendicitis, a once benign yet mostly useless organ that has become inflamed, ardor gone wrong.
I hate waiting for the phone to ring. I hate waiting for most things.
And sometimes I don’t know if it’s my heart speaking that says hold on and my mind saying to walk away or the situation is reversed, or if it even matters.
The fact is, I guess I never really trusted him. To be honest. I guess that’s why it always seemed like such a big deal when a call wasn’t promptly returned or a text seemed to be ignored. But there was a time he took the time to assuage my fears and set things right, and now that time was long ago.
I want to tear the photograph of us down, put the pictures in a file for old memories and not current friends, current hopes, current concerns and fears.
I don’t know why I hoped for more, to stay in contact.
Some part of me says he was never that great anyway (not even in bed).
He was just the first nice guy I’d been involved with in a long time.
He didn’t even sound happy I was coming back to France. But then, he didn’t even sound sad when I was leaving.
I think he might have been.
I don’t want anythingmore to do with him, but I don’t want to pull the plug. Why’d he have to go and become a family friend. Why’d he have to make the wall of pictures.
Especially when it’s so far from a given that we will stand like that again, that we are not even obliged to see each other again.
So many times I’ve wanted to just say, Adieu. That is, see ya never, have a nice life, see you when we meet God.
Just wanted a clear, thick, black line, a boundary, an ending.
Sometimes it seems like this has stretched on too long, just overblown fantasy and over sentimental nostalgia.
He’s not the one that got away, and he wouldn’t have been.
The truth is, the One doesn’t get away.
But that doesn’t mean it’s him.
Why is it so hard to return a phone call?
Why can’t he find five minutes for me?
Why can’t I just believe that he will call?

Being perfectly honest, since the very beginning, I just have had this profound inability to believe he actually could care about me. All I can see are the pimples, the whininess, the first world problems. The fact that I’m cerebral and intellectual and not down to earth and athletic like him. The fact that I’m American and he comes from a minority group of North Africa. How he’s nothing like what I wanted or expecte and I’m sure the same goes for me, unless of course he saw me as a meal ticket or visa.
I guess some of those fears are normal. I just didn’t plan for him and as much as I threw open the doors of my life to him, of my heart, of my mind, I just never figured out how or where I wanted him to fit in it. As history or eternal mystery, as present or future.
The fling that was something more, but not that much.
Ouch.
God, I am dark and bitter sometimes.
I can’t ignore the fact that I have been so down and gained so much weight and not felt like myself. Even when we were dating, the process was there. I did gain weight and I was so stressed about not knowing where I stood with him. It just killed me, much as I loved the breezy, organic nature of it. I was attracted to him because he seemed mysterious, because he had an expiration date, and because he was really interested in me. But I wasn’t sure to what extent it was sincere.
But there are those comfortable, don’t want to hang up silences on the phone.

I think a big part of what’s fed into this mania is my own ambivalence and feelings of guilt for initially thinking it would never be more than a hook up due to my own closed-mindedness. Or at least the closedmindedness I thought I was supposed to feel, the ideal man who is basically me, an open minded white American like the cheese same religion same upbringing same same since that’s supposed to be a key to a lasting relationship and doesn’t everybody want to be understood? Similar values. And then I just decided to get over that similar background thing and realize it’s about wanting a similar future and understanding each other.
I don’t love New York and he hates Paris. He loves New York and I love Paris. I could have been in New York a lot more easily than Paris but I moved heaven and earth to get to Paris.
I don’t think that’s what it’s all about though.
I just don’t know him that well, sometimes.

And the truth is, this is not the first time I’ve felt like I am the giver in the relationship, the person who always makes a point of it to call or text or email if it’s gone too long. I am the one who spills my guts shares my feelings and tries to be accommodating. I’m always the saint the martyr, but not really. Tha’ts the easiest yarn to spin though.

The kicker is I just want to KNOW. toNO. To put it in a box, a category, and be done with it. Beit boyfriend or has been. Staying open is SO HARD and so painful sometimes.

I’ll be abck in Paris in less than a month, so this is all a little premature. But someties Ijust want it either in or out, black and white, rung in or rung outwith the New Year.
This is why it’s been a while since I’ve fallen in love, and why I’ve never been in an adult relationship, because I’ve been too busy finding myself, subdividing the boxes I put people in, and most importantly, waiting for Mr. Perfect (without even knowing what that means beyond an end to all pain, disappointment, distrust, ill thought out gifts, and other less than fairytale aspects of a relationship, and someone who will please my parents too).

Ambivalence. How I choke on the very word, and choke down everything in sight when faced with it.
How I lose anything resembling insight because I don’t really believe the stories I tell myself, I know they are incomplete and my search for TRUTH just ends up being the voice inseide my head droning on and on and on to no avail.
I know my heart has answers, but I’m not sure if they are the ones my head wants to hear.

Back to waiting.
All I want to know is, when is the expiration date?

And when will I find the love that brings no more tears, the guy who will never make me cry or wonder or sweat or stamp my foot or raise my voice or not know what to say?
I know he doesn’t exist,
but what does that mean for the rest of them.

particularly that flesh and blood whose face I can’t even picture in my mind’s eye, whose impression has become blurred with time and shifting perspective and most of all, distrust of what I see and the eyes that are seeing it.

The only way out is through, it shouldn’t always feel like a battle field.
And by losing him, no I would not automatically release a lot of stress and weight- it doesn’t work like that till you’ve reached your limit.
All my friends kind of dislike him.
What do I think?
I don’t know.

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