More bleakness

Rewind to : February 1994

Is there anything you would like from my house? he asks.
For an infinitesimal amount of time, before the question strikes me as odd, I can feel my mind rush onto the greedy path, ready to covet and request; then it hesitates, and halts.

Reason takes over, and says, now is not the time to be greedy, the question is decidedly odd; why does the ex boyfriend call me up late at night from another country to ask me if there is anything I would like from his house?

“I just wondered” he replies. “Don’t ask; just tell me if there is something you would like to have.”

Again the ugliness steps forward, tentatively; something, some object can be had, something can be mine.

Still, I question him. I’m starting to see the shape of the answer; and when it comes it’s not a surprise, still I turn simultaneously hot and cold.
“I’m leaving. There is nothing for me here”, he says, and the words get caught in his throat, then a blank.

Why is my reaction a wave of pure, searing anger?
“How can you do this to me?” I hear myself yell. I hate him for what he is about to do, for telling me about it, for wanting me to have something of his, a memento of his, after he’s dead. I hate him for wanting me to cry over him. And I despise him, the weak, the unresolved, the undetermined, for wanting to die when life is so good and promising, isn’t life good and promising? It is for me. Why can’t he be more like me? I am hard, and tough, and full of resolve; I am a fighter with a sense of humour. You’ll survive anything, with a sense of humour. Why can’t he do like me and stop being such a crybaby? I am, I have. How can he do that to me?

Eventually the wave subsides and I try to get words through his sobs. An hour, two hours, three, four. I can’t let him get off the phone. I don’t know what arguments I use, perhaps my words are not arguments. In the end, I feel that I have won a battle. I’m so strong, such a great person. I’m the valorous rescuer.

[the recovery mission goes like this: since it is before the advent of cell phones, I scribble his parents’ phone number on a piece of paper and send my mother to the phone box. In halting English she sums up the emergency. They’re there within ten minutes; the rope is cut off the wooden beam in his living room. I hang up. I don’t cry. I apologize to my mother for getting her up in the middle of the night.]

It’s been ten years and I have learned. I have learned to not despise and belittle. I have learned of my own foolishness, and incredible vanity. I have learned that I am not tough and determined, not tough at all. Sometimes I too start to wonder what things of mine my friends would like to own; luckily, I have also learned to only call someone who is able to help, not someone who covets and yells, gets angry and self-righteous, and thinks of her/his own comfort first.

Shortly after that night, he burned his bridges with me. I would have done.

People of blogland, I am sorry this blog is becoming so bleak; probably the most depressing thing on the blogosphere. (Although, I can spell and I won’t use cute little lol-like acronyms; so maybe not the most depressing thing.) But this is the way it is. It’s my catharsis. Better than yell at people, shoot pigeons or kick children on public transportation. I don’t know if it gets worse before it gets better. Well, I know it gets worse, but some days I’m not so sure it can get better. When I know for sure I’ll let you know, or pick a tall bridge. In the meantime, please only visit if you’re not tough and if you don’t despise. Alternatively, ignore the cathartic posts and only read stuff about my trips to the supermarket. Next time, I’ll explain how much cocoa there needs to be in milk chocolate to be worth buying. Good night. Love all 12 of you.