The Last Day of September

Maybe all events referenced are fiction.

*****

Now instead of writing part II of a certain epic, I'm writing this. Maybe the other will come to be written, tho' I kind of doubt it. And maybe I have to write this now, before my perspective changes. Then if the lie comes again to stretch across my vision like a cloudy veil, I can read this, and remember when I could see clearly. Or, then again, maybe this is the illusion.

Or maybe none of this matters, because nothing is real. I was always trying to read between the lines, to tell myself that no matter what words came out of your mouth, somehow, I mattered to you.

Something about the culmination of that conversation, the last day in September, did it. Exquisite pain beyond pain. You, a narcissist with a surgeons knife; me, being carved out. I put it together; all the things you've ever said that could have( should have) hurt me, that I did so well at ignoring, all came together, in order, and I knew what you really think of me, how you really see me, what you "feel".

A conversation that went from "I just want to fuck that, imagine fucking that." to "I don't care if you live or die, never have, never will" to "you tried to kiss me and it was repulsive." That, after everything I did. That.

And I thought back to how, that whole day was somehow different from the other times, forced, darker. How I couldn't even get close to making you cum without you having to look at pictures of me from 6 years ago, when I was 15 lbs heavier, and never been pregnant. When I was different. How the person right in front of you held no attraction, couldn't stir your desire after all. All I could feel was pain and anger and anger and pain. (And thank goodness you don't have to look at this "repulsive" person anymore do you? or ever touch her again?)

I don't like the word, but there's no point in vocabulary games now. I loved you, once, in so many ways, I did. It was a beautiful thing, I thought at the time, to care so much about another human, about how he feels, his well being. To admire another human creature so much. I didn't know why, I didn't care why. I just loved you, and you knew it. You never asked for that, didn't even want it. So I blame myself. But you knew it, and you used it, didn't you? You, maybe me too - we - used that connection to try to satisfy some primal urge that had nothing to really do with either one of us. Did it?

You never lied I guess, never professed what wasn't there. Well, maybe once, one conversation, you said the words "I care about you. I care about what happens to you." But that must've been false or else it just managed to change. Other than that, you told me it wasn't love, it wasn't even "normal lust" because I wasn't attractive to you. (You blind man! Even strangers, who don't know the mind, have adored my body. But I guess a person can't help their taste.)

You made sure you told me how ugly my body was to you, how your "type" was a fat, brown girl, and me, I'm tall and fair and fit, with long legs. You said it wasn't "the vessel" that had the capacity to arouse you, but the ideas, the things I'd put on, some of the functions of my anatomy. At first, I didn't care, rather liked the idea of being able to arouse you in spite of myself. But over time, being female, who, as part of our curse, will tend to have body image issues at some point, and find ourselves wanting to be valued externally, well, it made me a little sad, made me second guess my lovely self and wish I could naturally be what you liked, inside and out. Even tho' the body type you described isn't one I've ever thought I'd ever want or be happy in. Even tho', yes, not to brag, but I do tend to attract positive attention from lots of people, just the way I am. Even tho my husband likes what he sees. And a new-found confidence in this physical self, something that had finally blossomed fully over the past couple of years, began to fade, just a little. And I'd see an average, fat, tan girl, and think "wow, I bet she could turn him on without even trying, and me, I have to try, and try, and try so hard." (not that I didn't enjoy the effort, but that's not the point, is it?) Acceptance of my birth-altered body, the enjoyment of just being me, of total confidence in my sexuality, was subtly threatened, because I let your opinion matter so much. Even when everything works so well, even when my body was taking me to new heights, I kept wondering, was I good enough? I would never be enough for you, not really. Even when you'd indicate that, say "it took you 40 years to find someone who would live out your fantasies" you'd soon follow that with something indicating my lack in some area. And all along I was telling myself how absurd it was for me to care about whether you liked my body or not. That what we "had" was beyond such trivialities.

Once, you said, you'd noticed my face in a picture, and you thought it was beautiful, by some standards, But the irony is that you lack facial recognition, so what good would that do? to have a face people tell me is pretty? when you can't even recognize a pretty face?

And at the close of september, that day when I had begun to shut down, knowing the end that was coming, and I kept putting out- letting my body take my mind back into the want, the need, even after my mind had begun to implode -I doubted everything then, my body my mind, you, everything. And I forced and I pushed through the anger, through the sense of loss, to try for one more round of pleasure for us both, to try to attain what my soul was screaming against in order to avoid following pain. I'm amazed I could climax at all, but I did. Again, and again. Rage and pleasure.

Then at the end of that day, in that final conversation, the explosive realization: that was when I finally grasped how you really see me, the level of not-just-not-love, but outright disdain, resentment, disgust. When I comprehended those words indicating that, as an entire person, as a whole, I repulse you; that me in your life in the sexual and even psychologically close way, was merely a figment of mental illness; that the only reason you'd ever invested more than those initial few humorous conversations of intellectual nature, was a matter of drive and fear. Not companionship, not affection, barely amusement, not even a hint of real attraction. Nothing but fear kept you in my life. Wow. At first, I felt so devalued, so useless, so trampled, used, deceived. But then, I told myself "I'm more than this, stronger, desirable to someone" and what occurred to me over the next couple of days, was that surely, somewhere, I could've found someone who appreciates the whole package, the creativity AND the vessel. And then I thought, maybe I already have that.

Even if the husband doesn't quite match my appetites, he thinks I'm delicious, beautiful, loves my body, mind, spirit. He loves to satisfy this body, willing to try so many things. And I was risking that, a man who loves me, who I am inside and out, for, apparently, a delusion with someone who, apparently, perhaps never really saw anything more than his own ideas. I recognized that you don't "make" me sexy, remembered how I was just as "sexy" before you, and would be just sexy as after you, no matter what I decide to do with all this ripened sexuality, whether to cage it and direct it, surrender it, or let it roar. And why you took the risk to your own domestic bliss to have me in your life, I'm not sure. You would say it was drive, fear, you couldn't help it. I did realize you covered your tracks well, so if anything came forth, you could try put the blame on me.

Maybe it's my fault - all the suffering, the being crushed - my fault for ending up wanting to be just a tiny bit more to you than a distraction, than a few moments of amusement. But how could I not end up there, after investing so much?

But maybe, just maybe, it's not really all my fault. Maybe no other person in the world, especially a woman, would have tolerated and been willing to overlook all the things said to me, things that would have devastated a weaker mind than mine. Maybe it's my own degree of insanity that enabled me to stick around, to be cut again, and again. I did it, simply to be able to maintain what was, I guess, the illusion and the intermittent pleasure of feeling close to you.

Maybe you would say I used you, used your addictions, to find a new unexplored outlet for my own out-of-control urges. And who am I to say there's no truth to that? I wan't aware of it, but who knows?

Even now, the problem is, I could so easily slip back. The right words, looking at a picture, even of just your face, remembering certain moments we shared, something small, could feed the longing between my legs that won't go away, all the way, the urges that hit me out of the blue... and the missing you. And I think "he could fix this right now: he could tell me my perspective is wrong, that I've been demonizing in order to survive his absence, and the "end of an era", that I have to remember how he can think, feel, and say opposing things all at the same time, remember that by giving him the freedom to let all thoughts flow out of his mind to his words, I have to continue to be wiling to let it all run off like water on oil, that what we have in a mental connection is bigger, special, and worth fighting to keep"

I think about how recently I saw and "stole" a picture of someone on a plane, and read texts on someone else's phone and wondered if they were meant for me...

But then, I remember that last day, that last conversation, and how so many things you've ever said seemed to come together to open my eyes. How I could feel the rubber band in me stretching tighter and tighter, knew that I was going to snap, and tried to get away to break down alone, but instead stayed on the phone. And how wretched it left me. And all I feel is empty, sick, sad.

I want to be able to help you the way you asked, help you have the freedom from... your bondage. I'm still here. Even after these three days of feeling intense pain, and something akin to hate, of sobbing uncontrollably for hours, of being so close to telling someone everything because they wonder what's wrong, and then pulling through without doing that, and instead carrying my own heavy pain inside, of shutting down my mind almost completely, of determining whether I have any value anymore and whether I deserve to take another breath and if there's a way to escape... Even after all that, even now, when my mind has never before felt so close to shattering, when the only real thing I can even try cling to get through this darkness is God, even now, when I try so hard to feel nothing, I still care. I still want to see you happy. I still want to feel "it" again, even if it was all a lie from you all along. Even tho' I don't want to want to. Part of me wants to go back to where we were before "all that", part of me wants to go back to where we were during. Part of me only wants to be gone away. And I remind myself, again, of the pain on the last day of September.

I am stronger than you know. You ought to be grateful for that; certain aspects of your life might be in danger otherwise. It's hard for me to accept how I was so willing to put everything that's ever seemed to matter to me at risk, just for the idea of a few hours with you, someone who I guess I realize now, could never really appreciate me, no matter how I tried to tell myself you did. It's hard for me to accept the looming fact that I'd probably do it all again, that it was amazing in that fantasy world.

So, yes, don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't enjoy it. You could tell, I could hardly get enough. If I could've kept the personal out of it, then it might've been alright in the end. Then again, there was some personal from the beginning, on my side that is. I was aware and basically accepting of the imbalance there, the dichotomy. Personal for me, impersonal for you. I thought I could regulate how involved I became, could make things be on a strictly physical and mental, non-emotional plane. But then, occasionally, I picked up on vibes from your direction that seemed to indicate something personal coming from there. And that fed a sense (false, right?) of intimacy. How messy, how mixed up it all is. I really would've done, or at least tried to do, anything, anything for you. But you played the cards to drive me away so well, the slicing. The way you would come across as "feeling something" (oh never, God forbid!) then verbally refute any such possibility.

And of course I can't dismiss the aspect of the how wonderful it was just to be allowed to touch you, to make you feel pleasure, even if for a few moments, to be touched by you, to have my knees go weak, my heart pounding, that fire stirring from just a look, a brief moment of contact, a powerful story. Yes, it's all confused in my head... What I felt and thought then, what I feel and think now. What I'll feel and think later on. I'm not sure what was real, and what wasn't, and for a long time that didn't matter. Any attention was enough. But gradually, whether anything was real or not, started to matter. If this was all about my being used and controlled, or about my being appreciated started to matter. The reason why started to matter. And the messages from you were always so mixed. Sometimes I thought I could understand. But then, completely uncertain again.

I'm pretty sure if you ever read this, you'd just say: I'm crazy, I'm overreacting, I'm too easily offended, I'm stupid. And who knows? I might upload it, then wish I could remove it right away. But I figured after all, I might just have earned the right to say what's in my head right now. It might make you angry, maybe I could say I don't care. But maybe that would be a lie.

I haven't said everything because, you know, some of what's in my head is downright cruel at the moment. And if there's any chance of preserving a connection of some platonic kind, then part of me still wants that.

But right now, it's like I feel like I've been broken all the way down, and just getting through one more day is what matters.

(And even so, as I go to submit this with the chance you'll find it, memories sweep across my mind, sweet, faintly bitter. Still almost beautiful; but, oh, ouch. how much it hurts.)