I spend a good deal of my time people watching. I love it. I gather stories based on body language, the spaces between words the musical rhythm of speech and the flicker of eyelids. More can be said in a conversation by looking away at a key point, than can be expressed in a dearthy Shakespearean monologue.
I cannot read Matt.
When I arrived for pizza and a movie, I came with wine and a dozen eggs. Then as I settled in, he started reading what I’d written and I started to get uncomfortable – thinking, crap – I didn’t think he’d read it while I was there, this night could go either really good or really bad.
When he finished he said there wasn’t anything in there that he really disagreed with and that one point had hit the nail on the head exactly. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him.
When I got there he’d ordered a pizza, half pepperoni and half with my toppings: olives, mushrooms and pepperoni. I was astonished because, well, quite honestly so few on the men I have any sort of history or relationship in my life actually listen to what I like or dislike enough to remember, much less do anything about.
I’d only mentioned the pizza thing almost in passing, and when I stood there speechless over the pizza he looked at me and asked, “What? Do you have some sort of problem with people not listening to you?”
“Actually, yes.” I admitted.
But it turned out that the pizza topping I like are two of the three things that he refuses to eat. Mushrooms and olives. In fact it turns out that he hates them – which made it all the more endearing that he actually ordered it.
The evening was relaxing. I didn’t wear make-up or do my hair. I just wore jeans and a tank and my sandals. We snuggled on a floor of pillows watching ‘Disturbia’. After the movie and a game of scrabble we moved to the bedroom. He offered to have me crash for the night but I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to stay. I told him I’d think about it.
Still, I was having trouble reading him.
As we lay in bed later, talking in half mumbles he fell asleep and as I opened my mouth to say something, a snore echoed from where his head rested against my scalp.
I guess some things are ever present in my relations with men. I talk too much in bed and they fall asleep mid-conversation. Although I found it funny and even smiled about it, once he was clearly not conscious anymore, meaning there wasn’t a buffer of conversation between me and my thoughts, I started in a loop of panic born ideas of running away.
It was about 2:30 and although his solid weight against my body felt wonderful, I started going over in my mind how I could wriggle free without waking him up so I could go home. I didn’t think he’d actually miss me, but perhaps he’d be a little offended if I didn’t say goodbye. So I went back and forth until 3:30 or 4 when I realized by the time I got home it would be 5 am and I’d do better just to sleep.
It was a heavy sleep, and I woke once to have a conversation in chunks before I realized he was talking in his sleep and I just pulled him closer and he fell under again. When I realized I’d been staring at the ceiling for some time, the sun was well up and I have no idea how long I’d been awake.
He opened his eyes, took a moment to focus then mumbled in a sleepy half surprise – “You stayed!” He pulled my body tight against his and whispered, “Thanks for staying.”
Until that point, I honestly didn’t know if he’d have cared one way or another if I was still there in the morning. I honestly didn’t know I’d feel slightly relieved that he had a preference of whether or not I stuck around.
Either I’m that bad at reading him, or he’s just good at keeping it to himself.
After my second morning of too little sleep, and waking up the fun way and rolling around in the sack with morning breath and groggy jokes – we were in each others arms when he said, quite seriously.
“Okay, this is important. You really need to understand this one thing…”
I hadn’t heard his tone be so serious, so I propped myself up on an elbow and met his eyes. “Okay.” I said, hoping to convey that I would respect what he had to say that seemed so important.
He sighed, “The mushroom, olive and pepperoni pizza cannot stay in my house. You have to take it with you.”
I started laughing. “That’s it? That’s what’s so important?!”
“That’s pretty damn important! Mushrooms are disgusting. They cannot stay here.”
As I stood in the living room to leave he asked, “When do I get to see you again?”
“That depends on if you want to see me again.”
He cocked his head and said, “I think that’s sort of implied when I asked when I could see you again.”
I knew then – with a sickening lump of dread – I had found a catch point that it going to be a serious problem, not only for me, but for anyone who’s going to be in my sphere.
I’m insecure.
We all know I’m a chicken shit. We all know that I’m afraid of commitment because I don’t want to get trapped or held back or whatever. We all know that I giggle like an idiot when I’m around a cute boy. It’s not that kind of insecure. It’s not the dorky harmless kind of insecure.
It’s the kind of insecurity that stems – from what I can tell – a sudden reminder that no matter how much someone may enjoy my company, or want to be around me, or want to have me back… I will not believe them. Sitting in my cave I understood, I feel deeply unlovable. Easy to cast away. Easy to forget. Easy to not be heard. Disposable.
I feel this way because it is a reoccurring theme, mostly recently with the words, “You’re a burden. You’re killing me. You have to leave so I can live. I never really loved you.”
Four sentences to culminate 8 years – and the lifelong pattern of people being dishonest with themselves so they are therefore dishonest with me until it’s too late.
I’ve evidently found a trigger that has something to do with my sense of worthiness. If I had left in the middle of the night, Matt would never have known for sure why I ran away.
If I hadn’t been there to hear him validate, in a sleepy half awake way, that he’d hoped I’d stay – I probably wouldn’t have recognized the reason I wanted to leave in the first place was because I didn’t feel like I was wanted.
This is a huge problem. Because his actions are totally in alignment with someone who genuinely wants to see me again – and those actions are completely plowed under by my own displaced belief that I am a burden and that I need to leave because I’m not really valued or treasured.
The problem needs to be taken care of, and I’m obviously the only one that can do it. I don’t want to drag my messy insecurities into any relationship –whether it’s a one night stand or something longer – my baggage has no place in anyone else’s hands. It’s mine to carry.
I don’t want someone thinking they have to rescue me. I don’t want to be one of those women who needs constant validation that they are beautiful, loved or sexy. I don’t want to only feel safe if someone is verbally pampering my sense of being adequately appreciated or cherished.
I want to stand on my own for that so I am never in a place again where someone’s careless words driven by self-loathing, can so easily cut the roots from my tree and knock me over. (Did I mention that my ex-husband is a fucker? I’m pretty sure I mentioned that.)
I’m so glad I finally have a name for it, a picture for why I run away. A deeper comprehension of my impulse to flee. But knowing it is only half the battle. Confronting it and starting the rewire process may take some time.
This is one of those things that I’m sure people tried to tell me, explain or even point out. I’m sure everyone but me probably already had this realization. But the awareness of it, the rightness of it making sense was a pretty hard kick in the ego pants – I thought I was done with this reverb emotional shit. I thought I’d conquered the big insecurities.
Matt walked me to the car again. Less awkward than before and he brought the offending pizza along. As I drove away I pulled a slice of pepperoni, mushroom and olive pizza out of the foil and cruised down the freeway and thought, “Damn! This is the best morning-after breakfast I’ve ever had!”
A breakfast made from a dinner that someone actually heard me mention – which implies he heard me – which he wouldn’t have done if he were trying not to listen – which also means that he cared what I liked and if he cared what I liked, it’s pretty safe so suggest that he’s not dispassionate about whether I stick around or not. In fact, it kind of leans toward, making an effort with a rose and a dinner and a request for date three… that I’m being an insecure ninny and I need to chin up and tits out and stop second guessing my worth based on old patterns.
Booya.
Date three it is then….
Oh, and Meme – the hand cuffs were just decoration.
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