July 13, 2000
Thursday
|
Speak to me
I realized some time ago that I was no longer angry with Elliott - at least, not to the point where I seethed at the very thought of him. I took that as a good sign, a sign that I was ready to move on.
Apparently, my unconscious mind didn't get the message, because I continue to dream about him.
I've mentioned that Elliott didn't actually break up with me; he simply stopped acknowledging me. No phone calls, no e-mails, nothing. That was a pattern with him over the eight or so months we were seeing each other - we'd have a few dates, then I wouldn't hear from him for days or weeks at a time. When he finally would contact me, it was only in response; he would hardly ever be the first to get in touch.
It's fair to say that I was incredibly, unbelievably stupid. What should have been apparent to me right from the beginning took me months to admit to myself.
Eventually, I got it through my thick skull that he really didn't want anything more to do with me, and that I had placed far greater importance on our relationship than he ever had. Finally, I stopped trying; I stopped seeking him out, completely. I never heard from him again. And that was how things ended. But there wasn't an ending, and I think that's why I continue to have these dreams.
The dreams are never set in the same place, but they share the same basic storyline. I'm attending some kind of opticians' meeting, and I spot Elliott in the room, usually talking to some colleagues. I watch him for awhile, waiting for him to turn around and see me, to say something to me. So far, he never has.
Damn it, even in my dreams he ignores me.
He got under my skin in a way no one ever has. The funny thing is that once I stopped being so angry with him, I was able to remember why I fell for him in the first place. His passion and dedication to his work. His friendly, easygoing attitude. His goofy sense of humour and silly jokes. His childlike enthusiasm for video games and animation. The way he listened so sympathetically. His gentleness when he held me for the very first time.
No, I don't want him back. But despite everything, sometimes I still find myself missing him.
I guess I still have trouble reconciling the man I dated with the one I knew before we became involved. But I know the way he treated me was wrong, and I shouldn't still be having warm and fuzzy feelings for him. I certainly don't want him invading my dreams anymore...
...unless he has something to say.
In the ninth grade, I tried out for and failed to make the junior badminton team at school. It was a big blow to me, since I'd been on the team the year before and we'd ended up winning the city championships. I tried going to the weekly open badminton that was held in the school gym, but I quit after the first night. Everybody had someone to play with except for me, and I was too shy to go up to anyone and ask to join in. Nobody seemed to realize or care that I was there. I left the gym in tears. My best friend from elementary school had started hanging around with a different crowd that didn't include me, so that night only confirmed my suspicion that I was too uninteresting or repulsive to merit anyone's attention or friendship. I resigned myself to my fate and decided to give up trying to connect with others. If I was going to be alone for the rest of my life, I figured I might as well learn to be comfortable with it. And so I withdrew into my own little world. While I didn't exactly become a hermit at age fourteen, I did spend a lot of time by myself. I didn't hang out with other kids after school, join any extra-curricular activities, or go out on dates (hardly a surprise, being as unpopular as I was). I still managed to make a few friends, but by the time we were in university, we'd drifted apart since none of us were in the same program. I met some new people, including the first guy who ever asked me out. But by this time I was used to solitude, to the point where I preferred it over spending time with anyone else. I let all my school friendships lapse over time; I think I figured it was only a matter of time before they'd get tired of me anyway, so why bother putting in the effort? The walls I'd started building in high school were complete. It wasn't until I'd graduated from university and started working at the Music Store that I realized how isolated I'd been. It was like I was seeing the world for the first time. All the socializing I should have been doing in high school, I didn't start learning until then. It felt awkward at first, but more and more comfortable as the months went by. I still don't think I have the hang of it - just being with other people. Most people take it for granted, and they're not even conscious of it. But it's something I'll always have to work at. Sometimes it's easier being in my shell, cutting myself off from the world. In some ways, it's made me stronger, more independent. I'm not afraid to be alone. I can't remember a time when I've needed company. I go to movies and concerts by myself, I've travelled alone several times, and I love the freedom of it. I can't understand people who say they could never do things like that without someone else. I'm not emotionally dependent on anyone. I've never allowed myself to lean on someone, to cry on their shoulder, and I'd rather keep my feelings bottled up inside rather than spill my guts to anyone. The few times I've done it, more often than not I've been immediately sorry that I've exposed myself. So I stay silent, and people tend not to notice me. It's gotten to the point where I prefer it that way, most of the time. But I got a glimpse of what it means to be a part of someone's life, and to allow them to be a part of yours. I liked what I saw, what it felt like - before it was yanked away like a rug from under my feet. Ha ha! Just kidding! That's not for you! Being alone didn't used to mean being lonely. It still doesn't...but I think if I had to do it over again, I would have worked up the courage to speak to somone in the gym that night, so many years ago. I would have told myself to keep trying.
|