It wasn’t supposed to play out this way. I stayed in last night so that I could go to bed early, wake up early, and be productive: read, write, run, a little bit of work, a little bit of job searching.
Then I looked her up.
They say when you don’t know where to begin, start with a clear and simple statement of fact. Of course, that can be a hell of a challenge when one is swimming through the crosscurrents of mixed emotions – each with their own series of triggers, caveats, and meandering explanations. Add to this the fact that the ego wants to make every story about the self and that we will frequently draw connections where none exist… and well… one ends up in a bit of a stupor trying to un-knot the tangle.
That’s where I’ve been for the better part of last night and today. Sitting, staring off, writing, speculating, looking for the occasional distraction, re-reading what I’ve written, editing, and trying to un-knot the tangle. At times, I’ve felt an almost nervous queasiness. At times, I’ve felt useless or as though I need to bow down to whatever emotion is in front of me. Jealousy, loss, FOMO, shame, inadequacy. This has probably been coming on for a few weeks – I’ve been overdue for a good slip into the swampy emotional abyss.
The Triggers
Trigger 1: Rejection. In the past month or month and a half, I’ve been rejected by three lit mags, three jobs, and had a few online dating profiles end conversations before they’ve begun. There’s nothing quite like following the “I’m gonna get my life together” gumption with resounding and unflinching rejection: literary, vocational, and romantic. Rejection is the seed-bed for resentment, self-doubt, and self-pity, and apparently it’s harvest time. Thank god I have a reasonable sense of humor and an impeccable reputation as a barfly. “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”
Trigger 2: Resemblance and ghosts. A few different times over the course of the last month or two, I’ve seen women who reminded me of my ex-fiancee: at the beach or biking along the route where I frequently walk and run, at two different street festivals, and maybe once just walking around town. The ex lives in the Bay Area, so I can’t rule it out, but she doesn’t live in the city so it was probably unlikely. It’s been years since she and I talked – though I’ve tried to offer olive branches and up until a year or two ago, I used to send her happy birthday emails. The last time I saw what she physically looked like, was in profile pictures on a dating app. I said hello – it didn’t go well. I think she reported me as a creeper. When I say remind me of her, it’s an odd combination of physical appearance coupled with dress and mannerisms or the way a person stands or composes themselves. Whenever this happens, I spend half my time trying to ascertain if it’s her. I could see her in those Vans sneakers or those Doc Martins, that’s the type of bag she would probably carry or scarf she might wear, she was fond of turquoise, right? Usually, I conclude that it isn’t her and marvel at how I could be mistaken. The other half of the time, I’ll wonder what she’s up to or how she’s changed, if she’s working on the book she always wanted to write, does she have a pen name, how’s the art going, has she settled down? In one or two instances the mystery doppelganger in the crowd has been with a younger woman and I’d remember that my ex had nieces (in laws) that live out this way (though I never met them and have no idea what they look like).
While sitting on a bench by the Bay where I had been reading poetry – some of which danced around the feelings of remembering past lovers (poetry does this a lot) – I jotted down a few notes. The crux of which was that whenever I think of this person, I feel a sense of fondness about the time we had together. I’m pleased that I didn’t end up harboring bitterness or animosity towards her. I’d always welcome the chance to grab a beer and catch up. I’ve written about that before. I can’t say the same for her. Because things didn’t end well between us and because I was obsessively bad at letting go, I don’t think she has the warm and fuzzies for me. As such, I’ve tried to imagine how she would probably have very different reactions if she saw me out in the world: maybe anger, maybe fear, maybe a different type of triggering. After all, the night we broke up she seemed to think I was going to harm or steal her dog – that’s how poorly she thought of me. All I could conclude while sitting on the bench at the beach was that it’s strangely fascinating how two people can walk away from the same experience with differing, if not opposite, sentiments. Fondness vs. disgust. I’m a people pleaser and prefer to be thought of fondly. I don’t get to make that decision.
Trigger 3: Abandonment and inadequacy. Over this past weekend I spent time with a friend who is moving away – our last round until we meet again will be Tuesday night. He’s moving to Chicago to join the family business – quite literally (his dad’s the CEO). He moved into the neighborhood a year or two ago, and ever since then, we’ve probably hung out once a week. The one or two times he’s brought dates to the bar, he’s made it a point to introduce them to me. One of his dates told me while he was in the bathroom that he talks about me and says I’m the best guy in the neighborhood. It was sweet if not a little embarrassing. If I had to describe our relationship, it’s a friendship that borders on being paternalistic. He’s in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than my stepdaughter. I try to give him what little sage advice I can. I try to soften his brashness or cock-sure understanding of the world with my experience (dare I call it soft wisdom). When he told me he was moving, I was bummed, but also happy for him. Selfishly, the overwhelming sentiment I’ve felt is one of being stuck. When people move on, it can be a stark reminder of where or how one’s own life is not progressing. This happens when I see people I’ve known getting married (a woman I was kinda friends with in Tennessee recently got married) or taking new jobs. I’ll feel stuck or a sense of self-pity as though I should be doing more with my life than I currently am. I try to remind myself that I live in a beautiful city with friends and lots of things to do. I feel the sun on my face nearly every single day. That’s a blessing. Nevertheless, success for others reminds me that I haven’t quite figured out my own path – especially when it comes to the job or companionship thing.
Trigger 4: Cleaning house. When I went into the contacts list on my phone to see if I had a woman’s phone number, I was surprised by some of the numbers that were still in my phone (apparently I don’t delete very often). I was equally surprised by the number of random (one-off) numbers I’ve collected over these past few years. Who the hell is Kass or Livi or Doug or Pete? I meet a lot of strangers at bars and apparently we swap numbers. It turned out that I did not have the woman’s number that I was looking for (she was part of the group celebrating my friend’s move to Chicago, and I wanted to see if she could send some of the pictures my way). As I scrolled through the list, I started to delete people. The ex-fiancee’s dad and one of her best friends. A few former co-workers who I haven’t spoken to in years. A woman I went on a date with in Charleston. Several women I’ve met and gone on dates with here in San Francisco.
Perhaps more interesting than the deletions, were the people I kept. Naturally, I kept all friends and family. I also kept a woman I spent a weekend with as I swung through Memphis on my way to California – she was sweet and kind and we had a natural connection. The ex-fiancee stayed – same reasons. A woman I met online who lived in Nebraska and almost flew down to Memphis to spend a few days with me was spared. The kinda friend from Tennessee. This guy Jim and a woman Jamie from my time in State College. Some people I’ve met out here but never really connected with. Some friends who have passed away. Aside from that last grouping (friends who passed away), the determining factors in who made the cut and who was deleted were whether or not I would welcome a text or call from this person, or if there is some unexplored utility in the relationship (potential new friends or old colleagues that might one day be references). Some stayed because I wasn’t sure who they were and I had grown tired of looking people up – I’m looking at you Diana and Emily H. (I think they were dates).
Trigger 5: Just don’t do that. Sometimes, though not often, I Google or Facebook search old acquaintances and exes. For a host of ethical reasons (they’re a shitty business), I don’t use Facebook much anymore and I no longer have Instagram or Twitter. I’ve stopped wishing people a happy birthday on Facebook because I’m not on it consistently enough to keep up with the birthdays and even though I know nobody is keeping score, I feel shitty in giving uneven treatment. There’s a woman I dated in Philly that I’m friends with – I’ll occasionally check to see if she ever got married (she was very serious with a guy for a few years – they’re still together). There’s a woman I dated in Memphis. We’re not friends on Facebook, but I’ll occasionally look to see if she ever moved to Vegas or if she’s gotten a new dog or if she ever left her job (she often talked about moving to Vegas or leaving her job, and when I dated her, she had four or five dogs). Still in Memphis, still at the job, maybe new dogs or foster dogs. In my walk down memory lane as I gave the thumbs up or thumbs down to who would stay in my contacts, I googled the ex-fiancee – the one I’m sometimes reminded of by women I’ll see here in the city. She very intentionally has little to no digital footprint. I’ve looked her up before, there’s not much there. Usually, her LinkedIn profile will show up, her blog will show up, her professional web page (portfolio) will show up, along with a few other random hits. This time, there was no LinkedIn listing and no portfolio. Thinking something was up, I copied and pasted her address into Google (which I was surprised was listed in the search results), and saw that she’s selling her house. This brought up feelings.
Trigger 6: Poems as mirrors. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry from Bay Area poets Kim Addonizio, Ada Limón, and Robert Hass. In each case, the poetry feels familiar. From Hass, I recognize the Bay Area landscapes that he so frequently and eloquently describes. From Limón, I recognize the generous and humorous spirit of people I once loved – a spirit that guides some of what I currently seek in new relationships. From Addonizio, I recognize the late nights at the bar and the more complicated feelings of remembering past lovers and partners. “My Opera / takes place in a dive bar…” “He’s married now, he’s got kids, good for him / Another opportunity for revenge fantasies…” “Today I passed the house / we rented last summer. / It was only a glimpse / as I drove by–/ blue door,” “It’s the hour when everyone’s drunk / and the bar turns marvelous, music / swirling over the red booths.” With each poet, I’m reminded that there’s no wrong way to live, or write, or remember. And perhaps with Addonizio more than the others, I’m learning to accept that stupid pettiness or jealousy or being cavalier in our carelessness with other people’s feeling all are part of the human equation, all part of the experience. There’s a messy bravado in her poetry – or as one reviewer put it, “Addonizio doesn’t do pretty.” I’m learning to not do pretty. I’m learning that piousness is often boring.
About Those Waves of Feelings
The easiest and most “on the surface” emotion to identify from the various “triggers” listed above is that of feeling of being stuck or left behind. My friend moving away made me feel especially stuck in terms of career options. He’s young and has time to make mistakes and jumps and pivots. I’m not so young and I don’t have anyone in my corner who’s just going to give me a job. With AI coming, I’m very afraid that I’m quickly becoming a relic. Moreover, while I can’t imagine moving somewhere else, when the job rejections pile up, I start to think maybe I’m not cut out for here. He’s excited about the move, and I’m excited for him. He has a spare bedroom and has already invited me to come visit. But as I tried to put myself in his shoes (moving to great city that I’ve always enjoyed), I felt almost sick at the prospect of it. The idea of moving again or starting over in another new city gives me anxiety. And yet, I still harbor the occasional fantasy of leaving it all behind and retiring in a sunny, sleepy seaside village – maybe overseas where the boats are loosely tied to ramshackle and creaky docks.
But it wasn’t just my friend’s moving that made me feel stuck. Purging my contact list and scrolling Facebook to see what people have been up to made me feel stuck as well. In the nearly ten years since I’ve been divorced, I’ve dated and met a lot of different women (though most of that dating took place before I got engaged). I can think of at least three or four of those women with whom I’ve stayed loosely connected (Facebook friends) and who have been in long-term relationships or have gotten married. They’ve made progress, I haven’t. Even more close to home, both my stepdaughter and my nephew have gotten married this past month. Society favors couples, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m failing in that regard. I’m probably as happy as I’ve ever been in my single life. I’ve even come to enjoy doing things on my own, but there are lots of times when I have to acknowledge that it’s probably not my preferred state. That type of a relationship, however, feels about as far away and impossible as retirement or that seaside village.
The most complicated and tangled of the emotions have been associated with learning the ex is moving. As best as I could describe it, it felt like she was leaving me again. I felt a nervous energy similar to, but not as intense, as the night we broke up. I could feel the cortisol spike and my flight or freeze response take hold. There was also a sense of righteousness – “see, I knew she could never settle down. or maybe I was a fool to think she could.” Being amped up, it took a while for me to go to bed. I wasn’t surprised that she was moving. What little I knew of her history was that she seldom stayed in a place for much longer than three or four years. I think she once told me that she had moved over twenty times in her adult life. She’s at the three- or four-year mark here. Maybe it’s time to go. In some respects, I admire that about her. In some respects, she gave me the courage to make my own moves. Moving solo is hard (though maybe this time she’s not solo). I’ve done it a few times and I don’t think I’d want to do it too many more. I find it mildly traumatic. Mentally, I ran through several scenarios: she’s getting married or moving in with a partner; she’s moving from the burbs into the city; she’s taking a job in a new city; she finally saved up enough and is retiring to some place like Barcelona or Petaluma; she’s moving to be closer to family or to take care of her dad. In nearly every scenario, I felt a little jealous or sad for my own inability to be bold. It was a harsh reminder that we once dreamed of a future together, that I was far more reliant on the partnership than she was, and that we’re both pursuing that once-shared future separately.
Coupled with the complicated feeling of being left behind was a sense of shame and a whole lot of personal questions. While I thought I had successfully “moved on” and was living my best life in San Francisco, did this sudden wave of “grief” mean that I still had feelings for her? Did feeling like I was being left again mean that our proximity was, perhaps subconsciously, comforting in some way? Has my lack of interest in dating been some weird manifestation of hope that we might cross paths again? I hadn’t given these things much thought until now. Additionally, I felt like I had taken a step backwards. Nearly all of my writing these past two years (at least on this site) has been about topics other than that relationship. And when that relationship or person came up in writing, it was decidedly diminished compared to where it used to be in the immediate years after our uncoupling. I don’t remember when it happened, but at some point, she stopped being the ex-fiancee and became, simply, a woman I used to date. How’s that Gotye song go? “Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.”
Despite trying, I haven’t been able to answer those questions – at least not succinctly. Still have feelings? Sure, but not the same… and I have to be careful here, because I went through a lot of posturing over the years… always saying I’ve turned a corner or some other crap. It’s not that I hadn’t turned a corner or made progress, it’s just that I didn’t know how many corners there would be. The poets I read suggest that there are an endless number of corners to turn and an equally endless parade of setbacks before which we will be humbled. She was the last person with whom I could really envision spending the rest of my life. Until someone else comes along who beguiles and charms, she (or that relationship) remains my definition of beguiling and charming. That will change when it changes. Was proximity comforting? I feel pretty neutral about this. I tried to move to the west coast (or North Carolina) when we first broke up. I ended up in Tennessee and then detoured to central Pennsylvania – we’ve had years of varying geographical distances. I had always imagined that she and I would move west (or to North Carolina) and then maybe retire somewhere slow and sunny. That’s still my game plan (unless my orbit changes again). It might be her game plan as well. And though I think we had similar long-term goals, she’s always been a step ahead of me. I’ve often resented or been defensive of that. Has it impacted my approach to dating? Probably, but I can’t rule out that, like everyone else my age, I’ve grown tired and cynical. I’ve also grown more independent. This, in turn, has placed a premium on finding someone with shared or complementary interests (poetry, live music, musical tastes, art, hiking). The thing is, where I used to openly share those interests with anyone I’d meet, I’ve grown hesitant or guarded to share them now. When you give it all away, as I thought I did, it takes time to reclaim what was lost. Those things now reclaimed (songs, hikes, meals, mornings, and activities) have become somewhat sacred to me. The unintended consequence of this journey is that I’ve grown more generous with myself and decidedly less so with others.
The cortisol rush was real. I slept fitfully and woke with a bit of an emotional hangover. I know enough about psychology to know that this is normal. Traumatic experiences, especially ones in which closure was prolonged or elusive, will, at times, resurface. I still get a slightly nervous feeling when I see a moving van and think about the times I drove one alone across multiple states in sometimes shitty weather. The poetry I read often references and reinforces this type of deep memory. This morning’s poem was no different. Hass’ poem “The Red Chinese Dragon and the Shadow on Her Body in the Moonlight” begins, ” L. had returned from a visit to the town / where he had lived for many years / with the wife and in the marriage he was leaving. / His task was to walk through the house / and mark things of his for the movers…” “…his wife had said, ‘Take what you want.'” The poem moves back and forth telling just enough of the story to know that L. is a flawed and sympathetic character moving through “the lightness / he had been feeling intermittently since / he’d left some months before, alongside / the heavy & incessant grief.” Poetry, for me, offers lessons in multitudes, lessons in saying the things we might be afraid to say. And though this is far from poetry, much of what I was wrestling with was trying to pinpoint what it was I was feeling and how I might want to say it.
At various times, I was tempted to reach out. But there’s no non-creepy way to say, “hey, I thought I saw you a few times here in the city, and the other day I was cleaning out contacts in my phone, and also I saw an article about depressed condo sales in the East Bay and so I googled you and by way of some nosing around saw that you’re selling your house. Congrats? (winky face, smiley face)” And while grabbing a beer and catching up before she takes off for parts unknown would have been a welcomed result of any outreach, the other impetus for reaching out would have been to say, “hey, if you’ve put any hexes on me or pins in my voodoo doll, would you mind removing them before you go?” In this, I’m reminded of the song “Let the Rain Come Down”: “She put a curse on me and one on the river and now my crops won’t grow no more.” You see, I can’t rule out that when I reached out two years ago through the dating app, she didn’t put me on blast in one of those dumb “got tea” apps or are “we dating the same guy” groups. I would hope that wouldn’t be the case, but (shrug emoji) something something something about a woman’s scorn. Ironically, ensuring I have no love life in the Bay Area would be the worst way to ensure that I “move on.” I won’t reach out, though I have questions. Presumably she still knows my name and how to spell it. I’m not terribly difficult to find – I have a digital footprint that I’ve half-embraced. She would let me know if she wanted to let me know. We’d talk if she wanted to talk. I’m ok with that. When I think about an ideal outcome, it would be that one day our relationship resembles the relationship I have with my ex wife. A few weeks ago she and I spent quite a bit of time talking while at our daughter’s wedding – no animosity, no anxiety, just pleasantness.
I’m sure I’ll hide this post a few days (or hours) after I hit publish – that shame thing is a bitch. And maybe a few years from now it will prove to be fertile ground for a poem or two – maybe not. Something about the complications of love or remembering how awful and small it feels to not be growing as quickly as everyone else, to be left behind with only yourself as company. Or as Addonizio writes in the beginning of her poem “Self-Portrait as a Goldfish Trapped in a Toilet,” “To be stuck at reception with a man who fucked you once: another opportunity / to feel like a small freshwater fish…” For now, it had to be a long mess, one that defied a clear and simple statement of fact, one that required a lot of words, many of which I’m ok with.