I’m asking you. God or man. Is it so much that I can’t understand the truth. I mean, I’ll survive this. I’ll be better tomorrow. And even better the next day. Today is hard because I’m still a little hung over. Eventually, life will go back to the mundane and I’ll be unsatisfied again. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Unsatisfied but alive. I really got knocked off my ass, that’s for sure. But I don’t doubt I’ll be better tomorrow. It’s just this nature of mine. I’d forget everything if I could, but my nature keeps seeking to solve the mystery. I keep asking all these questions and coming up with no answers. Everything’s so exotic and convoluted. I’m wondering why [the lover] and [the husband] have both said to me that I’m so intimidating. Smarter. Better. What does all that mean? I don’t know. It sounds like a cop-out. It sounds like I’m doing something seriously wrong. It sounds like that’s the fashionably polite thing to say to get a woman off your back. I don’t know. I’m trying not to care. But it’s not working. I’m going nuts thinking that I wore the wrong shirt, or that I said the wrong thing. That I said too much, or not enough. It would be so easy to pinpoint the exact moment when it all fell a part. But my shame is keeping me blind to the fact that maybe there was nothing there to begin with. I was lonely. I came on too strong. Worse yet, I feel a sudden need to repent for my sins, repent for being something and someone I so desperately want to be but can’t. He would have got it up for Courtney Love. That’s for sure. Maybe even Pink. So, I’ll wear rocks in my shoes or something. Flog myself. Tonight, maybe, I will sleep on a bed of nails.
And then, here I am at home. Breaking glass, and [the husband] is crawling on his knees, not judging me, not asking about last night, just picking up the mess, and I’m crying, thinking, now there’s a man who really loves me. Attentive. Attentive. Repenting for his own sins. But then I stop, and say, Bullshit. Don’t believe the lie. See? My brain is working against me. It’s saying that I’ve been a damn fool all my life to have such expectations of men. [The lover] was right. There’s nothing below the surface. But still I keep digging for the mystery. [The husband] was right, he said, This is me. I’m a simple man. But I said no. There’s more to you than meets the eye.
Sadly, I realize it’s my imagination that needs a restraining order.
But there’s hope, yet. I’ve got the teetering side of what looks to be a balance somewhere inside me. I’m not completely lost in the darkness. Something in me knows that there is no mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery. But it’s cold on that side. It’s dark. It’s stark. It doesn’t tell a very exciting story. In fact, it hurts. It’s the dead-calm voice of a man I desired last night saying, sorry, I’m just not attracted to you in that way. And it’s the eyes of a husband saying, I may not be him, but at least I am real.