I don’t believe that things happen for a reason, or that there is a purpose to life. But sometimes a series of events conspires to define your life. Not fitting into a grandiose plan for the universe or to serve some spiritual being, but rather a moment that defines the life of a person that History will surely forget.
“You’re a mother fucker.”
You would be surprised how often I hear that.
“You’re a stupid motherfucker, it’s like I mean nothing to you… well don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
I was mid argument, or at least mid being yelled at. One coping mechanism I developed after years of grade school teachers yelling about my impending ruin if I didn’t listen, was the ability to tune out the world while still appearing like I was paying attention.
I barely noticed the apple coloring that was starting to define her cheeks. My mind had wandered to familiar mantra. Just give up it’s not worth the trouble. Give up, why bother trying to salvage this at this point. There was a long time that my, “can’t do” attitude used to bum me out, but slowly I’ve begun to accept that I just don’t care. Missed potential, self-sabotage call it what you will; it certainly was not a unique coping mechanism. But it’s not like I cared enough to change it.
Not even the tear stained face before me could muster enough emotional fortitude to want to change the dimensions of how I interact in relationships. It wasn’t that I was feeling bad for myself, quite the contrary, I just didn’t care, not enough about myself or the woman in front of me.
A knock, saved by a knock the irony brought a snide smile to my face. Normally the bane of my existence, I often turned off my lights, lock my door, and take the phone off the hook just to avoid the knock. R.A.’s or Resident Assistants were supposed to be available at all times, I could have taught a seminar in avoiding ever having to assist my residents. Even nights like tonight when I am on duty, I would pretend I wasn’t there just to avoid having to deal with these spoiled freshmen’s whims. Irony never misses an opportunity to rear her sadistic humor.
“I took a bottle of pills and I don’t know what to do.”
“Ok come in, Beth can you leave?” It’s amazing the world could be crashing around me, but my indifference finally has a purpose, calm amongst the storm the cliché goes.
“Relax take a seat, I’m going to call 911 for help.”
“I’m sorry, Beth.” Here is my resident, pale with fear, shaking while in the midst of a suicide attempt and yet she calmly walks into the room and apologizes for interrupting the fight she had to hear from the hallway. If only people realized the strength they have. I find that some of the people who seem the most weak and feeble often possess the most internal strength made stronger by their perseverance over their daily mental assault of self-loathing and self-deprecation. It’s easy to appear strong when you are never troubled by thought. Try making it through the day when your mind tells you to give up on life because you’re not worth it.
“Hello 911, Yes I have an emergency.”
“Yes she took a bunch of pills…. Yeah she’s here now.” I tried to give her one of those comforting smiles, but it just came off convoluted and forced. Her face reflected my nervousness. It was like being on a date that was going south.
“It’ll be ok; emergency will be here any moment.”
“I am sorry to…”
“Please you did me a favor, I am sure you could hear the argument when you knocked.”
The forced laugh eased the moment, “I hope it wasn’t too serious.’
“It was.”
“Well I hope you didn’t do anything bad.”
“Why do people automatically assume it is the guy who does something wrong.”
“I didn’t assume that, it just didn’t sound like you were the one doing the yelling.” No matter what the situation, my default is always to make a joke. The smile we shared was not just because it was funny; I could sense an understanding, knowledge that we had the same coping mechanism.
“I don’t know why I did it; I just swallowed and regretted it.”
“You’re not suicidal, if you wanted to do it you could have, you saved yourself, I am just glad I was here to help.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You’re stronger then I am, I want to give up so many times but I am to scared, I think I am more scared to die then I am to live, that’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
My shrink would be so proud. I am a control freak, I always control who knows what about me and the impression I give. But here without even thinking, I let my guard down, gave up information I myself was just discovering. Out of my subconscious and into her memory, it had never happened before.
“You?”
“I know it’s my deep dark secret, don’t tell anyone.”
“Six years of therapy you?”
“One semester, but many years to look forward to. I will have to get a job to support my therapy habit.”
Another shared smile.
“I have to apologize I’m going to say something cliché,”
She gave one of those smiles we give to show acceptance while still expressing concern for what is about to be said “Yes.”
“Depression is very lonely, and I don’t expect you will ever feel accompanied, but if you let me we can share some misery some time.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
One of the many rules conveyed over and over again during R.A. training is the importance that our university’s possible liability trumps any concerns or feelings you may have with the residents you are entrusted to look after. We were not allowed to accompany any of our residents to the hospital and discouraged from visiting them once they are there. So helplessly I watched as hurried EMTs asked stupid meaningless questions, strapped her into a bed on wheels and whisked her off to a hospital.
What does a person do after they watch someone else calmly try to commit suicide? Do you feel happiness they decided not to do it, sadness they thought about it, comfort they came to you? Is it right to think about them naked? I felt all of these things, concern, wonder, frustration that I had to spend the night watching over pampered drunk rich kids who probably wouldn’t do poor people like myself a favor by ending themselves one by one. But off went one of my residents, whom by rule I had to care about BUT only so much. And who by wanting to accompany to the hospital and make sure she was ok I had apparently overstepped the RA – resident relationship.
I forced myself to tear, then smiled. At least that fight with Beth was over. I hid in my room the rest of the night. Lights off, door locked, sitting in welcomed solitude.
I am never open. In truth every argument with the Beth’s of my past were really just my inability to commit, masqueraded as “relationship problems.” My problem is common and yet most women seem unable to see it, emotionally I always have one foot out of the door. I don’t trust them, and every time I have been proven right. I don’t think it is a self-fulfilling prophecy because the Beth’s never seemed to notice I am emotionally unavailable. My greatest gift has been the ability to mask feelings. My ability was matched with an extensive knowledge of people, specifically women. I knew what to say, how to act, what to do, I could be the perfect loving boyfriend and never get close enough to actually love.
“Sex”
“What?”
“Sex, it’s what we have in common.”
“What do you mean?”
“We both use sex to find happiness, hide our ugliness, and masque our inability to connect with people.”
“First off I don’t have a problem connecting, I just don’t trust people enough to try, and secondly I am fat, not ugly, I think I have a quite cute face, and my cute butt is the only thing that allows me to even get laid, which hardly ever happens.”
“Please and I am too ugly to be a stripper, let alone get paid to have sex, but truth be told both our reputations precede us.”
Like I cared about the university’s liability, I was always “in trouble” for some sort of policy, or caring too much about my residents. When my shift was over the next morning I illegally took a cab voucher and hoofed it to the hospital. I am not nearly as cold as I pretend to be. And while I keep a safe emotional distance from everyone, people do touch me. Seeing her in that state I needed to know she was ok. So I stayed, all the morning and through the next night until the hospital kicked me out. Apparently we didn’t look like family, no matter how many times she claimed I was adopted or a step-brother.
“Well I have been lucky no doubt, but it’s not like I have lots of women, just the right type so I am not bored.”
“What type is that.”?
“Please I am male, I don’t think I should discuss that perversion.”
“Please I am a stripper, do you think there is a perversion I haven’t heard of?”
“Fair enough, but I am your R.A. and I am drawing the line.”
“Fine, but I promise you this, as long as it isn’t bug squashing or little boys, I am sure you couldn’t freak ME out.”
Women who are comfortable with their sexuality, ok no person is comfortable with their sexuality, but women who aren’t afraid to be sexual- to embrace their sexuality – attract men. Everyone knows girls that weren’t necessarily attractive, yet their energy just engrossed men like a bug to a bright light. In High School they were degraded by being called sluts, in college they are just popular. To me they were my weakness. But it wasn’t just their sexuality; ok it was mostly their sexuality, but the baggage they came with, that made it easier. I could manipulate it, I am the master at making women feel special, and these women who are objectified and vilified by their gender are especially in need of positive reinforcement. And while I was focusing my energy and our time on their ego, I never had to be involved emotionally. They never notice that I am never in the picture. The relationship ultimately is entirely about them, and occasionally me getting off.
“Shouldn’t you be telling me to look for love and Mr. Right or something like that?”
“Please I respect you to much for that bullshit. What I have learned in dating, it is that eventually you run out of things to talk about, yourself, politics, religion, the world, eventually there is not much more to say, in the end I’d rather have lasting sex then a lasting conversation.”
“So just pretty legs, not a pretty mind.”
“No no those fade too, just the perfect sex life and enough conversation to fill those moments when you’re not having or thinking about sex.”
“Still sounds pretty ambitious.”
“That’s why I keep trying.”
We shared another knowing smile. It was nice; I normally do not even allow myself to get close enough to share genuine moments like that.
“Thank you so much for the other night, I don’t know what I would have done if you were not there.”
“Please, you wanted help, I just happen to be the appointed liaison for that, you would have found someone else. You saved yourself.”
“No, it was you.”
The ability to listen, it seems so simple, and yet we are so self-obsessed most people never really do it. I am equally self-obsessed, but I’ve learned listening is the number one defense against having to open up. My friendships are defined by people coming to me to talk out their problems, sharing intimate feelings and ideas, yet never even thinking about reciprocating. I sometimes think I should just charge.
Listening is so simple, if dorky men across the world realized their place was as emotional steward, and manipulate it, they all could get laid too. For all intensive purposes I should never get laid. In the movies I would play the lovable fat guy, always there to give advice and a shoulder to cry on while the protagonist works out the relationship with her prince charming. And yet I have been able to fool so many women out of their pants thinking maybe I was their prince charming. If I learned anything from the copious hours of John Hughes it is simply that women will sleep with you, if you allow them to no longer be ignored. Smart, attentive to their needs, make them laugh, isn’t that what they are supposed to look for anyway?
Ultimately they would realize they weren’t attracted to me and I would get the “it’s not you it’s me” speech. I had more female friends then a Tampax commercial (you know when being that time of the month makes women want to get together and have a pillow fight because they are using that feminine product).
The strangest thing about people is that once you show an interest in what they have to say they just open up. People are quick to trust, I suspect it’s because so few people are willing to go so long just listening to them, allowing them to get things off their chest.
In fairness there was a genuiness to her words. I actually felt like she needed me that night to survive. And while this boosted the ego, it was also scary. I had made a career of being there for people, but never enough to have a real emotional attachment, just enough to make it seem like I was there. Let’s face it I’m fucked up; who in their right mind would pick me as their crutch to stop suicide. But there she stood with her brown eyes looking into me, frightening me.
Depression is not sadness. People can have periods of sadness. But depression is the absence of happiness. It is a black hole for hope. There is nothing around you except more depression and that loneliness can never truly be breached. Happiness is fleeting and eventually the only comfort is the depression itself. It is predictable and you can count on it. More than you can count on any person, any deity. Depression is familial and strangely comforting. And so here I am constantly finding ways to be reconnected with my depression regardless of the situation.
It was this fundamental understanding that we shared. People smile at one another all the time. We smile at an interview to impress a potential boss, on a date, and in my case anytime I am around people. A smile can mask any emotion because people never question it. But every once in a while you can catch a real smile, not expressing happiness but understanding. It was that moment while she was laying there that the smile communicated the understanding of sadness. Our eyes met not in a romantic moment where time stops but mirroring the deep sorrow that was hidden from public scrutiny in our consciousness, and it was a moment I had never shared before.
She was released the next morning and I soon had another knock at my door.
“What are you doing today?”
“Besides waking up?”
“Yeah, what are you doing today?’
“Going to temple.”
“Temple?”
“Yeah its Saturday day, day of prayer for us Jews, it is where we go.”
“Can I go with you?”
“You want to go with me to temple?… But you’re not Jewish… Why?”
I hate asking questions that have obvious answers and yet I am often unable to stop. I don’t know if it is a character flaw, but it bugs the shit out of me.
“Cause I don’t want to leave you.”
“Look I am your R.A. and…”
“I don’t want to have sex with you, I just like your company and right now it’s comforting.”
My other character flaw is that I can’t say no to a woman when I think I might get laid. Even when we shouldn’t be having sex, the perpetual desire to possibly be laid again by someone new always wins out. I guess I am more male then I would like to admit, the penis seems to always get its way while the rest of me has spent a lifetime dealing with the consequences.
I also liked her company. I mean she was scary, but I felt safe, there was no bullshit, no emotional games that seem to go along with dating someone with estrogen. And so even though my brain and the picture of having to have a “private discussion” with my boss on proper resident R.A. behavior, I told her to get dressed and meet me in 20 minutes.
Men have to wear an undershirt, a shirt, coat, pants, socks, underwear, a belt, and a tie; it takes longer then you think to put together. What women have to put on is one to two pieces of clothing, in this case the bra was provided by the dress, and knowing her she wasn’t wearing underwear, and yet men always seem to take less time to get ready. For as long as I live, I will just never understand. An hour later we were off, I having eaten all sorts of snacks after having to abandon plans for a big breakfast, and her thoughts of anorexia after having to deny my offer of a breakfast bar.
My mother always felt alienated in our Jewish community. Many members of our temple sincerely brought us into their homes and opened their hearts. A gift that could never truly be repaid. But converts have an uncomfortable place in the Jewish community that is defined by its familial lineages. Something that makes little sense. As a black woman that chose the religion, she had a fervor and love for the religion that many born into the tradition could learn from. The fresh eyes, and novice appreciation is needed in a religion that too often judges character on the superficial understanding of its traditions.
I appreciated her fresh eyes on my Judaism. “Hebrew is really beautiful.” A thought I must confess never even entered my mind. She asked insightful questions, Jews would never have the guts to ask “Why are you Jewish? Why do you go to temple when you don’t even believe there is a purpose to life?” But what I really appreciated was simply when she touched my hand as the Rabbi gave his weekly speech.
Services are often just an unconsciousness of thought. I go because the time centered on G-d comforted me. But in truth I had long ceased feeling a deep spiritual connection to the service, in parts for sure, but in whole it was time for my mind to wonder. But with her the prayers were fresh, through her senses; they felt beautiful.
“So what are we doing now?”
“Are you serious, you’re not sick of me yet?” I had to fight the urge to ask for some alone time. While my conscious mind was screaming to be alone, I knew I would do nothing but think about hanging out with her.
“Time with you is comforting.”
“It always is in the beginning, don’t worry that stupid sensation will fade soon.”
“I am sure it will, but for now I might as well enjoy it.”
People have their ideas of romantic moments, a sunset walk on the beach, a candlelit dinner, a curled up evening in front of a fire. For me there was nothing more romantic than a woman in a sports jersey, well except a woman in a sports jersey yelling at the screen while watching the game. I was fighting the thoughts of seeing her naked. I had to be out of my mind, sure I liked her, but I liked everyone who showed an interest in me. It’s my insatiable need to get laid. If there is a possibility of sex, I can find endearing qualities in a Republican.
I pulled on her to sit down after she exploded in expletives at the referees call. She gave little resistance falling right into my lap.
I am a Cancer, our infatuations are quick, deep, and fleeting. But it felt different when she fell back into my lap and started caressing my arm. I was overcome by the moment and leaned in. That moment when you first lean in, first let your guard down is the one that is so scary. That split second can test the hearts of the strongest person. What if they don’t return your lean in? It’s an ultimate rejection that cannot be undone, and for me a pain never forgotten.
But she closed her eyes and met my lips. It sucked, who has good first kisses really? Nervous she would not return the lean in, worried the kiss will suck, pressure to perform and neither has kissed each other before. Styles often clash and you fuddle to find your rhythm.
Anyone who says they had a magical first kiss is lying. After that, it can be a wonderful experience. And for a woman who clearly knew what she was doing, the second and third kiss made my feet tingle in a way only girls are allowed to croon about.
There was not a fairy tale ending. I am still one foot out the door waiting to bolt. She strips to make herself feel better about herself. Her self-worth is crap, another lifetime wouldn’t cure it. But she makes me want to try harder, for the first time in my life I allow myself to have moments where I am not leaving. And most importantly, we have amazing sex; to-die-for sex. I don’t believe most men really have fetishes, we have getting laid, and if a woman wants to try something different we are all for it. I am extremely glad I get laid and she has lots of kinks that make that experience even more fun. But beyond that we fit, it’s a perfect fit. For the first time my penis is satisfied with what it has in front of it.
“With you I don’t want to die.”
I knew what she meant, for the first time in a long time, I had some fight in me. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I am still the scared little boy not wanting to come out from the corner of the room. Love is such a stupid word for it. With her, the hopelessness faded a little quicker.
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