Anhedonia, My Reflection

Letters from exile. Tracing the ridges of my fault lines. The opportunity to stitch my mind back together and become someone worth being.

I spoke with Trey this morning as she was getting ready for work. If I keep the content of the conversation in the range of "how are you," "just called to check in," and "I hope you have a really great day," things are pretty okay. When we have an activity to focus on: like talking through ideas for her next presentation while walking on the shore, or getting lunch and sitting down to eat it, or going to a parties at her friends' houses. It's harder to keep the mood constant during interstitial "so what do you want to do next" times, or "now that we've talked about what we planned to talk about, how are you doing?" times, or transitions. Arrivals particularly.

As best as I can tell, it's like this. Sometimes it's different, but it's mostly awful.

I come in the door and feel glad to see Trey. Trey comes to the door. I say hello. Trey looks at me sideways. I say, "What's wrong?" Trey hugs me and says hi. I'm confused about the sideways look and don't hug back because I think I must have done something wrong. Trey still hugs me and says hi again. I say it's still me from the first time she said hi. She says, "I know, silly. Hug me." I say I don't want to because I think she's mad at me because she looked at me sideways when I came in the door and said hello. Trey begins to cry, which is loud. I try to talk and then stop. Trey cries more and walks into the house--all of the above having happened in the doorway in the span of 8 seconds.

At this point, a few things could happen. I could collapse to the floor (not sure why this became my go-to response to relationship stress, but a year ago February it seemed like the most natural thing to do to crumple into a heap of skin and bone on the hardwood), which brings more crying with pleas to "come on, be strong." I could follow her into the next room and talk in a way (with wrong tone or words or some other ineffable wrongness) that brings more crying and pleas to "stop being so cruel." I could sit silently on her couch looking at the floor in a posture of control blended with catatonic detachment. Or I could walk outside and hear her cries reach me on the sidewalk.

This doesn't happen every time. But if I don't hit the right note in my door knocking, or lock unlocking, or first hello-ing I'm hosed. Because it's my responsibility to keep the relationship in the middle of the tracks. The story in the house is that she responds to what I give her--so if I bring the crazy, she responds in kind. The inverse, if she cries then I must have done the thing to provoke her tears, is also true. How we regain attraction, love, or lust for each other is a mystery to me. How we get to a shared trust where we can start making wedding plans again seems like something another person could do easily. I feel so far from being acceptable to her.

The memories of our first heart brimming full year are paved under with a parking lot of grievances, broken trust, and neglect. The results of my poor stewardship of paradise.