Fraidy Cat

Apparently, if I tell the woman I love that I am afraid of her volatility and that I never know if I'm going to be the recipient of emotional, verbal, or physical abuse, it is the same as telling her that she is an abuser.

This seems to be true, because it is what I am told by Trey.

Because I used the word "abuse" to describe my fears, I have also defined the woman I love as an "abuser."

Is it too subtle to make a distinction between the activity and a label that defines a person? Is it too bizarre to share, which was my intent in the first place, my fear that volatile interactions will result in violence being directed at me?

I am afraid of the things I am afraid of--and they are not necessarily based in the actual behavior of the person I'm talking to. That's what fears are all about in the first place, right?

"I gave up so much to move here to be with you" is a phrase I've heard over the course of the past three years. When Trey drove here from Nova Scotia, she lost her country, her home, her family to live in a strange land with foreigners, including one foreigner she liked enough to leave it all behind for. So much depends on a red Saturn sedan, glazed in Richmond District fog, beside white bagged Christmas trees. Such a burden to shoulder her loss of nation and kin. I find I filter every word and glance through a script that trowels dark matter into ordinary ambiguity--and my result is always the same. I did her wrong by setting her in motion westward. And so when our conversations go sideways, the emotions are heightened by my responsibility for her frustrations and the escalation of her pain.

To think that the heat and spit and raw lust with which we began sparking in the dark corners of our graduate school lodges in the woods--secreted from community and from her common-law husband in Halifax, has unraveled so nearly is heartbreaking to me. I began this with so much hope, expectation, belief that I could do this right. That I would succeed in being lovable, worthy of being a husband, a father. A man. A powerful partner to a powerful partner.

With all the talking Trey down from taking up the mantle of "abuser" the conversation was steered completely away from what I was trying to express. Which was,

"I love you! I want to love and to be loved. I want a relationship with you based on ease, joy, and beauty. I want to use our time and energy being creative together--building family, making music, painting, laughing, sharing our lives with friends, gardening, and feeling good feelings."

Sick Transit

I'm writing application letters and revising my resume to submit for marketing jobs. The current one I'm working on is for a position I've already submitted for but has been reposted. The company I've got a contract with hasn't given me feedback on the work I've submitted to them, and since approving the work is the gating function to me doing anything more I've been idle for the past two weeks--rattling around the house, disappointing the cat, and wishing Trey would call.

Last Tuesday, I dropped by with a friend of mine, a 70-something theater director who was auditioning me for an upcoming show, with 20 minutes notice. I knew how much she loved the old man, and so I wanted to bring her something wonderful in hopes that the wonderfulness would rub off on me and I'd be seen in a better light. In hopes that the better light would stick when she thinks of me.

She burbled and cooed and so did the director. As a gift, it was a huge success.

Then, on Friday, she came to dinner with my friends downstairs. I wasn't invited. But apparently, Trey was expecting me to drop by and say hi if I was home. I sat upstairs from them watching Miyazaki movies while they ate and laughed below. When I heard the gate to the street scrape shut, I folded over and sobbed.

I love her, and this is my tar baby of a situation. She trusts her fear of me and believes separation will keep her safe. When she looks at me on Skype, she can't control her love for me from coming out and in the conflict between her desire for connection and her belief that such connection is dangerous is too much for her delicate Northern system to handle and she bursts into tears. At the sight of me. So she does better IMing me when she infrequently does.

I texted her, "Did you leave?" She typed at me from the going away train the mind reading double bind above (in 160 characters or less).

Jack, the gypsy husband of my friend downstairs, tells me when I call him that I'll be very surprised when things work out for the better for everyone if I just give things time to sort themselves out. And still I ask the universe, "What could possible be the benefit to running the particular line of code I've been programmed with that (1) wants to be with the woman of his dreams, (2) has shown himself in his most broken state and caused her to fear for her life and sanity, and (3) works to be a better man while his efforts don't figure in the equation of what would bring him back to the woman he loves."

What benefit to the development of the greater human operating system is the skunk works project that runs in me and when will the guy charged with debugging me get back from lunch?