Two weeks ago I met a woman in a local bar. My preferred neighborhood bar on the corner from the street where I live. Let us call her Sylvia – to be respectful and not disclose her identity to friends or acquaintances who might be reading this. The owner of the bar (one of my genuine neighborhood friends here in Brussels) had invited me over to the table they were sharing, as he saw me drinking coffee and smoking my hand rolled cigarettes all alone – as usual. They were apparently talking about love and relationships, and I joined in. I tried to not talk too much, but I did insert some ironic or cynical remarks (I consider irony to be a form of humor but I guess other people might think of my humor as being cynical). In any case, despite my ironic or cynical remarks (I told her love is nothing but a combination of friendship and sex, and that no new word should have been invented to label that because it makes things too complicated and confusing), we asked each other’s phone number.
I liked her on first sight. Hence, we exchanged some SMS messages in which I made it clear we could be friends only but that it would be nice to see her again. She replied positively, and we met a week later. We had a coffee around lunchtime on one of Brussels’ many terraces and then we continued talking the whole afternoon at my place – until she had to catch the train back to the nearby town where she lived. We then met again two days later. I had invited her for a walk in the nearby Forêt de Soignes. We then went for a movie she wanted to see, about drunk teachers. A Danish movie: Another Round. I did not like the movie. A few good scenes but I did not like the theme nor tone of it. Because I think I know all about alcohol and alcoholics. I now tend to say that smoking may be more lethal (think of the lung cancer risk) but that it is healthier for the mind: there is no hang-over from cigarettes (especially if, like me, you smoke good fine tobacco), and smoking does not lead to depression.
Also, she had moved in her seat and her body did not touch mine anymore, which I thought of as a small disaster. A not so small disaster, in fact. Because of a gory detail which I should tell you: I felt the walk had led to a very tiny involuntary release of urine in my pants and that, perhaps, she had smelled that (incontinence is the first problem when you come out of surgery: the prostate no longer acts as a tap (it is gone) and so you have to learn how to hold your pee like women do: with muscles you did not know that even existed).
In any case, the point is that I could no longer think about what happened in the movie anymore. I suddenly felt hurt and ashamed. I therefore walked out of the movie a bit for the end – probably 15 or 20 minutes early – telling her I did not like the movie and that I would meet her at my place when she was done, which happened.
I had sent her the link to an article on Platonic relationships, which clearly warns those who want to be Platonic partners: no touching, no hand-holding, no kissing, no intimacy. I had also told her about my problem after the cancer surgery (erectile dysfunction) right from the start. I had been very clear about it. I want intimacy with a woman. I want to sleep with a woman again. But I cannot have what is commonly referred to as sex because of my ED problem, which may or may not get better over the coming year. Hence, I want to be touched and kissed only. I deeply miss that. But I know it may not satisfy the woman who is kissing me or the man who is being kissed (me). But so she did lean against my shoulder during the cinema performance and I enjoyed it. I felt electrified (I guess the medicine I am taking to recover from ED makes me feel even more electrified when a woman touches me). When she came back to my place after the movie, we talked some more. I felt deeply ashamed but I mentioned the small urine loss I had had. She laughed and said that was just imagination. She had not noticed anything special. I should think nothing about the getting-close and her moving-away by sitting straight in her cinema chair again about fifteen minutes after first contact. Nothing about the moving-away, at least: she said I should not think of her moving away as her wanting to get away from me. That she had moved away subconsciously, because her back suddenly hurt a bit, and that she had enjoyed the physical contact.
Then she said it was getting late and that she felt tired. So she got up to take her bag. And then, while we were standing at the door of my apartment, she gave me a big hug. A huge warm all-body embrace. I was stunned. It felt amazingly wonderful but somewhat awkward at the same time. Hence, I let go of her, left the embrace, and walked her out. To the door of the building. I thought that was it. But, no, just before she walked out on the street, she turned and kissed me on my lips. Not a long kiss, but not a fleeting kiss either. I was in the 7th heaven, and this is my 14th life, so 7 and 14 are, obviously, a Shangri-La combination). So, Bang! Off we went. On the highway ! We kept chatting in the evening and the whole next day. From early morning till late at night.
I must have written her at least 200+ rather long messages (I type fast, very fast). She acted like a chatbot: not writing as much as me, but making all the right noises and finishing her short messages with an ‘x’ or the right emoticon, and – of course – encouraging me to write more and more. In short, she acted like the chatbot you want that woman to be when hitting on her. We had both installed a new social media application (Signal – yes, like the toothpaste that makes you think of the beautiful smile) to distinguish this relation from the common chats one has on WhatsApp or Messenger. We wanted this to be special. It was special. I talked to my family, kids and friends about it: this is it ! I sent them a picture of her and her two kids. She is in her forties – but I thought/think of her as very pretty (delicate face, lovely eyes, long beautiful legs, etcetera) – and, because the age gap between her and me was not that big, I also thought she was a much more likely match than some younger ladies I had flirted with: more in my age bracket, and of the same culture too. A decent fine-looking Flemish lady.
But so it turned out not to be special. The very next day – today ! – she turned cold. Writing that we should just be friends. That she did not see or feel any butterflies from her perspective. That I should release any butterfly I saw or felt, which I did – and I wrote to her about it in quite dramatic or theatrical tones. In short, the whole chat went south – especially because she would not reply for hours to my rather dramatic chat messages. As a result, these turned somewhat negative – even if polite. I wrote her that I felt hurt, and that this did not feel right to me. When she replied a few hours later, she wrote that she had been out for a long walk, which is probably true but no reason to not check messages if your so-called special friend risks ending the special kind of relation you say you want to have with him or her (of course, that is only my humble opinion on something like this – you may find it normal – like she wanted to think things through or something, perhaps).
And so that was it. I quickly bailed. It was a fight or flight situation, and I have a lot of experience with that. Everything inside of me told me to for the second option: get out. Shut it out. Now. I trust my instinct here. Hence, I turned our chat from Signal to WhatsApp when I could see the signal that the Signal messages had been read, and then I turned from WhatsApp to SMS again. Where we had started our relationship. And with each downgrade of the relation – from Signal (you would associate the name of that app with a smile with white teeth and hot red lips as well, wouldn’t you?) to the ordinary WhatsApp and then to the even more ordinary SMS-relation – it became increasingly clear that she agreed that it was no use to contact each other any more because the relationship – if ever we had one – was clearly hurting me. And then we sent one last SMS: “Goodbye!”, and then I erased her number and all contact information, and I also deleted the Signal application. No smile. No red lips. She is gone.
I only have her name now. In my head. Not on my phone. A memory of a hug and a kiss with a nice woman. It is the most ideal and platonic relationship, ever ! Because she exists and because I had started to talk about her to friends and family, I will continue to do so. Instead of asking: “How are you?”, they will now ask me: “How is Sylvia? And how are things going between the two of you?” I can then state confidently: “Great. Couldn’t be better.” It will come out more naturally then when trying to answer their usual question: “How are you?” In fact, they will sometimes insist when they think my smile is not so large as usual, or does not look genuine for some reason. Then they will push me: “How are you, really?”
I am great. Always. In fact, I think I am one of the greatest people on Earth. [Of course, I am not, but I had a psychologist once and he told me I should think great about myself, and so I am just applying his advice: think positive.] And so I always tell that when my friends ask such question: “I am great. Could not be better.”
It is just that, sometimes, I actually do not feel all that great. Like now. But then I know it is no use saying that. It is better to keep smiling and just look happy, always. Even if sometimes, you do not quite feel that way. Like now.
I will turn the whole experience positive, of course. I always do that. No other choice, right? I will, therefore, think of what happened as my first dating experience since my surgery. Lessons learnt are:
(1) Never talk about any problem you might have, physically or emotionally. Not with a woman you like, or a woman who seems to like you. Just look and feel strong. Radiate confidence. You do not score butterflies with women as a man when you reveal your weaknesses.
Of course, the woman will want you to listen to all of her drama and trouble with previous men, but that is just because she wants you to feel that you do much better with them. She wants you to think you can be her new angel. But anything you tell her about the drama and trouble in your life, is a weakness that she will exploit. It is just like those chat relations with beautiful foreign ladies who reach out on the Internet to hit a lonely man. There is no difference. Except that the intention might be slightly less worse in a real-life encounter. Indeed, Internet relations are usually more evil: the woman may not exist (the person talking to you might use another photo) or, if she exists, she will be interested only in the visa you might be able to get her, or your money. Usually in both. But, otherwise, there is no real difference between a real-life young woman you meet at a bar, and a poor but beautiful hooker somewhere out there who wants to come to Europe and finds you on the Internet and then talks to you to help her with that. Not in my experience, at least.
Needless to say, I am talking as an older man now. If you are as sexy and young as the woman who is talking to you, you should not be suspicious (or much less so, at least): just go and have sex with her to get to know her inside and find out what she wants. This brings me to the second lesson learnt:
(2) Do not date if you know you will not have sex, or if you do not want to have sex. Or, like me, when you want but cannot have sex for one or the other reason. It is of no use whatsoever. If you need friends, be friends with your own sex. Or with a lesbian woman. Do not try to be friends with an attractive woman. It does not work. If she agrees to such relation, she will want something. If it is not sex, she will want something else. Entertainment, perhaps. I do not know what. But she will want something from you. That is how attractive women are with men. Perhaps against their own will, or subconsciously only, but that is how they are. All of them. I have not met one single exception to this rule yet, and I have met quite a lot of attractive women, so I think my sampling experience is pretty representative of the whole lot.
[…]
So what is it that Sylvia wanted from me? I do not know. I think sheer entertainment. Chat. Some kind of fun that she probably cannot quite define herself either. Psychological comfort. Power over a man. Something like that. I cannot see what else she would have wanted from me. I do admit that I am surprised – shocked, to be honest – by the speed with which she got bored with me. I think it is because I asked her one or two more critical questions. I am good at complimenting women with their beauty and intelligence, but from time to time I do ask a critical question. About what they want. About a past relationship that may or may not be there. Her WhatsApp picture, for example, shows her on the boat of her ex-boyfriend: why would you have a profile picture with you on the boat of a guy whom you say you have separated from? Perhaps that is why she suggested Signal for chatting. A new app. I thought of red lips, white teeth: a smile, a new smile. For me only. But, no! She did not suggest a new app because she wanted her relationship with me to be exclusive. No. It was the complete opposite. Because she wanted her relationship with me to be non-exclusive. She want to keep all options open. Perhaps she has one guy for each app. Or more. I do not know how many she can handle. Probably just her current or ex-partner and me. Makes sense. For her. Not for me.
You will ask about the kiss and the hug. That must have been as real as it can possibly be, right? Yes. It was real. But a different kind of real for her and me, apparently. I asked her about when our chat was quickly spiraling down this morning. She said it was just ‘a feeling of the moment’. I admit that is a real feeling. But just one of the moment. For her. For me, the same reality was very different. I thought I had hit the jackpot and had finally found the kind intimate-but-not-sexual relationship I was looking for. Something that suddenly made me feel new. Awake. Like new beginnings or something. But nope. Wrong.
When I now think and write about that kiss and hug, and about how he and she felt about it (during the moment itself and the day(s) after), I must admit I suddenly feel very jealous of pretty women. Yes. They can just talk to a man two or three times, and then do whatever they want: hug him, kiss him, go to bed with him. They can take him. Immediately. For as long as they want. And the man will not complain about harassment. When a man would try to do that, she can call the police. Or another guy. Women can sexually harass men, but men harassing women is a total no-no. That is not an opinion, I feel. I think I am stating a fact here. It is part of the much-talked-about inequality between the sexes, but most would probably consider me stating this fact to be not politically-correct. It makes me think of a movie I should probably see again: Disclosure, with Michael Douglas and Demi Moore. It is an old movie. From 1994. But it anticipates current mentality very well, I think: a woman can sexually harass a man without any consequence, but a man cannot do the same with a woman. It is something to think about. Perhaps I should write a separate blog post on that.
You will probably not agree with what I write above, because you are a politically-correct thinking person. But think of the basics of the situation. Sylvia hugged me warmly and kissed me on the lips after two or three encounters only (three including the first encounter at the bar). And so, stupid as I am, I fall in love (whatever that means – something hormonal, I guess) and think: she is the woman of my life. I finally met her. And that gets reinforced the day after. And then she sleeps over it and tells me it was all just a ‘feeling of the moment’. You might say: you are lucky women hug and kiss you so quickly. And you are probably right. But now reverse the man and the woman in the situation. A man telling the woman after a night’s sleep that he has changed his mind. That the hug and the kiss were just a ‘feeling of the moment.’ That would sound like emotional abuse, wouldn’t it? So can you tell me the difference? Why is it acceptable that women move fast physically, but if men do the same, it is considered to be not-so-appropriate? You will now probably blubber something about social norms and all that, but I do not immediately see a compelling argument why swapping the man for the woman (and vice versa) in the situation that I am describing above should trigger a different moral judgment.
[…]
I will give you some more gory details about myself, which may or may not shock you (I do not care). I have been watching free porn lately. My doctor says sexual stimulation – imagining things and masturbation and all that – will help with sexual recovery. Especially with the testoterone-boosting medicine that I take: my body needs to get rid of all the testoterone somehow. I wrote about that already: it is not an easy treatment. The medicine makes your body want a lot of sex, but you cannot have it and all bodily tension must be dealt with otherwise. It is not as easy as it sounds.
Prostitutes are too expensive for me, but self-service in front of a screen is free and works fine. You feel relaxed and you sleep better at night. The past two days, I went on chaturbate sites before falling asleep: live women who talk to you and do everything you want while you keep paying prepaid tokens. I just watched and did not chat. The other men online are probably drunk because they spend a lot of money on these sites. You hear jackpot sounds inbetween the moaning of that beautiful woman all of the time, and dozens of emoticons and online comments popping up on the screen.
I look at it technically (I make a mental note of things I like) and finish the job at hand, mechanically (I come when she comes, or when she pretends to come). The job at hand? In this particular case, I should say: the job in hand. 🙂 Then I turn it off and do something considered to be more normal – like sleeping. Or getting back behind my computer. Or walking out and going to the gym. However, I am thinking now that it is actually much less expensive than a prostitute for an hour or so. A few hundred dollar of prepaid tokens go a long way. It is something I could afford. Like smoking a pack of cigarettes everyday. Or what other people would spend on booze (I do not drink). So perhaps I should try it. Those women do literally anything. The most amazing stuff. For close to nothing. And I have to content myself with virtual pleasures anyway in my current medical condition. Hence, watching them while they are doing anything you ask must feel great.
At the same time, I think I should not pay anything on those sites. Because it is not needed. The other online men who are peeping and beeping and chatting and putting tokens in pay enough, and all of the amazing stuff you can possibly imagine therefore happens anyway without me intervening. Also, intervening by putting in tokens and engaging would mean some kind of relationship with the red-hot woman who is doing all that amazing stuff. It would be like a SMS-relation but then with very vivid images on top of the sweet talk. […] OK. Correction: not on top of the talk because there is only moaning and other highly sensual and seductive sex noises. But then such noises are even better than words or emoticons in sweet SMS messages, no?
In any case, I do no longer want any relationship with a woman in my current state. Not after this very short-lived mini-disaster with Sylvia. Free online stuff that helps the self-service is sufficient. It may be all I need over the next year. Both emotionally as well as physically speaking. I will, therefore, probably not be spending money on sites, and definitely not on prostitutes. Buying finer rare tobacco (what tokens on a chaturbate site would cost me), or a new bike (what regular sex with a prostitute would cost me), is a better value proposition.
[…]
Next week, I have another appointment with the specialist treating my problem. He saved my life, and had explained the consequences of the surgery rather well beforehand: an 85% risk of permanent ED. As for the cancer itself, he told me upfront it was a genetic problem, but that he was confident the surgery would keep me free from cancer for at least five years, with a good chance that it would never ever come back and – if it did – doctors would be able to intervene much more quickly based on annual checks of cancer tracers in my blood. I did not have to think twice. I told him that sounds like a new 30-40 year lease of life for me, and to get on with it. The biopsy of all the tissue that was removed it was the right decision: right on time. PSA from 15.6 before the surgery to 0 now. As for the ED problem, I told him I did not care and that, coming from Afghanistan, I consider a 15% chance that things might work out rather good. I told him to instruct the surgeons to try to be conservative. 100% ED was fine for me too. Just get the cancer out: if it is my finger, cut my hand. If it is the hand, cut my arm. Do it. So now we are past all that. The surgeon told me the surgery was highly successful, and thanked me for the instructions and my attitude.
He and my specialists are nice guys. Highly intelligent. And very handsome (I am not sure why I am mentioning that). When we last met, my specialist was more optimistic about the 85%/15% chances because of my quick recovery of all of the wounds inside: I was up and running again – literally – in about six weeks. He thought that was impressive, and said that I should be patient. If medication would not help – if I cannot have an erection after six months or a year – only then I should start thinking about more radical solutions, like a penile implant. I will, therefore, be as patient as the doctor tells me to be. But let me tell you: I do look forward to the day I can fuck a woman again, with or without such implants (I actually think I want an implant anyway: I always wanted to have a larger penis, just like most men – so here is my chance, I guess). I think I want that woman to be a professional prostitute. Because it is clear: you pay, she gives you sex – does anything you want her to do for you. Literally everything. In one or two hours. And then the deal is over. Value for money. Just a happy celebration: I can fuck again.
The deal must be very simple for me because, despite me having had many relationships (usually great (or I think of them as great – again, I am always positive), but all ending not-so-great), I do not understand much about the deals that other women want to make. All those concepts like love and commitment and passion they talk about. These concepts are empty words. Action always speaks louder than words. And I have seen very little action from the women I had. Not when it comes to commitment and emotional support and passion and all of the other bullshit they talk about. Women just want friendship, sex, and then some extras – like some kind of material or financial security when they are giving up their career or job for you. Just like men. But then they pretend otherwise and that is the problem. In my humble opinion, that is. You may agree or disagree, and let me make a guess here: if you are a man, you will tend to agree. If you are a woman, you will tend to disagree. You can let me know in the comments.
Perhaps men and woman are different. Perhaps women need sex too but their need for sex is less immediate than that of a man. Perhaps that is why it is easier for them to use sex as a bargaining tool, and why they get a better deal out of the give-and-take in a relationship. Yes. That must be it. That makes sense. That is why most prostitutes are women. That is why one often sees older men with younger women – trophy women – but not so much an older woman with a younger long-term gigolo. Hence, I should just earn more money and get a long-term escort. That must be the key to relational happiness. 
Post scriptum (same day, but evening/late night/morning after): I just came back from a good hour on high-intensity spinning in my neighborhood gym. It felt good to sweat out all of the remaining Sylvia-hormones. I realize I am lucky. I am still attractive to women, apparently. Quick flirts. They all end badly, but I am enjoying it. And learning from it. I should have picked up on the signals earlier: she did talk about how difficult she had found it to end her relationship with her previous partner, and that she was still in touch with him. And that she actually should be alone for a while. To work to improve herself. There were other hints: she let me talk too much about myself, which I did not want to do but one has to keep the conversation going, right? And then she did not want to reach out on Facebook, and said she would not google me (which, of course, made me not google her). No. She went straight for the toothpaste: a Signal relationship. And then, at some point, in our exchanges, she said I should, perhaps, also see a psychologist. Just like her. Etcetera. Bullshit.
I actually do think I had picked up on all those signals, but subconsciously only. Which is why I asked more pointed questions on some things, and that then led to that weird lightning-like spiraling down. Which is good: it is better that stuff like that ends sooner rather than later.
Maybe God is teasing me with these little mishaps. He should. He should send me some fun. I feel entitled to it. When my brother died last year (from the same cancer that I survived – he did not want to go through the surgery, initially (because of the ED implication), and when he did, it was too late for surgery because of metastases in the kidneys, liver and other organs, perhaps – I felt like talking to God: why? I just lost my mom from cancer. Now my brother. And then I got the diagnosis, and I felt like I was talking to the Grim Reaper Himself. He was not grim. He felt OK. He just told me that, perhaps, my time had come too, and wondered what I thought about that. I told Him that, if my time had come, I felt OK about that: I have had a good life so far, so He can have it. I also told Him I would prefer to go to Hell rather than to His Heaven, because Heaven looked so boring from what we have been told about it, and that I would, therefore, prefer to kick ass in Hell rather than Heaven. I also told him I would not go with Him without putting up a fight, without kicking some more ass here on Earth. It is not that I do not want to with Him. It is just that I am not going out without a last bang. I will not die in bed. And surely not in a hospital bed. He said nothing and disappeared.
I do no longer feel Him in my life. Perhaps He does not quite know what to do with me. In any case, whatever He sends me my way now, I feel I can deal with it. Pleasant or unpleasant, things that smell like life, or smell like death. I do not care. I will make fun out of it. Cynically or ironically, perhaps, but it will be fun. Bring it on.
This is the fifth year since my divorce. My second divorce. A friend of mine – at the occasion of my first divorce – told me it takes five years to properly digest divorce. To get to closure. My second divorce was complicated by the demise of my mom. To be precise, it was, most probably, triggered by her death. And then it got more complicated because of other losses. Some of my friends like to add PTSD-like depression, because of my time in Afghanistan and all that. And alcoholism. Yes. Of course. I talked about alcoholism with Sylvia. She thinks she drinks too much. I gave her my definition of alcoholism: if you think you drink too much, you are an alcoholic. Drink. As much as you want. Keep up with drinking buddies. But if you feel it does not help you anymore, you should do something about it. I did.
Maybe my friends are right, and I am wrong. Maybe Sylvia is right, and I am wrong. Probably. According to the majority/minority definition of truth, they must be right and I must be wrong. But maybe not. I stick to my guns. We all suffer from something, don’t we? Just like we all need something.
I look at the images of the Taliban take-over in Afghanistan – rather painful for someone who put his heart and his soul into working there – and I am reminded of the futility of human life once more. I know one thing for sure now: the mourning is over. I am alive. Alive and kicking again. I feel a lot of heartbreak is still to come, but my heart is strong. It is the strongest muscle in my body now. I googled an image I like. I should add a song too. Let me think. Cold Chisel’s Khe Sanh, perhaps? Or Dido? This Land is Mine? Or her Sand in My Shoes? These were songs I sent Sylvia as part of the spiraling-down exchange. As you can see, I was polite. Very considerate. I did not tell her to just fuck off, even if that was what I may have thought. I will let you think of your own images and songs. And your own truth. That will be better.
I might discover some new music tomorrow night. Sylvia and I were supposed to go to a small concert. Sounds for the Soul: Stoemp. Something like that. I think I will go anyway. Damn! I am actually hoping to meet her there. What is wrong with me? I did not sweat all of the Sylvia-hormones, apparently. Or perhaps I just want to chat up another woman? Not sure. Perhaps I want to do both. Maybe, just maybe, I could even try to chat up Sylvia again. Chances are poor, but now I am strong again, and so that might make me more attractive to her again. To be frank, she thought I was bad. She is right. But she has no idea how bad I actually am. Much worse – or much better (again, I prefer to be positive and think rather nicely of myself) – than she can imagine.
The idea is this: she must have felt something, right? Even if it was only for a moment. If that butterfly was there, then it just flew away, right? And then I can find it again. The kiss on the lips was a feeling of the moment only? Then she might have another moment like that, right? 🙂
I admit: chances are poor now. Very poor. Much less than 15%. But I’ve gone in situations with much lower odds than that. I was paid rather handsomely in Afghanistan because I took on projects that no one else wanted because they were totally screwed up. And I turned them around. Not all of them, but enough to make me like trying the impossible. This is my fourteenth life. I won’t risk it, because of the warning my son gave me: “Dad, they say a cat has nine lives. You already used thirteen. You should watch out.” But I am sure going to have some more fun with this life. It may be my last one. Thirteen sounds bad, but 14 is an angel number. If I do not see Sylvia at the concert, I will ask my friend – the bar owner – for her number. He comes back from holidays in a week or so. Then things can settle down at her side too, and perhaps she will know what she wants in life. Who knows? What she wants might actually just be me. She just does not know it yet. Not yet. It might come.
I give it a 1.4% chance. I am always optimistic. Always. One has to be. The other option – just giving up after a reversal, dramatic or not – is totally unattractive. And then I am just not the type of guy who takes a simple “No! No way!” as an answer. I need a bit more to be scared away or be pushed aside. I am different. I am better. Not the best guy in the world, probably, but surely one of the better ones. I lost a battle. She drew a few drops of blood. But love is war. It is not one-shot. Let me see if I can get another shot. Dido’s lyrics: she may not let me into her heart, but this is my land here, and she may want to visit it again. 🙂
Let me search her on Facebook. See. There she is: same picture. Her on the boat of her so-called ex with her two kids. I will send her a message to tell her I will be there at the concert. Let us see if she shows up and, if so, how she reacts to my smile. It is not a Signal smile – I should do something about the color of my teeth (have them whitened too, perhaps) – but my friends and family find it pretty irresistible too. 🙂
[…]
OK. Message sent. I am not sure she will see it. She has turned off the friends option on FB, so I cannot friend her. Maybe she has turned the Messenger thing off as well. Let us see. I have got time. Plenty of time. And if it does not work, then it does not work and that will be it. I can only try. Win some, lose some. That is how it goes in life. And I have nothing to lose. When I met Sylvia, I was looking for love. Now I am only looking for a woman. Perhaps with some intimacy as well. But nothing more. Nothing that cannot be defined clearly. Not love. Things that feel safe. Intimacy. Not love. Things with clear borders based on the physicality of the situation and myself. Things that I can understand. It should, therefore, be fine and avoid further hurt.
Final note: I checked Messenger a couple of times. The messages are left unread and the app shows that Sylvia cannot be reached by Messenger. She must have seen a request to connect and declined. Hence, I decided not to go to the concert. I had vaguely hoped that she would drop by or contact me. She did not. I will not pursue her. I thought about it, again, and I have decided she is not worth my efforts.
This weekend sees the celebration of the Assumption of the (Virgin) Margin. Perhaps she can talk to her and go to Heaven with her. I wish her all the best in her search for whatever she is looking for. This was extremely short-lived but, as usual, the mourning involved as much time and energy as I got out of it, or put into it. I feel exhausted, but I know the wounds will heal rather quickly. I was a happy single before I met her. I will return to that state over the weekend. A long bike ride along the canal tomorrow will help. I am sure. It always does. I have learnt the hard lesson. Again. I will think of it as good practice. Wisdom and knowledge is good, but practice is better. Wisdom and knowledge help to know where you want to be, but only practice can get you there.
Talking about practice, I find considering the stages of grief quite useful. It is a model originally developed by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in the context of helping terminally ill people. She talks about it in her book on Death and Dying, which was written in 1969 (my year of birth). The stages include denial, anger and depression (there are some more but heartbreak is not exactly the same as being terminally ill). I often think I should have given more space to the feeling of anger to deal with past relationships. However, often you do not want to do that. When you have kids together, for example, you do not want to make things even more difficult for them by fighting over divorce (you probably fought already enough during marriage). Also, you even think you should be nice because the other person must be suffering as much from the breakup as you do, right? However, in a case like this, it is probably best to just not contact each other but allow yourself to be angry. To think: fuck you ! You did not deserve me anyway. It is more efficient than denial, and it helps greatly with acceptance. And then you are done: once you accepted the loss, you should not be sad anymore. You can then move on to the next disappointment.
[At the same time, I also note the experience – and allowing anger to play its role – adds to a misogynic element inside of me. I realize I may be in a state in which I both love and hate women. I am sure such attitude will add to the richness of my emotional life in the future and, hence, I look at it positively.]
Pure Mind 