Femiphobia Continued

Part 2 of a story I am writing titled Femiphobia....

I just can't seem to bring my hand down on the regrets box. I had a flash back of junior high, check “yes” if you love me, “no” if you don't. Before I could think anymore, I checked yes, plus one. I ran back downstairs and dropped it in the outgoing mail before I could change my decision. On my way back up I realized my error. Plus one! What was I thinking? Was I really thinking that I'd have someone worthwhile to bring with me in just a few short months? It was bad enough I checked “yes” I love you...but did someone really have to come along for the humiliation? This wasn't a class reunion. I didn't need to prove how successful I'd been in the last eight years. “Yes, hello, congrats on your marriage, the ceremony was beautiful, and yes, this man next to me is my date. I had to pay him to come along because I was afraid you'd think I was pathetic and alone. That, and I didn't know if you would allow my cat to come.” I mean, sure, that may not be as bad as going alone. There isn't much more I hate than sitting at a table full of people I don't know, tinkling my glass for someone to make out in front of me that I know won't even remember I came. Well, at least past the point of “so glad you could make it” and then later when they write the thank you card for the impersonal gift off of their registry. As if I just happened to guess what the color of towels they would love to have in their bathroom.

I finished off my tea, now cold, telling myself to forget about the invitation and the impending doomsday celebration. I should be thankful, I could be a bridesmaid and have to spend every weekend until the wedding thinking, talking and prepping for that day. My checklist was much shorter. Find a dress, a date, and a gift. A date? This could possibly require as much preparation as the entire courtship and engagement story of the future wedded couple. I caught a glimpse of my reflection again, and stopped to peer closer. Starting with my hair, eyebrows and cleansing routine. This is the trouble with relationships.

Now, in the world of women, the perfect story line to my dilemma would be for me to go to the wedding alone, meet Mr. Perfection, who just happened to not be able to find a plus one as well. We would dance the night away, oblivious to the drunken line dancing and chicken dances, because new romance and wedding magic would be spiking the very air that we'd breathe. Or another acceptable story, would be Ms. Bride to call, she had received my RSVP and would continue to tell me about her maid of honor who contracted a contagious disease, incapacitating her through the date of the wedding. She would beg me to fill in, ironically tying me to the wedding every weekend until the ceremony. But again the story would end happily, despite annoyances and misunderstandings along the way. The best man would be single and amazing and we'd live happily ever after. Of course, first we'd fight publicly and he'd chase me down, probably in a cab, and it would rain. But still would end happily. Unfortunately my life is not written by overpaid screen writers. There will be no regurgitated story line with different half-baked but beautiful talent for all of us heart starved women. My life, well, it doesn't seem to be written at all, just absently and tragically shaped by my decisions based on past and jaded experiences.

I wonder what is wrong with me sometimes. Why I have built these walls so thick that people can cause a small panic attack when they get too close. It reminds me of those signs at the zoo, warning parents to not let their children wander off alone, not to feed the animals, or get too close to the bars. If they get too close, will I end up hurting them? Or being the one who is hurt?

Secretly I hold out for some of those lost friendships. Its usually the ones that hurt the most that are the hardest to let go. Its amazing how some friendships that end hurt as badly as if you were in love. Sometimes I like to lay in bed and daydream that I run into one of those lost persons again. They ask how I am, and then once the small talk is out of the way, we dive into regrets and forgiveness and how we've been unable to function without each other. The pain we caused each other seems to disappear, because we know that we are kindred hearts that are meant to be together. And there is joy, and I can once again be myself on the outside. Whether its the little girl that is real, or someone else I'd like to be, they won't leave. And the insecurities no long incapacitate me, and tears of loneliness are not wet on my face, and are not leaving pools on my pillow. But I realize that the tears are there, and the loneliness is as sharp as when I began to daydream, and that person will never be there again. They wouldn't even answer if I called.

I always had such high expectations for myself. But now I am a cold, paralyzed, mediocre woman who is afraid of people. Or even to go to a wedding alone. What has happened to the expectation? I always knew I had potential, but as I get older, potential is not enough. Potential should be turning into results, dreams should be moving from abstract and into reality. But I am average, and scared, and hurt, and alone.

I put a magnet to the wedding invitation. I wash my breakfast dishes, refill my cup with more tea, and wonder what I should do next. Flipping through my contacts in my cellphone, I try to choose someone to call. If ever I am going to get out of this mediocrity, I am going to have to do something to change it. There has to be someone with whom I could have a clean slate. Someone who doesn't know what I've done, or not done. I snap the phone shut in frustration. Maybe I should volunteer, take a class, what does one do when they have purpose in their life?

Maybe I just needed to enjoy life more. Life begins to become so scheduled, planned and expected, perhaps I needed to stop and smell life, even if it wasn't much like roses and more like the food smell in the hallway.

It didn't seem like I was going to be able to solve my life's disappointment in one morning, so I began to accomplish my checklist. Life's tasks were always something I could count on and control. Laundry and dishes and grocery shopping filled the rest of my day, but still there was a nagging sense that there had to be more to come home to. More to do in my life. I smiled at clerks, and made polite conversation, but the scared little girl was sick of hiding. I was tired of pretending everything was okay and making sure that I was socially unobtrusive.

Throughout the day I would automatically respond to inquiries to my state of being with I'm fine, and you? This would only make me more frustrated. Why do I say I'm doing well, when I'm not? Is it really because I don't think they'll want to know? Or am I afraid if I crack that door, ever so slightly, the whole rush of pain will come spilling out on them. What would they think of me if my crazy smeared itself all over their day?

I read somewhere that you should write a letter to someone to grieve a past relationship, to say goodbye. Something about the therapeutic qualities of truth being put into words. You never send the letter, you just write it for yourself. I always thought that sounded strange, and scary. As silly as it sounds, what if someone read it? What if they knew it was about them? Would it just reinforce my pity party? But being completely fed up with myself, I decided to sit down and write my letters. And so I began apologizing to each and every person that I had let down, that had in turn hurt me. And so, to my friends, I'm sorry I've hurt you, I'm sorry if you see yourself in these letters. I'm sorry if you read this, but I need to forget you. I need you to leave my daydreams, my hopes need to be dashed that you'll ever care again, that you'll ever answer my call. Hope is a perilous companion. I'm not sure if I can let go, but I'm afraid that I'll never trust anyone again if I don't kill the hope of your friendship. I will change your names, so maybe you can fool yourself that it is about someone else. Or so others won't know how horrible our time as friends has been.

Dear Jackie,

I hate you. I hate that you turned my friends against me. I knew that you were all whispering lies, and for what? For a guy. If it was for revenge, I do not know for what you were paying me back. You're married now, probably having babies, he's married too, and you are not married to each other. And I don't speak to either of you now.

You e-mailed me a few years back, saying we should get together someday soon. As if nothing had happened. You stole two of my best friends. And yes, you were one of them. You were the friend who allowed me to be myself. Or so I thought. I told you the secrets of every dark corner in my life. With you I could be crazy, and happy and carefree. Absolutely ridiculous, and I loved you for that.

I know I hurt him, and you pounced on the opportunity to be the better woman. You added salt to his wound, and told him that the salt was from me. You preyed on his anger and his frustration. And you began to believe the lies you shared. You told my secrets, the darkest stories that later I had to act incredulous about. I lied. I told them you were trying to steal him away so you made up stories. And I was so ashamed, that the stories were real, that I had trusted you.

And now you are happy, married, and I'm assuming he is happy, and married. And I look back on that day that changed our friendships. I was a terrible person, controlling and impatient, but you loved him and yourself more than you loved me. You pounced on my imperfections and capitlized on them for your gain. I don't think you intended to, not at first. But once you started, it became easier. I believe you truly were listening to my secrets and cried with me when I told you, not maliciously storing the information for your gain, but when the opportunity presented itself, I had given you all of the ammunition you needed.

I loved him. For years we danced through loving each other at opposite moments, for years it went on. And you pounced. I will write to him as well, and I will forgive him, because I know he just couldn't handle the pain anymore and for that I do not blame him. But I blame you. And no, I don't think we should get together someday soon. I will not fake a smile for you. Congratulations on your marriage. I hope you will ride away into the sunset together. So far away that I never see you again.

Sincerely,

Me.

Dear Boy that I loved,

I never knew if we were meant to be or not. It seemed that we were. We each lived through watching other people take our time and love, but when we loved each other, the times never seemed to coincide. Until one day they did, but then a half of a breath later, you chose her, over me, because I think we both knew we would just hurt each other again, but with her...there was always that chance. I am sorry that I was so oblivious. I am sorry I played those games. I'm sorry I lost your friendship. You were my innocence. You were the real thing. And I took you for granted, searched the faces and hearts of others for the love that was always right in front of me.

But you hurt me too. And most of all, knowing that you are happy without me, and I am alone, that is what makes me so angry with you. And you believed all of those lies that Jackie told you. She gave you the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. To think you believed the worst of me. You, the one that really knew my heart. Well dear friend, I am sorry, and I say goodbye. You will always haunt my daydreams.

With regret,

Me

Femiphobia

A story that I am starting....tell me what you think! Or if you have a desire to where to story should go! I always need ideas.

To my friends, I am sorry. I beg your forgiveness for who I am. I have disappointed you, or scared you, or offended you until you've all slipped away. And for that I am grieved. I am sorry that your love was not unconditional. I'm sorry that your perfection could not play with my tainted spirit. Maybe I deserved you with your lack of patience, and understanding. Sowing what I was reaping, but still, I am sorry that you left, and despite my faults, I still love you.

Friends, lovers, neighbors, classmates, all the relationships that are meant to come and go; but do they have to go so quickly? I find myself, now thirty years old, unable to have hope in new relationships. I'm afraid that soon I'll be the cat lady, people finding me too eccentric to fit into their schedule. I am left with aching memories and an album of bitter snapshots.

I've heard from many women a familiar story of pain from the circling vultures called female friends. But can you be friends with a creature that preys on the death of others? Femiphobia, how ridiculous that we have to fear our own kind. But for me, I have a fear of all relationships, male or female. On the outside, when needed, I can be socially acceptable, gregariously outgoing, but inside the little girl shrinks in fear at the outstretched hand or welcoming hello. And God forbid the probing questions of how that little girl feels or her opinion on the world's events. I try to protect her with small talk and shallow bits and pieces of myself, but inevitably someone always tries to get too close, and I have to quickly excusing us, the big girl on the outside and the small girl crying on the inside, to the restroom, or to the other side of the room where there is another person I just remembered I need to speak with immediately.

This morning is like many other mornings. I have the day off and my list is a mile long of things to eat up my time, but I find myself lethargic and nostalgic. I see pictures from when I used to be the center of attention, the breath and life to the party, and I wonder how I fooled them all to ignore my faults back then. I make myself a cup of tea, a dash of milk, half a spoon of sugar and stare at my apartment. The tea burns my lips but is already in my mouth before I can stop it, and now my tongue is scalded as well. That is how I see my time with people. Warm and inviting, smelling of roses or mint, but once they get past my closed mouth they burn me from the inside.

The doorbell buzzes and I almost drop my cup. I glance in the mirror, hair pulled into a ponytail but still disheveled, no makeup. At least I had enough time to slip into some jeans and a sweater. Oh well, I open the door but the hall is empty. I look left, the smell of unidentifiable food and muffled television noise dancing around me, but all I can see is someone's coat and boots slipping out the front door. I look down, a package. I have the sharp childlike thrill of expectation and wonder at the brown box. I pick up the mystery, but when I see the return label, I remember the order I put in last week for some new books. And my Christmas moment is over. I close the door but the package reminds me I haven't gotten my mail in two days. The small mail box must be about to burst. I slip on some shoes, grab my keys and open the door to more smells, more daytime television. How can food smell so badly? I wonder if my neighbors really can't cook, or if its the hallway's fault for the offensive mixture of odor. I breathe through my mouth, creaking down the stairs until I get to the rows of garish gold boxes. My box is full, I assume with bills and other not very exciting surprises. I flip through the pile as I shuffle back upstairs. Bill, junk, bill, and oh, the unmistakable thick and expensive paper of an invitation. That's right, the season of weddings is approaching. I toss the pile on the counter and try to ignore the bulging envelope, pretty pink and pearl. Who is it this spring? The only thing more depressing are baby announcements. Wedding invitations usually just make me mad. People you haven't spoken to in years pay way too much money to kill way too many trees to make the perfect invitation for the people they know won't come. But hopefully, this expensive investment will at least reap for them a gift of cash, or at least the jealousy of all their former vultures. I mean friends. And if they are good enough friends or family to feel obligated to come, the pretty wrapping is thrown in the trash, the invitation stuck the refrigerator, partially covered with photos and grocery lists until the appropriate day it joins the rest of the expense in the trash. What a waste of money. Despite my cynicism, I know eventually I'll give in and tear through card stock and tissue paper.

In fact, I am already walking towards the counter and towards the sparkling paper. I am sick at myself and my morbid girl curiosity. I tear open the envelope, the pearl and pink's magical embossing reveals the name of a girl I knew from college. Which, by the way, I graduated from eight years ago. Two years longer than the last time I've seen her or heard her voice.

I start to throw the invitation in the trash when a pang of guilt overcomes me. What was I thinking, I should at least RSVP that I wouldn't be there. But if she thinks she's getting a gift, she's got another thing coming...I pick up a pen and the RSVP card, my hand wavering above the check box.

To be continued....