The Psychiatrist, the Soul Mate and Me

This has been the most unusual, painful, and interesting summer. And it is almost over.

It started with the Psychiatrist. I loved him, briefly, intensely, in a desperate, chaotic way, from the end of winter until roughly Memorial Day weekend. He was not my psychiatrist, but rather a man, a very smart and intense and sad and lovely man. A man I want to say I was thrown upon, as we are each sometimes thrown upon the harsh rocks of life.

At the frightening end of our end, we went through several rounds of shredding at each other's fabric until each of us was in tattered ribbons. By the time the storm had calmed and I felt like I could breathe again, it was the end of June.

At exactly the same sad, weird time, I reconnected with a high school friend on Facebook. Beloved Z., or Thomas, as he is now known. I have already said too much about him in this space, and the less I can say, the better for my heart. If you want to know more about how it began, read http://thattimeofthelife.blogspot.com/2010_06_27_archive.html.

I've never told the story of how my affair with Thomas ended. It is too sad for telling. By which I mean, I can't tell it without remembering the depths of my grief at the very end. There is something about our connection with the past that is both spellbinding and beautiful and potentially deadly. Like a drug, it is hard to quit. Thomas was a powerful connection to my long-lost me.

The closest I want to come to describing our end is to say that this very dear old friend's departure from my life felt like learning you have terminal cancer at a dull weekday doctor's appointment. Speechless and heart-stopping and riveting in its quiet ordinariness. I had no idea it was going to end like this.

Grant that I never verify this comparison. I am even sorry for making it. But this is how it felt.

And my heart was already broken, recall. Broken heart upon broken heart was the straw that broke this camel's back. I found myself, one night after dance class, weeping as I walked along upper Broadway. I couldn't stop, and dance had become the only guaranteed--albeit brief--escape from my grieving. I walked home choking with tears, cooked myself dinner, still couldn't stop this painful leaking. The flood was unending. I became afraid that I would drown.

I remember sitting in the near-dark, staring at my telephone. The only person I could imagine talking to was--can you possibly understand this?--the Psychiatrist. I wanted him to tell me it was going to be all right. That the flood dries and morning comes and you want to eat a banana. I knew that he knew the blackness of the place I was in. We had talked about it, his experience of it, and I wanted him to throw me a line.

I called him. He didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, throw me a line. He yelled at me for calling and hung up. I later came to understand this. At the time, it felt like having a hot match held to a new burn.

Here is the point of all this.

Gradually, I came to understand what both men had in common. What both relationships had in common. How closely--did you know this was coming?--they resembled my troubled, ended marriage.

What they had in common was this: These men suffered from a lack of empathy so deep that in a pinch, they were able to forget, or ignore, that I existed. My existence, the reality of me, was relevant only in its ability to extinguish their own needs, to brighten their own dark places.

The point, lovely people, is that the story of a man with a lack of empathy so deep that he can even temporarily forget or ignore your existence in the service of his needs is profound. This is not the story of a man who is an asshole. It is the story of a man who is sick.

The point is that being part of his story means that you are sick, too. It means you are a little bit crazy, I think. I see now that I spent the summer of 2010 more than a little bit crazy.

I have good hope, however. As one of my favorite writers said, eventually, you will realize you've come out of the craziness:
You will have been rescued, but won't remember precisely how or when. You will look up from what you are reading and notice that the wind has died down. You will notice that you don't feel quite so insane. You will already have changed. The moment of your rescue will have passed without much notice.

I do not know that I am rescued. I do know that the wind has died down. I don't feel so insane. The ache inside of me is a dull annoyance that sometimes doesn't gnaw at all.

I know that I stood on a busy sidewalk in midtown kissing a man with lovely eyes just a couple of nights ago, and that this is a man I happen to like quite a bit. I feel sweet and not urgent about this. This is a good, different feeling.

I also know that I am seeing another man whose body I enjoy just slightly more than his company. Both are absolutely perfect when taken in short, unexpected bursts. This is another new, good, very different feeling.

If this is rescue, I think I am getting there.

It's Expiration.

I made it (http://thattimeofthelife.blogspot.com/2010_05_23_archive.html).

I will be awash in thoughts of him today, no doubt. Swimming in a sea of thoughts. But it is warm now, this sea. No longer scalding. As for the deep freeze...well, it could be better and it could be worse.

That's not so bad. Right?