(Cole: 7/14/14)
Hola a todos!
A lot has transpired since I last wrote, so I’m just going to jump into it. I hope that everyone is doing well, and that my sudden, voracious desire to write is as pleasing to any follower of this blog as it is to me!
I have decided to revert somewhat back to my former self, that is, the person I was before my life sort of fell apart, and also, before my heart decided it was for some random reason ok for me to fall in love and become ridiculous. I miss the person I was before. She was pretty carefree and kick ass, so, after some thought, I decided I would just become her again, that is, the me I have always been on the inside, but somehow lost touch with.
As much as I hate to admit it, this process is not as easy as simply flipping a switch. Some changes did need to occur. Primarily, I tried to turn off the love part of me, and revert back to being the Tin Man. This reference will not really make sense to people who don’t know me personally, so I will explain how I got the nickname the Tin Man in the first place, and then continue on from there…
It was early in the morning while working an outage at the nuke plant. We were doing “stretch and flex”. Stretch and flex is not an OSHA required activity, it’s just something to do after the morning meeting and before going out into the field. It helps loosen one up and keep one limber throughout the day. It was nice, and I never had any aversion or opposition to doing a few stretches and yoga poses before inspecting the forklift and commencing my morning routine. Work started at 6:30, so stretch and flex typically started around 7:00 AM. No, 7:00 AM isn’t all that early, but to me, it’s too early to have to listen to a sob story or to have to care about anything more than my duties for the day, how my dog is getting along at home alone without me, and what I would make myself for dinner that night when I got off work. So, when a coworker of mine started recounting the horrors of the news, and started welling up with tears about how some pilot had to eject from his jet, and how his jet had crashed into a house and the family was still inside and Oh the horror! Etc, (obviously she was a female), I was just SO not in the mood for tears, so I played devil’s advocate. I hate emotions, hate showing emotions, and even more so at work, where one should always be calm, rational, and professional. Save the tears for later, honey, and keep your personal struggles to yourself!
Without even giving much thought to what I was saying I suddenly just spewed out “well maybe the family wasn’t a very good family. Maybe they were bad people. For all we know, they could have had a kiddy porn dungeon in their basement, huh?” and I looked around for agreement.
All of the sudden, conversation stopped, and all eyes were on me. What the hell, at least it stopped that chick from crying! Everyone was so offended by what I had said that the tears stopped flowing and the sad, tragic words were stifled. Mission accomplished! But from that day out, my boss referred to me as the Tin Man, and it was a title that I gladly adopted. I mean, think about it. If you could be any of the three half wits from the Wizard of Oz, which would you rather be? Sure, the Tin Man had no heart, but isn’t that better than being the Scarecrow who had no brain, or the Lion who had no courage? I’d rather be heartless than stupid, or a coward!
To be a coward means you have no balls, no convictions, too much fear to strive to achieve your goals, dreams, and aspirations in life. To be the Scarecrow, well, there is the saying that ignorance is bliss, and maybe it is, but I’m sorry, I’d rather be too informed and disenchanted with the world than to be walking around ignorant and being taken for a fool. If you ask me, being heartless is the best of the three options…
I’m so overwhelmed that I don’t even know where to begin, so I suppose I’ll start with the reason I decided I needed to make some changes within myself, and why I decided I needed to find “me” again. I know I said that I would try to not write about the Rapist anymore, but fuck it! He isn’t cooperating with me the way I would like him to, so I will not cooperate with him either. He can read it and weep, for all I care. Compromise is a two way street!
He is ready, willing, and more than capable of providing me with what I need physically, but emotionally is still another story…
Not to sound repetitive, as I have written about this before, many posts ago, but some things need to be reiterated. In the beginning, it was nothing but business between the Rapist and I. That is to say, nothing but sex. Emotions were not an option, because I didn’t want them to be. I did not want emotions, and I don’t think he did either. I was more “businesslike” than he was, and when he started asking me to be sweeter, nicer, calmer, and to stop saying “fuck you!” every other sentence, I was reluctant and hesitant to let my guard down, but in the end, I finally did, and he and I grew very close.
Now that the Rapist and I are officially out of the closet and dating openly, and since he practically beat the “nice” out of me, I would expect the same compromise, but he does not grant me the satisfaction. I have several theories as to why. It’s because of things I told him about myself very early on. It’s because of information he has gleaned from my ex-husband Martychist (before he found out that he and I were seeing each other, probably read my blog posts, and now, apparently, they want to beat the shit out of each other, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why my ex cares. Earth to Martychist, you have a wife and child. Move on!), and it’s because he thinks if he treats me too nicely I will no longer respect him, lose interest, and will shit on his soul, much the way I (inadvertently) did to my ex. (The Tin Man follows me everywhere I go!)
I must admit, the not wanting your soul to get raped and shit on is a pretty good deterrent, but in my defense, my ex was warned about me before I had even returned to the United States from France. When word got out that “Cole” was coming back to work, Martychist asked who I was and the general response was: No. Don’t even think about it. She’ll tear you apart.
And in the end, that is exactly what happened. Whether I meant to or not doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. Everyone told him to stay the hell away from me, but he just couldn’t resist. It’s not my fault he couldn’t help playing with fire. His mistake was in thinking he could tame the flames, and perhaps eventually squelch them. I need someone who is willing to burn equally and as brightly beside me, not try to extinguish me.
So maybe the Rapist behaves the way he does as a way of protecting himself. He loves me, but just because he does doesn’t mean that he wants to, or that he is comfortable with his level of love for me. He probably doesn’t want to love me at all. I really can’t blame him, even though I know that my sentiments toward him are different than anything I have ever felt before. It makes sense that he would want to take precautions with a person with my track record, history, and bad reputation for "shattering" people.
From what I know of his past two serious relationships before me, he typically dated conservative, nurturing, mother types, 15-25 years older than him. Women who undoubtedly took very good care of him, but whom he obviously had no realistic future with. He was the cute, young one in the relationship. It was safe. I mean, where were they going to go? At this point in his life, I'm hardly the safest person to be investing his heart into. He may still be cute, even gorgeous, in my eyes, but he is no longer the young one. He is the selfish, crabby old man, and sometimes I wonder if that bothers him. I couldn't possibly be more unlike his previous girlfriends. I wonder if he thinks he is no longer in a "safe" relationship, now that he is with me. Does he doubt my love for him as I often doubt his love for me???
This radical new thought that only just occurred to me reminds me of a time shortly after the Rapist and I had come out of the closet, started going out together, and having sleepovers. We had just spent a couple of awesome days together, and as he was getting dressed to walk me out to my car, I laid down on his bed. Once he was dressed he came over to me, layed on top of me, and smothered me with hugs and kisses. We laid together like that for a while, and then I heard him murmur “why are you doing this to me?” In typical Cole fashion, I was too absent minded in the present moment to ask what he meant, I just laid there not thinking, only to obsess over his words later, to dissect, to comprehend. As I understand it now, I think he meant “why are you making me fall in love with you?” I think that while he may be comfortable dating me, he doesn’t want to lose his head. He wants to keep his heart protected, so he fights his sentiment for me by being an asshole, even though sometimes he does let his guard down, and he is absolutely amazing to me, and my heart swells and I feel like I’m going to drown in a waterfall of icky love emotions!
“You’re so nice and you’re so smart
You’re such a good friend I have to break your heart
I’ll tell you that I love you
then I’ll tear your world apart
Just pretend I didn’t tear your world apart”
I don’t really care what the reason is anymore, all I care about is that he needs to start treating me better and giving me the same respect I give him, or I’m done with his selfish, crabby old man ass! Yes, I do love him, but sometimes, love just isn’t enough. For a long time, I thought love might be enough, but I changed my mind. Love should be enough, but not when there does not also exist a mutual exchange of respect. I do not and will not tolerate being disrespected. My time is just as valuable as his time!
I have always said that the things I love about him, the moments, the gestures, it’s all about the little, seemingly insignificant things, but it’s the same on the opposite end of the spectrum. The seemingly insignificant moments of wasting my fucking time, count just as significantly in my book.
I will not go into intimate detail here, as it is unnecessary, but I do feel that he had wasted my time enough or else not granted me enough respect for me to decide to take a break from him for a while. At some point in late June I told him that he was no longer making me happy and I asked him to not contact me again until I contacted him. What I wanted was to break up with him, but not wanting to be the “girl who cried break up” yet again, as I have unsuccessfully tried to break up with him I don’t know how many times before, I thought just asking for a break would be taken more seriously. He obeyed. For a while…
Not wanting to think about the Rapist, what breaking up with him would do to my vagina, and just basically wanting to be the carefree person I was before, who didn’t really care about anyone but myself, I thought the best course of action would be to fill my life with distractions, and that is exactly what I did. I told him to leave me the fuck alone the evening of Friday, June 27th. My mission was simple: Stop giving a fuck about anything, revert to Tin Man mentality, and stay as busy as possible!
0 FUCKS!!!
I succeeded exceptionally! I worked in Santa Maria again on Saturday, with people I love, working on a house they were renting out, came home, and went out with Marge to a bar to see this awesome band play. The next morning, I went to the house of a female friend of mine. I’ll call her “Mother Hen”. Mother Hen is married and has children, but she also is kind and generous enough to house another friend of mine, a little older than I, in a trailer on her property. We’ll call him the “Tempest”.
So I was already hungover the morning of the 29’th, but I succeed in awaking the tempest and convincing him to pick me up to bring me back to Mother Hen’s to watch the game. We all watched the game together. The Tempest, Mother Hen, her children, and I, but later that day, knowing that the next day was a holiday and I had to work, I bribed Wednesday Addams into picking my drunk ass up.
The next day I went back to Santa Maria, worked, and didn’t even bother to shower, just grabbed my dog and went back to Mother Hen’s to soak in her hot tub, eat, drink, be merry, and be alive with plenty of beer in the fridge to wake up to in the morning and to only have to wipe the sleep boogers from eyes and turn on the TV at around 8:30 to catch the pre-game footage of whatever match was going to be on that day. It was fucking World Cup! I didn’t really care what else was going on in the world, either with me and the Rapist, or global warming, or politics. It was the Olympics of Soccer! What in the hell else could I have possibly cared about?!
My social and work life was basically chaos from the moment I told the Rapist to fuck off. I didn’t want to have time to think about him, so I filled my life with distractions. I burned the proverbial candle at both ends, got very little sleep when I did get it, and half the time I spent sleeping on Mother Hen’s leather couch instead of in my own bed, which is great for watching soccer on, but unless I was so inebriated I passed out on her couch, which I was not on any of those nights, it can be quite an uncomfortable place to get any sort of quality sleep.
Back to work after four or five fitful hours of sleep, then back to Mother Hen’s straight from work on Monday, June 30’th. I picked up my dog and a couple of 12 packs of beer, only thinking about soccer, and seeing my friends that I very rarely see. I simply would not allow myself to think of anything or anyone else. Besides, after so much stress between the Rapist and I, and knowing how he likes to keep me tucked away in a quiet corner of his life, it was nice to spend some time with people who think I’m awesome and aren’t afraid to parade their love for me around other people. It was nice to be with people who made me feel loved and respected. The rapist can try to hide me all he likes, but in the end, he will miss out. I thought about the Rapist as seldom as possible, though I did discuss him a bit, with my friends. Occupational hazard of loving someone, I suppose…
I spent two nights in a row at Mother Hen’s. It’s very pleasant, having friends who have children. Many of my friends have children, and I think it’s because they have children that they have this special capacity to care for you, feed you, dote on you, and make sure you are well taken care of. Friends with children go above and beyond the “normal” call of friendship duty. Marge certainly takes care of me. I think it’s friends who have children who are the most tolerant of your ridiculous ways. They are patient, and can listen to you bitch about the same bullshit you’ve bitched about hundreds of times while at the same time making sure your well fed and comfortable. Friends with children are tolerant, and I needed to be around people who could tolerate me.
I requested the first of July off from work. The U.S. was playing against Belgium, and I didn’t want to miss the game. I won’t deny that I was kind of a piece of shit during the World Cup. If work wasn’t offered to me, I didn’t exactly seek it out. My name may have been on the “hot list’, but if my cell didn’t ring, I didn’t weep.
The staying busy and catching up with friends worked very well, as did two to three matches a day. I rarely thought about the Rapist while I was busy with friends. I didn’t want to, so I simply did not. It wasn’t exactly easy reverting back to my Tin Man ways, but it wasn’t difficult either. I knew how to keep myself occupied, especially with World Cup going on, and rarely seen friends to distract me. He almost didn’t exist at all anymore. Almost...
The day of the U.S. vs. Belgium match, the Tempest knew of some friends across the way from Mother Hen’s that had a pool, and had dragged their big flat screen out to watch the match, poolside. These were winery people, people that I should network with, but all I really cared about was the match, but at half time, I ran over with him, and I dove into the pool, grabbed a raft, and positioned myself directly in front of the TV. The U.S. may have lost that day, but I networked my ass off, mostly VIA shoving random dudes into the pool and later, playing spades, drinking, smoking, and basically just talking shit until the sun went down, it got cold outside, and I knew I had to work the next morning doing landscaping, and called it a night. So I somewhat reluctantly returned to Mother Hen’s, soaked in the hot tub with her for a bit while the Tempest sulked in his trailer for some reason, and then I went to bed on Mother Hen’s couch, woke up at five AM the next morning, and went back to work.
For about a week straight, it was nothing but work and fun, and I allowed myself no downtime in-between. I knew I needed to keep busy. I ran myself into the ground. I got about five hours of sleep per night, on a good night, and if I wasn’t at Mother Hen’s, watching a match, I was out with Marge, watching a band. I stayed up late, got no sleep, woke up early, and worked or else watched the next match to see who would continue on in the World Cup and who would be eliminated. I stayed so busy that nothing else mattered. That is until July 4th.
On July 4th I still didn’t care about anything but the World Cup, however, I had been out gallivanting with Marge the night before, was hungover, just wanted to watch the couple of matches that were on that day, but some kick ass, awesome landscape people I had been working with were BBQ’ing at their place, and my desire to stay busy and hang out with some rad people that were the same age as me and respected me overwhelmed my desire to stay home and do nothing, despite my hangover. I grabbed my dog, went over at half time, watched the second half of the game, and started drinking and BBQ'ing at their place, but it didn’t take long for the Rapist to contact me. And here I thought that surely he would have been out partying with friends, not thinking about me at all either, but he was alone, drinking a beer in his backyard with his dog. I MUST get a firmer grasp on reality!
At that point my name may as well have been “moth” and his name “flame”. I was just buzzed enough to care when he texted. No, that’s not true. When he texted my heart did a cartwheel, and then a back flip, I was so happy to hear from him, but I tried to stay strong and ignore him.
He wrote: “Can we talk now?”
And then: “Please.”
After ignoring his first and second phone call I finally texted back: “Why?” I simply could not ignore him any longer. I blame the few shots of whiskey and I don’t know how many beers I had consumed up to that point. My desire to make him suffer was not as strong as my desire to communicate with him. I had missed him SO much! Especially after a week of not communicating at all.
I was aloof enough at first, sure, but as always, he wormed his way back in. He tried to call a few more times, and though I was strong in ignoring his phone calls, he and I exchanged via text just enough for me to throw in the towel. All my previous convictions went out the window and a barrage of texts began to be exchanged between us. I was strong at first, sure. But he persuaded me. I was cold and aloof, but he begged to see me. He promised me things would be different. He promised that he would change. He admitted that he was a huge, selfish dick, but that he loved me and wanted to see me. He promised that he could be “comfortable” with me, promised that he would no longer ask me to hide my car in his garage when it was his carpooler’s day to drive, he even invited me to go to Tahoe with him and his family (though I’m not sure I believe the sincerity of this invitation). He promised a lot of things, but as always, he was full of shit.
To this day I wish that I hadn’t faltered. I wish that I had been strong enough to ignore him and to continue to pretend he didn’t exist, to treat him as callously as he most often, though not always, treats me, but at that point, I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to see him, kiss him, fuck him, sleep with him. It didn’t matter how much I hated him. I still loved him more. I missed him. I did.
The next morning, after sex, coffee, a New York Times, and breakfast out (he wouldn’t give me the 75 cents to buy a voodoo doll out of the vending machine. Said I would probably use it on him, which is true…), he asked what time he should take me home. I was somewhat shocked that he wanted to take me home already. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other for a week, had a nice night, yes, but passed out early, drunk, slept in a little, and only spent a few hours together that morning. There was a match on that day, and I had thought that he would want to watch it with me, but apparently he had more important things to do.
I was pretty hurt, then pissed. What about all the things he had promised me the day before? I told him I wished he hadn’t bothered me. Said I wished he had just left me the fuck alone like I had asked him to. He explained that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with me, just that he had things to do. He was going dirt biking the next morning, needed to get gas, prepare his bike, get all his shit together etc. To a rational person, these would be very reasonable arguments, and if he were anyone other than the Rapist, I wouldn’t have cared, but since he is the Rapist, and when I’m around him it seems as if my neurons fire on something other than rationality, I was irate. I told him we were fucking done. That I was sick of his bullshit and that he would never change as he so often says he will.
I think he could tell by the look on my face and the tone of my voice that that time, I wasn’t crying wolf. He knew that if he took me home at that moment, I would not speak to him again. He told me he wanted me to stay. I said ‘why in the fuck would I want to stay here with you now? You don’t want me here. Take me home! There’s a match I want to see and it starts in 30 minutes.’
He told me that it wasn’t true that he didn’t want me to stay, that he just needed to get gas for his dirt bike and then we could walk to Sweet Springs to watch the match. Again, I told him to take me home, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said I could either stay at his house while he got gas or I could go with him, but he wasn’t taking me home. He would either take me in the morning before dirt biking or, if I wanted to sleep in, after he got back. So basically, I was being held hostage, as I didn’t have my car with me and didn’t have money for a cab. I was still pissed, but reluctantly went with him to get gas, and then we walked to Sweet Springs. I have zero fucking convictions when it comes to this man!
Once the match started, shots and beers were purchased, and the Rapist and I were loving on each other, watching the game, and shooting the shit with random strangers, I could see how much fun he was having, feel how much fun I was having, and my anger subsided. Yes, he’s a dick, but sometimes, I don’t think he does it on purpose. He’s just a crabby, selfish man who only thinks about himself, likes his routine, likes things done a certain way, who also happens to love me and doesn’t want to lose me. In a way, I’m exactly like he is, so why do I get so pissed off at him for having similar character “flaws”? I just have to decide if I am capable of putting up with his constant bullshit without flying off the handle all the time, and misinterpreting his selfishness as a lack of love for me.
As Marge so perfectly worded it: 'You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit. Meaning, take it as it is honey, and stop complaining, or else stick to your convictions that you deserve to be treated better and move on! It is what it is, and as long as you continue to falter, nothing will ever change', and she's right. I thought she was mad at me for caving, yet again!!! But she assured me she wasn't. She said that I was mad at me, and she was right. I was mad at me for caving. I still am. And she wasn’t buying my “being held hostage” story, though it was sort of true! She said he didn’t hold me hostage, my vagina did, which is also partly true. I mean, he did refuse to take me home on July fifth, but if it hadn’t been for my vagina (and my heart) I wouldn’t have been in that position in the first place. I guess in a way, the Rapist is a fucking wizard, or at least the Wizard of Oz, because he is the only person capable of eradicating the Tin Man inside of me and forcing me to see that I do, indeed, have a heart…
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