Dinner was great. I courageously asked her over to my place, and she agreed. “This is a nice place,” she said. It might as well have been the set of a sitcom. The wall art. The coffee table. A full book shelf. All of it meant to convey a sense of normalcy. Stability. But it’s all a facade, another attempt to hide the internal from becoming external. But lately, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to submerge the dysfunction. Slowly it is seeping through my pores. “Leif Erikson” by Interpol begins to play on the stereo. “It’s like learning a new language/As we catch up on my mind/If you don’t bring up those lonely parts/This could be a good time.”
She slides closer, and we both know what’s coming. I cover her body with mine as our lips sing the song of an intimacy untamed. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I tell her. Through the flickering candlelight, I lose myself in this moment. I lose myself in her. And maybe she gets lost too. My body has been aching for this exchange for so long.
Hours later, I drive her home. “My place is right here,” she points. I shift into park and we turn to each other. I tell her, “Thank you for tonight. I needed it more than you will ever know.” We kiss one last time, and then she’s gone, up the stairs and out of my sight.
The following day we exchange numerous text messages, nearly all of them instigated by her. And as the messages go from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’ at increasing frequency, I can feel it happening. This nebulous identity, so desperate to take the shape of something identifiable, attempts to integrate with hers, a personality I don’t honestly know because we met just days ago. “I’ll be whatever it is you want me to be” is the mantra of borderline. And I can feel it happening, she’s becoming my FP, and I can’t contain my quivering eagerness to see her again. To spend more time with her. As I usually do, I overshare my emotions, as if I’m trying to push her away, and I swear, before I can read the words on my phone, I know what’s coming. “Oh Christ, here it is.” She tells me “I don’t want to rush into anything” and that she’s casually dating someone else. I’m not upset she’s dating someone else; I’ve no reason to be turned by this. I’m crashing because I’m comparing myself to this other man, a man I’ll never meet. And all my insecurities are sliced and stabbed, and I’m bleeding everywhere. I want to die. I’m terrified of losing my connection to her. “You pushed it too far, you stupid motherfucker. You knew this would happen.”
This level of dysfunction is startling. And I, despite trying, cannot convey the true depths of this brokenness. How can I let a woman, a woman I met only days ago, turn and thrash my fragile sense of self? When I was intimate with her, I felt almost godlike. And less than 24 hours later, I want to disappear forever. I’m hollowed out. The epitome of emptiness. And this is when I make an ultimatum with myself. May 25, 2023, will mark one year since Allison’s death. If I do not experience a dramatic improvement in my mental health, I will end my life on that day. I’ve given up on the traditional medications and will begin ketamine therapy in less than two weeks. If it doesn’t illuminate something within me, I’m done. I’m tired of trying. I’m so fucking tired of living with this dysfunction. Exasperated by the manner in which external forces turn me, beat me, fuck me, love me, tell me to return, only to beat me yet again. If I could accurately convey this broken pattern of my existence, no one would dissuade me from suicide. Please, save your platitudes and just let me go. I’ve never truly possessed the gears and pulleys of my life. Please allow me to exert control just one time. The last time.