On Daisies

I am angry more than I have ever been. In some ways, it’s not such a bad thing. It’s good to feel anger when, for so long, I have felt nothing. But how can I go from one extreme to the other?

He says to leave him alone. I don’t hear from him all day, but he says to leave him alone. My presence is a nuisance. I will. I will leave him alone.

I will write here though. Some things I am thinking.

I wrote that, and I realize that I can’t. Honesty is such a fucking façade. And he doesn’t get me. It’s the biggest problem. He doesn’t get me and I don’t get him. There’s no fucking answer key for this one. I don’t want to be playing puzzle for the rest of my life. But he makes it so impossible to know him, to predict. He likes it that way. It makes him feel more secure. He doesn’t want me to figure him out, and when I don’t, I think he’s sad some.

Strictly speaking, I know him to be someone who is all or nothing, feast or famine, euphoria or despair. And I never want to show him my cards because the very fact that someone might have cards is treasonous. He must change the game then. No one will get the better of him if they can’t see him coming. But if you have that thought, then no one will ever get the better of you. And I want the better of you. And at an infuriating level, I think he wants that too.

And I want to say GROW UP! But I can’t. I can’t for more than decorum. It’s a sensitive issue. Grow up and let someone in. What’s the worst that could happen? Cause it feels like the worst to me when I am on the outside and trying to sort what went wrong day after day. It’s backfiring. I am having to look closer and up the mind game. Will he go this way and so I go that? Or will he expect that? Will he expect that I might suspect that? And so what could have been really simple becomes a monumental headfuck. And frankly, and I am just speaking frankly now since I manage to hurt and alienate him either way, I don’t want to play.

He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me. He loves me not.

I don’t expect a final petal. Ever. And he says that I am fucked up, but that is fucked up. If you knew how insecure I am and how much I seek approval, if you knew how I felt and how committed I am, if you knew how important it is to me to be joined with who I love, then you would stop jerking me around.

Yeah, he’ll be mad at that. But good. He’ll be mad anyway and nothing gets better for me. A month, a week, a day does not a pattern make. It is this that is the pattern. And I don’t care if he is hurt by my accusations. I am hurt by his. Almost daily. And the constant proving? There is no proof but endurance and resilience. I keep coming back. You keep kicking me away.

Do you want me to stop? Because I can’t. But I can be broken. I can learn to trust nothing and no one, like you. It’s terrifying and dismal, but that’s where I am headed. I have so much to say, to write. I am thinking too fast, and too incoherently, but through every thought, I keep seeing miserable failure. For me. For us.

And when I draw lines. When I say what hurts me, what I want to be healthy enough to feel I deserve more—when I say that, I hear, “I will not be handled. I will not be compared to him, to them. You’re arrogant to tell me how to behave. Who do you think you are?” So he hasn’t been in relationships very long, very often; I know what I have been in, what I have sought. I know how I react. This whole thing is breaking me down, and I know there is no reconstruction in the end. I will keep coming back, but I can feel it even now. I come back hesitant, flinching and numb.

He’ll think I am terrible to say these things. He’ll think it’s insensitive. Maybe it is. Maybe I should just put up with it, deal. But he won’t be happy if I sympathize (handling), if I offer my opinion (pissing on dreams), ignore it (dismissing), share my own experience (patronizing), or make suggestions (superficial). I have nowhere to go but back inside. And to be told to open, open…and then to have to shut back down again, and have him never hear me…it makes me want to cry. It made me scratch until I bled.

That happens so rarely to me. Usually, there is ceremony, there is purpose and cleansing. This is so different. It is furious and frustrated and grating. I have to dig into my own skin; it feels like screaming, like my skin is screaming. It’s a self-imposed helplessness. It’s disempowered and distracting.

I am really angry right now. Destructively angry. Just like him, hiding and licking his wounds, so am I. He can have the day-to-day, the professional, some personal, but our stuff? That which goes on between him and me? That he will not get. I can’t keep yanking petals left and right. I need an end. Do you love me or don’t you? Do you trust me or don’t you? Do you want me or don’t you?

I know he wants open, but I can’t. Open takes trust, predictability, real empathy, not just projecting about how I might have gotten it wrong and blaming me. See my side! See how difficult you are. You seem to see how difficult I am; you are flummoxed that I can’t handle it, or handle it well. See me! See my side, goddamnit. I know that it is the worst thing I can say about us, but we have no trust. And so long as we don’t, there will only ever be play. So, Johnny, my love (don’t raise your eyebrows, don’t grunt or scoff), I will leave you alone. I can’t prove myself this way.