so very alone…

Why bother?

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Last night a friend left my condo. I should have been in a perfectly good mood. Instead, something shifted in my outlook, and it seemed like I slid into an alternate reality. The world lost all its color.

I cared about nothing.

In this black frame of mind, if I found out a meteor were headed towards the earth, I would sit slumped in my papasan chair and maybe say, “Eh.” If I had been on a plane and a bunch of hijackers started whooping and spraying pepper spray, I’d just stay put in my seat, staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of me. If I saw a baby carriage careening down a flight of stairs, I’d just watch it pass by.

This horrible black cloud hung over me for what seemed like hours, making me feel like I had been cast into an unspeakable prison, alone. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t make sense of television. I woke up this morning next to the washing machine, with no memory of how I got there.

I think I need to increase my medication.

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I really thought that the visit with my sister last weekend was going to be great. After all, I’ve fixed what I considered to be one of her major grievances with me: I went and got myself all medicated so I wouldn’t be so shy / withdrawn.

So I made the 3-hour (more or less) drive to her house, and find, to my relief, that her husband is gone for the weekend.

I do not mention my relief at her husband being gone, because I am certain that if I had mentioned it, she would have taken offense. Still, I can’t help being relieved. I know for sure he would have been cracking jokes about my "happy pills" and asking if I’m still a virgin.

Although, to be honest, part of me was looking forward to letting it slip that I’m not a virgin anymore. Also, that same part of me would have given itself license to be creative with my description of Bertha.

And here’s the thing: he shouldn’t have even known I was a virgin. It’s not like I told my sister she could go sharing that information with people. I don’t care if he’s her husband; that’s not information you share.

I’m getting off track here.

Everything was going OK with my sister. I made a point of being jokey and rambunctious with the kids (something I have never done before, and which may have terrified my sister a little). I told funny anecdotes about Mary, Bertha, and Richard. I told her that Jane and I are seeing each other, and that I am doing well in a racquetball tournament (by doing well, I mean that I have signed up, but I didn’t tell my sister that).

After the kids were in bed, we talked a while and I said, without really thinking why, "I miss mom."

OK, that’s not completely true. I knew where this remark would head, but I’ve never had the courage to go down this path until now. Anyway, my sister said, sarcastically, "So go see her."

I kept the high road. "No, cemeteries creep me out. I’d rather remember her the way she was."

And that’s when my sister flipped out.

"I cannot believe you are still pretending she’s dead, Harlan!" she screamed. And I’m being totally literal about saying "she screamed." It was incredibly loud and high-pitched. It gave me an instant headache, and it engaged my fight-or-flight impulse.

I tried to stay calm. For both of us.

"If she’s alive, how come neither of us has seen her in ten years? How come there’s a headstone with her name on it in [name of town where my mom’s buried]. How come she had a funeral which you still feel guilty about for not attending?"

Seriously, my sister should be the one taking meds, not me. But she screeched back (and I’m being literal about the screeching, too), "There was no funeral! You went to a funeral for another woman of the same name. They made you leave. That headstone is not our mother’s."

In my sister’s defense (although she is insane and wrong), we do have a common last name, and my mother had a common first name. But that was my mother’s funeral, and that is her gravesite. "When’s the last time you saw her?" I asked. My trump card.

"Just because she doesn’t stay in touch doesn’t mean she’s dead!" My sister replied, hysterical.

"Yeah, she’s just kind of too busy to let us know where she’s living, what her phone number is, or anything else." I shouldn’t have been sarcastic, because my sister is clearly not stable. But it’s not like she had been being sunshine and roses to me, either.

"Maybe she just doesn’t want to see you."

That was enough. I went up to the guest bedroom, grabbed my duffel, and got out. I went home, though not directly. First I stopped at the cemetery and paid my respects. Definitely my mom.

I have no idea how to get my sister the help she needs. Not that she’d ever accept it from me.

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Things are going well for me. I no longer feel crippled by solitude. It seems like only a few months ago when I wasn’t able to talk to strangers — or to friends for that matter, especially because I had no friends.

When I did happen to say something, I went over the conversation in my mind for hours or days afterwards. That was torture in some cases, especially when I had lashed out.

The more people you talk to, the less significant each encounter becomes.

I’m not saying things are going perfectly. There was the restaurant encounter. By the way, I have to confess that I wasn’t really kicked out of the restaurant. I liked the idea of being kicked out of the restaurant for getting angry, but I only made a couple of snide remarks to the hostess, who didn’t understand me anyway. And then I threw down my paper napkin and stormed out. Oh, and I waited a long time for Richard and his stiff manservant. That much was true.

And then there was the encounter at the ATM. An older woman decided to take care of all her banking at the ATM. She was signing checks and filling out various deposit forms while a line formed behind her. I decided that instead of either being silent or blowing up, I would be politely assertive. Like a normal person.

“Excuse me, lady. Would you mind stepping aside and letting us go through while you apply for a mortgage elsewhere?”

“Lady? Did you just call me lady? Thank for you taking away my sexuality.”

I honestly have no idea what she meant by that. So I clammed up.

Of course, the fact that I’m writing about an encounter at the ATM instead of what happened at my sister’s last weekend probably tells you something about how well that trip went.

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Before I begin the main topic of today’s post, I want to address the frustration some of you are bringing up about my being a “tease” in my last post. I am sorry. I don’t like the idea of holding back, especially with everything we did and talked about. And part of me wishes Jane didn’t know about this blog, because then I’d be able to be as open about this as I’d like to be.

On the other hand, if Jane hadn’t been reading this blog, I wouldn’t have ever been able to reconnect with her. It’s a weird Catch-22, and I’ve said too much.

Anyway, there wouldn’t be any news about Jane for this weekend even if I were able to talk about our developing relationship, because I’ll be out of town, visiting my sister for the weekend. It’s time to see whether our relationship is worth salvaging, which basically depends on her making some very obvious and factual concessions about reality and her insistence on deviating from it. I will also be prepared to make some concessions, such as that I was not entirely stable before. I’m still trying to decide whether I should make that concession in the form of an apology, or as a simple fact. To me, it doesn’t seem like I should have to apologize — it’s like apologizing for having had the measles. But I’m sure my sister will expect an apology, or at least some statement that amounts to, “Yes, you were right all along.”

Shit, I’m arguing with her already and I’m not even there. I know how this is going to end. Why am I even going? Maybe just to get it over with, once and for all.

OK, now onto my lunch yesterday with Mary. We talked about politics. I, of course, am firmly behind John McCain, because he won’t pull out of Iraq just because that’s currently the popular thing to do. I admire that kind of resolve. I also like that he doesn’t pretend like he has a solution to fix the economy (except for that gas tax holiday, which I think he was just kidding around with). Hasn’t anyone noticed that the President can’t really impact the economy? I mean, think about it: if the president could make the economy good, wouldn’t President Bush be doing so right now?

Anyway, I figured Mary would be for McCain too. Of course, with Mary, it’s not that simple.

Try to follow along. It won’t be easy.

Mary is publicly for McCain, since he is republican and she is an Evangelical. But even as an Evangelical, she has doubts about McCain. He is, she says, not a religious man. And his desertion of his first wife because she got injured, not to mention rampant adultery before and after aforementioned desertion, seem like they fly in the face of everything Mary believes in.

I told her these were the indiscretions of a younger man, and should not be counted against him. I am confident that John McCain does not cheat on Cindy. I wouldn’t, and you wouldn’t either. For one thing, she’s beautiful and I confess to having had lustful thoughts about her. For another thing, if I were her husband I would be cowed by her eyes. I suspect that those pale blue eyes are not human, but rather robotic, equipped with pale blue lasers that can set human flesh ablaze.

Mary didn’t think my joke about Cindy was funny, and remarked that Cindy wasn’t really her type anyway. I just assumed that lesbians would find the same women attractive that a straight guy does. I’ll have to take a closer look at what kind of images Mary’s hunting down during work hours.

So I asked Mary who she really wants for president. “Hillary Clinton,” she said.

My brain did a backflip.

“How is that even possible?” I asked. “She’s against everything you as an evangelical stand for, unless you buy the whole ‘working class protagonist’ bit she’s been pushing lately. Which is total bullshit, by the way, as everyone who doesn’t live in West Virginia can tell.”

“I know.”

“Is it because of her stance on homosexuality?”

“A little. Not really. I’m not coming out no matter what anyway.”

And then it occurred to me. “You’re not attracted to her, are you?”

She blushed.

So when I got back to work I tried to order a button for Mary from Hillary’s website:

Unfortunately, they’re no longer available.

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After I finished my quick blog update last night, I took the time to shower, shave (for the second time that day, which gave me a little bit of a razor burn), and change into clean clothes. (I wanted to mention, by the way, that since I’ve started the Celexa, I’ve lost nine pounds. I don’t think my eating habits have changed, but I have cut back on the drinking by a lot. So I’m back into my old pants.)

And I put some condoms in my back pocket, just in case.

On the drive over, I ran through a huge gamut of emotions.

Excitement: someone I had pined over for who knows how long had finally called me and invited me over.

Ambivalence: She hadn’t called until I had resolved I was over her.

Confusion: Was I over her for real, or not?

Lust: It didn’t really matter whether I loved her anymore; if I had a chance for sex, I was definitely going to take it. As someone who has had sex with exactly one person in my life, I am not interested in passing up opportunities to add diversity to my portfolio.

Curiosity: So why was had she called me? Certainly it wasn’t to find out nitty gritty details about why I had stolen her plant.

I got there, and she opened the door before I knocked, explaining that she didn’t want the neighbors to complain about loud sounds late at night.

I noticed she was no longer wearing the sweats, and that her makeup looked fresh. She smelled good, too.

And then she asked me if she could trust me. I wonder if any person in the history of the world has ever answered “no” to that question. I doubt it, which goes to show that it’s an extremely dumb question, since a person you shouldn’t trust will answer “yes” more readily than someone you should trust.

Anyway, I told her that of course she could trust me.

She asked me if I would promise not to write about our meeting in my blog.

I told her that I was surprised she even remembered that I write a blog. She said that she’s read it a couple times.

I have to say, I really hated the idea of her reading my blog. This blog is where I come to say exactly what’s on my mind, even if there’s egg on my face at the end of the post. I’d prefer to keep my personal communication and my blog communication separate.

So I made a deal with her. I wouldn’t talk about her or about our relationship (whatever the kind of relationship it either is or may become) if she wouldn’t read my blog, so I could have a place where I could say whatever I want (except about her, of course) without worrying about whether I sound like an asshole to her.

I wish I could tell you what we talked about (and / or did), because it was pretty interesting.

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Without giving away what time zone I live in, it’s definitely too late for a phone call right now. Especially on a work night. But I just got a call.

From Jane.

She asked me why I stole her plant, even though I’m pretty sure she knows why I stole it. So (and I cannot believe I said this), I said it would be easier to explain in person.

She said, “Fine, explain it in person.”

“Now?”

“Whatever.”

So. I’m leaving to go talk to Jane. More soon.

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I mentioned that I was going to try to catch up with Jane to let her know different I am. I was amazed at the number of people who commented on this blog, saying what a bad idea that was.

I wish I would have listened. No, just kidding. The people who comment on this blog are about twice as screwed up as I used to be.

I figured, though, that since she didn’t email me telling her to leave her alone when I posted my intention to reconnect with her, it was because either she doesn’t read the blog anymore–and therefore doesn’t know how much I’ve changed–or she does read the blog and by not saying I couldn’t get ahold of her, she was tacitly asking me to get ahold of her.

I’m not sure my logic would hold up in a court of law, but I’m sticking with it.

Last night, after work, I drove up to her house and waited in my car until she got home. I waited down the street a little bit, so as not to alarm her. Then, after she had been there for about fifteen minutes, I went up to her door, knocked, and waited.

And waited.

After about two minutes (seemed like ten), I knocked again. I waited another minute, then rang the doorbell (even though I hate doorbells) a couple times.

Finally, she came to the door, looking miffed as she opened it.

Then she saw me and went from miffed to what I like to call a perfect mix of "frightened, angry, and surprised."

And right then, I realized I had made a huge mistake, for the following reasons.

First, I hadn’t thought about what I would say when I saw her. I should have had something prepared, or better yet, a whole bunch of different things, depending on how she looked.

Second, I knew as soon as I saw her eyes that she is not capable of loving me. No matter what, I will always be the strange, thieving, IT goober as far as she’s concerned. She’ll never see that I am also a man with dreams and needs.

Third, she doesn’t look like I remember her. Maybe the Celexa has cleared my mind and removed the soft-focus lens I seem to have reserved for Jane. Or maybe it’s that she was wearing baggy, food-stained sweats. Or maybe it’s that I no longer am so desperate for love that I see perfect beauty where there’s actually nothing but a woman of average height, average weight, average face, and a surprising amount of grey in the brown regrowth of her blonde, permed hair.

"Look, don’t even start," she said. "Just turn around and walk away."

"Fine by me," I replied. And I meant it. I was relieved.

So I went home, so happy that I have visited Jane’s house and discovered that I no longer give a damn about her.

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I went out to dinner on Saturday night with Richard and his new partner, who happens to be the most sober person I’ve ever met. If he were at a funeral directors’ party, he would be voted Most Depressing Person. So I’ll call him Captain Happy.

Richard and I agreed to meet in front of the restaurant, a fancy Thai place that foodies on the web rave about. The three of us arrived a few minutes before our reservation, so we chatted outside. I should say Richard and I chatted, while Captain Happy stood still with his hands behind his back, manservant-like.

Richard and I caught up quickly, reminding me of why I liked him so much. We agreed that Battlestar Galactica is the best show on television, but we disagreed on Bertha. He thinks I “completely misrepresented her” on my blog, while I suggested that perhaps he doesn’t know Bertha as well as he thinks he does. Captain Happy sniffed.

One of the things I like about Richard is that he can admit when he’s wrong. In fact, sometimes he’ll admit he’s wrong when he’s not.

The restaurant experience was miserable. First, they had no record of our reservation. I got upset, mostly because there’s not much to say other than, “But I called and made a reservation for 7:30!” The only thing you can do in that situation is to say it louder each time, which I did.

I was furious.

They finally seated us at a plain table that was right next to a table adorned with candles and flowers and elegantly folded napkins.

I asked the hostess seating us why our table wasn’t decorated. She didn’t speak good English, so it was difficult to talk to her. I think she said the other table was decorated for people with reservations, so I blew up. I demanded that napkins be brought to our table at once.

She seemed to agree, only she came back a couple minutes later with paper napkins. Like the kind you’d get at Hardees. I realized later that it was probably a misunderstanding – no one else had paper napkins – but I took it personally and got even madder.

Things went downhill from there. I don’t exactly recall what happened, but I know that I was asked several times to leave the restaurant. I shouted that I didn’t want to eat their rat-infested food anyway and stormed out, assuming that Richard and Captain Happy would join me shortly.

They didn’t. I waited outside for more than an hour before I left.

Now I regret agreeing to visit my sister. What was I thinking?

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