First, it's the fear. The tightening of the chest, because you know what's coming when you see his number in your missed calls register. The hurt, as he stumbles his way through saying it. Then the anger, the pissed off BILE as you throw it back in his face. "Just don't say it, just don't give me the fucking line, I've heard them all before. Sorry but you don't think about me *that way*
. If I had a fucking dollar for every time I've heard the old 'I hope we can still be friends'
Then the self loathing. How dare you even dream? You stupid fucking shit!
How could I forget that I'm an ugly, mishapen, lump of flesh, a ball of neurosis and madness and what the fuck was I even *thinking*, believing that someone might actually be attracted to me? Don't get your hopes up. The Black Dog was right, you *are* unlovable.
Anger again. You fucking LEAD ME ON. It wasn't just my imagination, there was some kind of spark there. There was that *click*. What the fuck, how dare you?
Self loathing and self doubt. What was I thinking? You always end up alone. Why do you bother? Why do you fuck things up like this? Why do you sabotague yourself by reading too much into things? Don't be stupid, were you *mad* thinking it might be mutual? Look at the girls he likes, look at the girls he's attracted to, the silthlike willowly little things. Do you look like that? Does he look at you like he looked at your sister, like he looked at your bandmate? Look at the girls he dates - do you think you have a *chance*?
Then the outrage. "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE MISSING. This is *your* loss, if you can't see what could have been. You will never meet anyone like me ever again." Fuck it, I will never meet anyone like *you* again. Every little tiny detail, every shared conversation, every spark of interest shared, the way our brains just *fit* together, the same connections. I'm shy, I'm awkward, I'm difficult, but it was never like that with you, the words, the ideas just flowed. That's something so rare, and so beautiful, and I've smashed it to bits by daring to presume.
It's not my fault I'm ugly. I've always been. I could never slide by on my looks. I had to learn to be funny, to be clever, to be quick with a turn of phrase, to be *talented* - to be *brilliant* - when I wanted attention. I liked to think that made up for not being "hott". Thanks for the slap in the face, the reminder that it *doesn't*. The brains, the songs, the pictures, the stories, I would trade them all if I could just love and *feel* loved. But it doesn't work that way, does it? I'm not the brain, floating in the jar, I'm the humped back and the bulldog face, that's all you see. I can't even claim "I'm pretty on the inside" because I'm not, I'm a labyrinth, I'm a multitude, I'm complicated and challenging and a bit too intense and who wants that?
What happened? Did you get too close? I always loved Andre Gide's story about shipwrecks, that the survivors must cut the fingers off the people in the water, to prevent them from climbing in the boat and swamping it. So Gide's heroine cut the fingers off any emotions that might climb into her boat and swamp it. The quickest way to dispose of a man is to tell him that you might be able to love him. Sex as a weapon? Was that it?
For once, I actually don't think it was. You ticked all my boxes, the rare combination of maths brilliance and creative inspiration. Our friends used to laugh at us when we would disappear into our private rants about M Theory or the Doppler Effect or phase effects and tease me "why don't you and him just go out already?" For all my bitterness and anger and "I cannot be BOTHERED with sex or relationships ever again!" poses, you'd walk into the room and I'd just GOOEY, and think "well, actually, just maybe..."
It's a familiar pattern. Self sabotague. Disappointment. Things will never be the same again
. Look on the bright side. I'll probably get a couple of songs out of it.
Don't worry. This is the last I'll write about it.