Thursday, February 6, 2020

The Whole Damn Enchillada

"Well this is new," I thought to myself as I tried to see the lines on the road through the tear and snot shield that my face was producing.

Not the tears and snot. That's normal.

What produced this misery parade on the Crescent City Connection was that I had decided my commute home on a Friday evening would be a perfect time to rip the Bandaid off and end things with a guy I'd been seeing.

I've done this MANY times.

But this time I didn't just end things. I fulfilled a promise to myself.

A promise I had made about two weeks earlier on my 37th birthday, when I put myself in a mental choke hold and finally forced myself to admit that: 

I WANT A MEANINGFUL AND COMMITTED RELATIONSHIP WITH A HUMAN AND NOTHING ELSE.

Gah.

Not a fuck buddy who has that glazed-over look during sex; not the romance scraps a poly couple feels like throwing me; not emotional unavailability masked by vague promises of love somewhere over the rainbow.

I think I've been afraid, for most of my 30's, to admit what I really want because after being presented with scraps so many times, I wasn't sure anymore that I deserved the whole enchilada. Or that the enchilada really exists. But eating salsa on an empty stomach was giving me the emotional shits and my mental asshole was too raw to keep going.

This guy was a tough one to let go. He point-blank told me, several times, that he's "an emotional mess." Yet even in his mess-ness, he offered a greater quality of affection scraps than most of my past "unavilables." He had emotional intelligence, which made me get all giddy and do silly things like fuck without a condom.

But like a growing tape worm, said unavalaibity secretly started eating at my self-worth and ability to focus on, you know, living my damn life. And before I knew it I was doing stupid shit like taking an hour of my life to spin out in front of my phone when I hadn't heard from him for 24 hrs.

So I cut it off. In as loving a way as possible. With a slight hope that maybe, some magical day, he would re-appear as an enchilada.

I went out that night and chugged Mezcal while wrapped in a friend's fur coat, petrified of going home and feeling that all-to-familiar searing loneliness. 

The next morning I woke up hungover and ready to face the shitstrom of emotions that usually follows such occasions.

But it didn't happen.

Something had snapped.

FINALLY.

I had finally come to the place where the freedom of not settling eclipsed the good-feely snipets I got from putting up with the shit I don't really want. 

And it was LEVITATING. I was so giddy I actually Googled "too giddy/ crazy?" to make sure I wasn't losing my shit.

I went to the goddamn park. By myself. And looked at the trees like a fucking hippie and was actually there for it.

That night I debuted a new act and it got a standing ovation and I felt the exhilaration all the way through to my spinal column.  

Those mental reserves that would normally have been wasted on pondering text messages began to go toward pondering trips to immigrant detention centers on the border and the praying mantis costume I'm debuting at a fetish ball this month. (Dad's Ball 2020. BE THERE) 

I still miss the guy I broke up with. 

I went on a date last night with an attractive  *emotionally available* scientist with halfway decent tattoos. He thinks my performance life is "interesting." 

But all I could think about the whole time was how I would have given my right tit to sit across from someone who would get really excited about a necrophilia act that I'm conjuring and maybe, IDK, even offer suggestions on how to make the anal penetration of a decapitated male manikin more lifelike.

Still, my strength in being able to deal with disappointing dating scenarios, sometimes searing loneliness and daily stress that I wish I had someone to massage out of me at the end of the day multiplied by 10000 when I set that final boundary.

"Personal boundaries" is as annoying a buzz word as "self care," but holy shit can they can set you free when you finally assert them without compromise. Or at least free enough to remember who the fuck you are and what the fuck you can do with your life. 














No comments:

Post a Comment