THE END AGAIN

I suppose I’ve been avoiding this post. Add another former boyfriend to the rap sheet. I’m single again.

And so the postmortem period begins. Cringe as “helpful” people say I’m too picky. Question myself about whether I’m even capable of a relationship. Quash that tendency to flash forward two or three decades: a lonely death, one of those awful stories you read about where the rotting corpse is found weeks later as neighbors in the apartment building report a foul smell.

Postmortems can get dark.

The morning after I broke up with Daniel, I logged onto Twitter and the first tweet I saw was a photo of two gay men hugging, the caption reading, “Celebrating 32 years together!” I smiled, genuinely. I even “Liked” the pic. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve long bemoaned gay men for being plagued with what I call the “Seinfeld” Syndrome, whereby perfectly acceptable dating relationships are ended for seemingly trivial peeves. Remember the close-talker? The author who didn’t use exclamation marks? The woman who ate her peas one at a time? (But, really, just imagine what would happen if she ordered a side of rice.)

I wonder if I am any better. Could I date a guy who wore Crocs? Or someone who pronounced huge as “uge”? Or a guy who turned his guest bedroom into a Britney shrine? Um,...no.

I had more valid reasons for ending things with Daniel. I swear.

Sigh. A failed relationship is still, well, a failure.

I’m slowly making my way through “Schitts Creek”—the show’s name put me off for years—and this week I crumbled as I watched the episode where Patrick gives David a monster cookie to celebrate their four-month anniversary. The gesture seemed juvenile and tacky to the worldly Rose family until David’s helpful sister, Alexis, explains that four months is a milestone: David’s longest relationship. Daniel and I qualified for a cookie moment. Heck, following established mathematical principles for rounding, I could say we lasted five months. That might have called for a large slice of peach pie.

Four months, five months,...rounded or not. Either way, not long. It’s about 1/77 as long as the happy Twitter couple. Daniel and I never even got to “couple”. Just boyfriends. Just dating. But still something. Beyond expectations, if I twist things a bit. (Really, it was only supposed to be a hookup.)

My last post about Daniel mentioned some tension over the possibility of getting a dog in the future. I’d written it a month beforehand. We’d already broken up my the time I put it on the blog. To be clear, I didn’t end things because of a hypothetical pet. While the topic ruffled me, I knew it was a subject too far down the line. I put it aside, telling myself that something else would end things before then.

Red flag.

It wasn’t just a case of chronic lack of confidence or a surge of pessimism. I just sensed that we weren’t the right fit.

I could back up my decision with a long list of reasons, but that wouldn’t be respectful to Daniel. That’s more the kind of thing I do after a single coffee date turns out to be a dud. It makes for a quirky story. Maybe I can even squeeze something funny out of my own misfortune. Oh, the hard knocks of being single!

After investing weeks and months with someone, it seems petty and undignified to list someone’s supposed flaws. Daniel doesn’t deserve that. There isn’t even some bigger issue that I feel is worthy of writing about, thinking that others might connect with the situation, feeling like I might be able to offer some grand insight about (short-lived) relationships.

Things just didn’t develop. My feelings never deepened. I have been lucky enough to fall in love four times in life and that feeling has always hit at three months, if not sooner. I was not in love with Daniel. I was not even falling for him, as people often say first, testing out the waters.

I stuck with things longer, knowing we’d had a wonky start since I’d fully expected to move away at the end of March. I could feel Daniel falling for me. He’d sometimes let down his guard and say how calm he felt around me, how connected he felt. It was nice feedback that only made me feel cold inside. Why didn’t I have anything to say in return? Why didn’t I have have the urge to buy him a greeting card or to even text something more meaningful at night than, “Sleep well”? I can’t fake a feeling.

Before breaking up, I drove up to Whistler for a couple of days. It’s one of my happy places. I thought it would mean something if I missed him. But that didn’t happen. I felt lighter, even a sense of relief to be on my own. The trip gave me clarity. I couldn’t stretch things out with Daniel. It wouldn’t be fair.

Alas, that whole happily-ever-after thing remains but a fairy tale. For me, at least. Right now, I’m okay with that. Let the whining and pining come later. (It always seems to resurface at some point.) For now, I can continue to “Like” other announcements of happy couples on social media while forking through my very own pie from the neighborhood grocer. They make mini pies and sometimes I’m good with being a “Serves 4” kind of guy. A perk of being single is having no witnesses to my weaknesses.

PLAYING THE WRONG CARD

I ducked out lamely. Not as lamely as ghosting the guy or sending a text. We’d gone out about ten times, after all. A face-to-face conversation was required.

But I wasn’t really honest. When you break up with a guy, sometimes being honest may show more brutality than integrity. So I didn’t mention that he talked so much, with never-ending anecdotes, that it was hard for me to feel present. (Would he have had these monologues with his dog had I been unavailable?) I didn’t mention his alarming fussiness, insisting that my coffee table was too close to the sofa and needed to be re-positioned immediately and pointing out dust on top of my fridge during his one and only visit to my place. (Maybe I should date shorter guys.) And I kept to myself the fact that I never got off the fence regarding whether or not I found him attractive. I accepted these issues as my problems. People have said I’m too picky. People have said I need to settle. (Do they really mean I think too highly of myself? In essence, I am definitely not all that. I should just be happy anyone is even slightly into me...when he finishes his near-endless stream of soliloquies.)

Alas, I still have standards, however unrealistic. And my heart wasn’t into drawing things out when I’d finally realized things weren’t progressing and had no chance of getting on the right track. I owed Lance an explanation. I went with a version of the clichéd, It’s not you, it’s me. I needed to be specific enough to be convincing.

I played my mental health card. Yes, I was the worst kind of bipolar poster boy. Technically, everything I said was true. After a period of mania which dissipated shortly after meeting Lance (surely that’s but a coincidence), I crashed into a deep depression and my low mood has continued for the past month and a half. More significantly of late, my anxiety has spiked, making staying home the most sensible option most days. Simply stated, I’d rather just cocoon until I’m able to ride out this wonky mess.

Truth is, if I were seeing someone who listened, I could have talked more about my mood and felt supported. I’d raised both my depression and anxiety before, but my comments went without any followup other than unrelated stories about his mother’s finickiness when dining out and some glitches that came up with one of his writing assignments. (Yes, he’s a writer, too. Cool! But having things in common is not nearly as important as truly gelling.) I’d felt awkward, having revealed vulnerable parts about me and feeling unheard.

Maybe his failure to be curious or even compassionate proved to be the deal-breaker, the final nail after the one-way communication, the fussiness and the questionable attraction. It’s hard to take a risk, sharing parts of me that feel like flaws—indeed, their own deal-breakers—and having my words hang in the air and float away, seemingly unnoticed.

I took the easy—almost unforgivable—route. I was the fall guy. I’m the one who’s not good enough. I’m too messed up to be in a relationship. It was an Oscar-worthy performance for a despicable role. I did what I had to do to be free again. Maybe I thought a face-to-face conversation was noble, maybe I thought sparing him of hurtful honesty showed kindness, but I should not have misused my mental health conditions. Easy to do and yet wholly disappointing.

People who deal with depression and anxiety are deserving of thriving relationships. Feels like I gave the opposite impression, just to avoid a more awkward conversation. For now, I’ll go back to my cocoon and deal with my mental health issues...safely and on my own.

JUST ME

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It’s not like I crawled in a hole. (Think I did that earlier in the fall.) I just wanted to get readjusted to my reality before blabbing about it. Single again.

It’s fine.

I’m good with it.

It’s true that I’m the one who finally ended it but what does that matter? People always ask. As if it’s easier to be the “breaker” instead of the “breakee”. Sometimes I guess, particular if the “breakee” is blindsided and/or delusional. Not the case here. In reality, I’d say we worked in tandem over the final few months to chip away at what had initially shown so much promise. The fact that we’d each attribute the demise to different things only underscores how we’d drifted apart. Through a series of actions and inactions, the relationship imploded.

A year. More when you consider how deeply we’d communicated online during the prior year while having an occasional lunch or dinner as friends when our sensibilities told us a Vancouver-Portland romance was out of the question.

We risked a solid friendship in deciding to try for something even greater. I have no regrets about giving it a go. I did fall in love. Not everything comes with a happy ending.

In the days that followed, I struggled to adjust to the shock of The End. Did that just happen? What now? No panicked regrets,…I think it was the right thing to do, even if we could have gone on for months and years in a less than happy state. People do that all the time.

Reverting to Party of One, the practical side of me truly wanted to know what to do next. Would it be different? Could it? Or would I fall back on going through the motions of living.

It’s always unsettling to be alone again, especially after feeling so sure I’d found The One, a partner for life. Being alone is familiar territory. I’ve lived it. In fact, I’ve often craved more of it. But there’s a fine line between being alone and being lonely, and I need to consciously and consistently track which side I am on.

My favorite photo from my time in Stockholm, taken during

a solo morning jog just after a fresh dusting of snow.           

To be honest, at 53, there is also that nagging fear that being alone may be a fixed status. I don’t entertain any fancy notion that there are desirable single gay men in my area looking to date an old (or is it ancient in gay circles?) fellow with mental health problems. If you’ve read a post or two of mine from October, you know that I am dealing with depression again with some slightly different flavors added to the diagnosis. I’m Bipolar II, which means I am prone to milder states of mania (hypomania) along with episodes of crushing depression. I don’t know how to twist and contort all that into sounding like a good thing.

Still, it’s not all gloom and doom. Last month, I flew to Stockholm for a week. Just because. No one else’s whims or schedule to negotiate with. I have a strong urge to go back. On my own again.

For now, it’s the clear preference.

THE NEAREST EXIT

I took the cowardly route. But then again, so did he.

It began with that extended weekend when he couldn't get enough of me. Really, that should have been a sign.

And, in fact, there was a sign. On the Monday evening as we walked to dinner, Alfonso bemoaned the Vancouver labor market for someone like him in the higher echelon of the service industry. I listened as he went on what sounded like a rant. I’d mentioned a company a friend of mine works for and Alfonso felt compelled to be dismissive of that business organization. “They have the view that the customer is their greatest asset. How utterly plebeian.”

Alfonso felt that the employees were a company’s greatest asset. Fair enough. But it was the tone and the use of the word plebeian that seemed over the top. A company has a right to establish its own business philosophy. Get hired before you try to change it. That’s what I would have said. But he only looked to me for affirmation. He was right, wasn’t he? That’s what he wanted me to say. When he asked, “What do you think?” I said, “I don’t think you really want to know.” The intention was to avoid a first conflict but the avoidance itself created tension. I’d been in relationships with guys who expected me to affirm everything. That’s how some people feel supported. My problem is I have a tendency to consider another point of view. It benefits me in the employment sector but is a serious handicap on the dating front.

We continued our walk in silence. My mind raced to find a new subject, my eyes searched for a distraction. Alas, there’s never a Kermode bear on a pogo stick when you need one. I could have at least whistled, but that’s a skill I never perfected. Comes out more like a dying budgie.

Dying. Yes, that seemed to be the status of Alfonso and me. But then people do panic over a first fight. This didn’t amount to a fight though. Not a spat, not even a tiff. The word plebeian stuck in my mind. Who says that? I recalled other conversations over the weekend and I got the clear sense that Alfonso would never be wrong. He’d repeated a few affirmations about the universe looking out for him and his talents always finding an audience in due time. I hadn’t known how to respond to them. A slight nod? “Amen”? I pushed aside images of Stuart Smalley and his SNL bits. Affirmations are foreign to a guy like me who specializes in self-deprecation.

What I finally heard in Alfonso was conceit and false state of superiority. Three days into our courtship, I flashed forward to three months and even three years. This guy would be a difficult partner. There would be no compromising, not when he would always be right. I wondered what adjectives he’d have to belittle my perspective. Derivative? Nescient? Picayune? My gut said, Get out.

We passed over the pizza joint I’d suggested. “I can’t tolerate lines,” he said. Instead, we opted for a tapas restaurant across the street. “Do you mind if I have the view seat?” Oh, of course not. Was there an air of hostility or was I just noticing an unappealing egocentricity? Either way, not good.

The following weekend, we met on Friday and Sunday. I tried to put concerns behind me. This guy still liked me. I could ill afford to be picky. To borrow a Barry Manilow song title, I was Trying to Get the Feeling Again.

Not a good mindset after only one weekend. Sizzle turned to fizzle. It didn’t help that Alfonso immediately went into a ten-minute play-by-play on Friday of how he reamed out an employer after he quit an hour into the second day of his new job. The account smacked of a superiority complex and mean-spiritedness.

But I let another week go by. I was busy with work week. No time for contact. I texted near dinnertime the following Friday. I needed to see him to end things. He said he’d already made plans. I felt relieved. And Saturday ticked by. Can’t this whole thing just fade away? He phoned at 6 p.m. when I was running an errand. He took that as me being unavailable and I did nothing to change that perception.

Five minutes later, I received a text. I don’t see “us” happening. Your world is too rigid and I don’t think I am your prince.

I fist-pumped, something I’ve never done in my life, not even on the tennis court. It was a tacky gesture for no one to use, but it was a spontaneous release of angst. I’d avoided what I was certain would have been a prickly conversation. I guess he did, too. And Alfonso could tell others that he made the decision. He’d want that. A perfect ending.

I realized I am not as desperate to be dating as I sometimes think. Things shouldn’t feel uncomfortable on a third day together. The prospect of growing old alone isn’t nearly as scary as being in a wrong relationship again. I’ve been too dismissive of gut instincts in the past. I will still succumb to pity parties in the future, but for now I can embrace my passive stance toward self-preservation. Spineless? Sure. I’m okay with that.

MEANT TO BE

One final post-dump post. But this one isn’t about Tim at all. It’s bigger than that. And it’s all me.

When dating starts out so promising, it’s hard to contain the exhilaration. It’s that shout-from-the-rooftops feeling. Only if I climbed the ladder, I just know I’d slip and break my leg. And hobbling around on crutches again would have quickly lost its endearing quality. Even with a compassionate hot guy. So I stayed on the ground. I didn’t even strain my vocal cords. But I told people.

“It’s good,” I’d say. “Really good.” My face would redden. I’d beam while looking at the ground. (I can be Bashful even amongst friends. I’m not used to openly gushing.)

The closer friends know about April. That’s what we call it now. It’s so much softer than My Hospitalization or When I Was Suicidal. Yep, “April”. Showers, indeed. There was a direct chain of events from “April” to dating Tim. Immediately after being released from St. Paul’s, I went to the central branch of the Vancouver Public Library. And there I ran into my first Vancouver friend whom I met twenty-two years ago on my first visit to the city. We hadn’t had a falling out, but our lives hadn’t intersected much in the last decade. He asked the standard, “How are you?” and I skipped the “Fine.” I gave him the real answer. I’d been through hell. F*#k the façade.

We connected and reconnected over the next two months before he headed out to spend the next year seeing the world. We commiserated on being single and old(er). (He’s hitting sixty, me fifty.) I showed him Tim’s profile and mentioned wanting to send a message. “Do it. He’s single, too. I see him wandering around the West End on his own all the time.” I shook my head. Too risky. “Stop stopping yourself. F*#k that.”

Profanity has its place. And so I f*#cked that. Message sent. Cue exhilaration.

From “April” to Tim. So good to feel again. And not just anything—joy. Astonishing.

My friends gathered up their pompoms. “Wow! It’s meant to be!”

True enough. At the time, I was thinking—they were thinking—true love. A Destiny sort of thing.

But we know how that turned out. Meant to be turned out to be bigger than Tim. It was all about me. I am meant to be. And I didn’t feel an ounce of that back in April. I was done. I was desperately trying to hang on, trying to buy some time to find something. Anything.

Tim?

Nope.

I needed that temporary glee. It affirmed there were positive things out there. It filled that tenuous period between April and L.A. I always knew if I could last until Los Angeles (aka “July”), I’d be all right. At least for the summer. I’m not at the point where I can look too far ahead.

I reached out to friends. I had things to share—and not all doom and gloom. We smiled, we laughed. I thought I’d lost that mindset. The glee helped me bulldoze through the darkness. I allowed positive thought. And not just with safe, familiar long-established friends. I was a magnet of sorts in Los Angeles. People I’d just met wanted to hang with me. Again and again. They said, “You’re such a sweet man.” Again and again. I’d stopped containing myself. F*#k that.

Even the dumping seems to have been necessary. Once I’d pulled myself through, I needed a big test. Was it all just Tim? Would I crash? Would “April” return? That was certainly the fear. It reflected back to me in friends’ faces and in family emails. I wallowed, sure, but it was the garden variety going-to-the-garden-to-eat-worms sort. When someone you really really like rejects you, it stings. But it never got darker. And that is empowering. I felt it this week as I went for my counselling session—a remnant from April. I felt strong. I tried not to beam. (My employer-covered sessions are about to end again and I need more in order to work through some bigger issues. That only happens if my psychologist makes a case for an acute need. Goofy smiles and epiphanies negate the acuteness.)

We were not meant to be. Okay. Got it.

I am meant to be. For the next while, at least. Still can’t look too far ahead. That is as good as it gets—and far better than I’d have imagined.

TIME OUT

We’ve all been around someone who was in the midst of processing a breakup. These people are not fun. They’re insufferable. The exit doors seem so far out of reach. Being as I live in a rural area, cut off from most social contacts, I had three full days on my own to work things out before unloading my I’ve Been Dumped sentiments on someone else. I succinctly responded to a few text messages and emails from friends and relatives who wanted updates on my getting reacquainted with Tim but I wisely refrained from phoning anyone. (Unfortunately, blog readers were not spared but they had that handy Back button as a handy exit door. So close, so easy to press!)

Sweaty & exhilarated.                                            

My mind needed to find its own exit. Despair is best in small doses. I found many healthy forms of escape. On Friday, Dumping Day, I had one of the best runs of my life. So much energy! I had to force myself at some points to slow down for fear that I’d wear myself out and have to hobble home in darkness. But I remained the Energizer Bunny the entire way. I smiled through the sweat and amassed a photo essay as I stopped at various locations to snap shots of pristine scenery. For the first time all summer, my sneakers even had mercy. No new blisters. Bonus!

I swam 5K on Saturday, 3K on Sunday. Nonstop. Why take a break? I needed to swim. I wanted to swim. Nothing to do but rote stroke work. Some people are lulled by counting sheep; I count laps.

I bought hundreds of dollars of plants to restore my neglected back deck. I yanked a summer’s worth of invasive vines. I picked blackberries from the backyard and then set out on a short road trip to pick more over a span of ninety minutes. Sorry, bears. Cobbler calls. And I made that blackberry cobbler, serving it up with a few scoops of Haagen-Dazs limoncello gelato. (Oh, what a combination!)

When I finally met up with a friend, it was to shop for and create a vegan meal together. Sure, we talked some about my disappointment, but his news was far more interesting. He’d just met a guy online from Sausalito and they plan to meet next week in Seattle. So many uncanny coincidences and life parallels between them. I got goosebumps listening to his optimism, his certainty that this was, as he put it, his next “forever love.” I truly hope all his intuition proves accurate. The camaraderie ended the weekend on a high note.

The distractions were most welcome. By the time I woke up Monday morning, I was done with disappointment. Sometimes the quickest healing occurs when we smack a bandage on the open wound and get on with life.

BEFORE AND AFTER

The following entry is an unfiltered before and after account of an experience that many of us face all too often. I wanted to capture the thoughts and feelings as they occurred. They don’t put me in the best light, but I think it is important for others to read something relatable. We can’t always simply put on a happy face.

Before:

My heart races. I am sitting in a café in town, trying to get back into my regular writing routine after being in Los Angeles and Ontario for the past six weeks. It’s been a summer of distraction. That can be a good thing.

But Tim just texted. “If you’re around today, what time would be good to call you?”

I immediately feel panic. He’s done. At least he has the dignity to dump me on the phone instead of with a text.

A few days ago, I pushed the conversation. Maybe too much. “Where are we at?” It had been our second time seeing each other since I returned from my travels and we hadn’t managed to close in the distance. The physical connection, in particular, wasn’t there. Craving something physical, yet too timid to initiate, I needed to know Tim still felt something. I made it clear that I certainly did. Tim seemed startled and defensive. We seemed to work it through and ended the evening with one of his strong, warm hugs and a welcome kiss. I felt reassured, but I think he felt unsettled. How does one conversation take two people in opposite directions?

So now I am worried. I want us to move forward. There is great potential. But why the Friday morning phone call? Doubt has a nasty habit of popping into my head and spreading like an invasive vine, winding around and strangling all other thoughts.

My hands are shaking as I type. It’s the caffeine. They make strong coffee here. I feel it more as I haven’t had this blend all summer. And this is my second cup. It can’t be nerves. That explains the rapid heart rate, too.

Right?

After our Tuesday date, I called the following day and left him a message. He immediately texted to say he was visiting with a friend. “Let’s connect in a day or so.” The following day passed. We’re into the “or so” part. I suck at waiting. That’s when Doubt sees opportunity.

The unknown of a new relationship can be exhilarating. It can also be maddening. You can’t take anything for granted. How do you know what the other person is thinking and feeling? Or not feeling?

And so I wait. I text back that we should talk in half an hour. That gives me time to calm the nerves and to get out of the coffee shop. I decide to burn off this hyped up energy with a walk along some forest trails. Nature soothes me. Usually.

I want to get the call over with—whether it’s good or bad. I need to know. If I wait until after work, I’ll just obsess and Doubt will get the best of me.

Yes, good or bad. Tell me.

But please be good. Please let the call be about when we can get together this weekend. Let’s move forward. If I say “please” enough, can I will good things to happen? Can I shake this doubt?

 

After:

I want my limo ride.

Yes, this is proof that reality TV has impacted reality. Mine, at least.

On “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette”, when you get rejected, you are hauled off in a limousine and your immediate thoughts (and tears) are recorded for the amusement of millions of viewers.

In my defense, I shed no tears. I just felt a profound frustration. I let a possible relationship linger over the summer. It felt good to think that something might continue once my days in L.A. ended. And, for a few days, they did. Tim and I reconnected twice in the days since my return.

All good. And yet not as connected as pre-L.A. I knew the first coffee felt flat. The second get together was comfortable but that was all. Give it some time, I thought. But the evening ended abruptly. Tim wasn’t checking the time—usually a good sign—and didn’t realize there was no time for dinner. We hadn’t kissed beyond the “hello” peck. He hadn’t grabbed me and wrapped me in his arms. I needed clarification. Are we on track?

This startled him. He seemed to think everything was progressing nicely. My asking made him get defensive. And that’s when I sensed I had erred. Sometimes I can be too communicative.

I got dumped. Tim said that my question made him reflect. He’d thought things were fine and then realized he wasn’t as affectionate. “You needed to initiate, too,” he said. I’d indicated I was ready, but I knew it was too late. That monkey on my back—fifteen years without physical intimacy--has made this shy guy fearful. I don’t want to get shot down. And yet it happened anyway.

When people break up, they throw out so many explanations in search of something that will stick. Anything to finish the conversation. Unfortunately, it all sticks with me. He went on to say he could see us as friends, he didn’t want to be physical with me, he didn’t feel attracted.

Oh, my god, I have heard this over and over again. This is why I spent the summer rationing my food, repenting when I’d have a margarita and working out my body beyond the point of fatigue. Must seem attractive. Tim had been so clearly drawn to me in June. Must maintain until he is drawn to the attractive inner me.

So much sacrifice. No gain.

Five dates. Best run in years. (How sad.) Best prospect. Same result.

No tears. Just more bewilderment.

I thought things would be different this time. What now?