There’s nothing really particularly amazing about him. It’s not like he’s Superman or anything; he doesn’t have any superpowers. He’s no batman, either. God, he’s not even Robin. So why the fuck am I so concerned in his absence, haunted by his existence and the concept of being without him? It would seem almost pointless to worry, but each time I pick up my phone, wanting desperately to ask how he is, reaching out and clutching for just one word back, whether that word consists of two letters or ten, I find myself reviewing and renewing old memories and thoughts I have been trying frantically to suppress, attempting once again – completely unsuccessfully – to push said thoughts away, and then, at the last moment, calling them wistfully back before staring at my phone and deciding that any move toward contact or communication on my part would be an insensible act which will only lead to expression of my own carefully guarded vulnerability.
A breath of air slips through my lips and sinks into my stomach. I stand, my phone open, my fingers poised over the keys, having already typed, deleted, and retyped in several different ways, “Hi. I miss you.”
And here’s the kicker: even if I get this right, even if every word is perfect and I somehow manage to come off random and casual… I know he won’t answer. He won’t answer; just by sending one text I’ll have shown him everything he needs to see to let him know that I still think about him even though he never thinks of me. He will be one up, once more, just by owning the knowledge that I miss him enough to try and try again to reach him without expectations. I hope, of course, as I stare desperately at the “send” button, that he will respond… but I cannot pretend to be unaware of my own skepticism.
And here’s the kicker: even if I get this right, even if every word is perfect and I somehow manage to come off random and casual… I know he won’t answer. He won’t answer; just by sending one text I’ll have shown him everything he needs to see to let him know that I still think about him even though he never thinks of me. He will be one up, once more, just by owning the knowledge that I miss him enough to try and try again to reach him without expectations. I hope, of course, as I stare desperately at the “send” button, that he will respond… but I cannot pretend to be unaware of my own skepticism.
This can’t be healthy. Actually, I’m almost positive it’s completely detrimental to my personal well-being: emotional mutilation which I inflict entirely on myself and because of my own wild thought processes. This said I find myself wondering if I am not possibly the worst kind of masochist. Am I?
To call myself a masochist implies that some part of me enjoys this sick game which, and I cannot deny this, I play frequently. You know the one: there are no rules and a million rules all at the same time, revolving around having and losing; one floods oneself with the bad and cherishes it, simply because it comes with (although it often overwhelms) the good. Is this not masochism? It sure as hell sounds like it.
But part of me says no. No. Part of me, a very small part of me, the only part that seems to have avoided all the inherent blindness of unconditional love feels, knows that he could have stopped this before it escalated to this extent, before it spread through my body and poisoned every part of me.
The same breath trails away, brushing past my lips, quietly escaping the confines of my body.
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