posted November 05, 2015 07:21 PM
quote:
Originally posted by EmGem:
Was this always platonic?
Why is he still in your life if he's so manipulative? 😧
Brilliant questions all, Em. And, finally on the other side of this hell, I feel I can start to answer the complicated mess of, 'why the hell did I play Harley to his Joker for so Gherdehmmed long?'
Answer (prepare yourself, because it's groanworthy) -- I thought he was my twin flame.
I know, I know, I know. Get in line, right?
But in my humble defence, it was all just a little too crazy. Really. Try this on for size.
It's 2005. September. I'm 25 -- a lowly, retail bank teller, who's basically waiting for her life to begin -- and the FBI to finish their friggin' background, so I can get my TS-Pentagon clearance, move to Virginia, and work as an intelligence analyst at the DC Office. (Like Chuck as a chica, minus the Intersect getting slammed into my noggin.) I've just had one of Those Dreams -- the kind that often portend Big Things, and become projects that will really Be Something. I'm also 'rooming' with a psychopath who was once my boyfriend, before, y'know, he became a monster. Now neither of us can afford to pay rent on our own, so we're stuck together. (Ask me why I hate a man's MARS on my VENUS sometime.)
Fast forward some months, in which, quite likely, not much happened. I'm up way too bloody late, because he commandeers my computer more often than not, and I've gotten sick of his Lectering me into feeling like a POS. So, I just give. Fine. Whatever. I've got books. I can go read. So, it's at this hour, approaching Oh-God o'clock, that I can get any of MY pleasure work done, after an 11-hour day on my feet, fielding bad checks, and asking, 'did you know you could get a credit card right now and we'll waive all overdraft fees for a year? :: finger-shoots self in head :: And, at that time of my life -- which ain't all that different from now, honestly -- that was writing. And, since 2003, writing collaborative online, in worlds of another's creation; interactive 'fanfiction', in realtime.
After this dream, I was prompted to begin building one of my own. The next morning, I'm contemplating, however, the wisdom of having joined probably one of the dumbest online RPGs known-to-man, blaming sleep-deprivation, and the fact that I was likely slowly but surely going insane.
But, for whatever reason, he'd done the same damned thing.
We met that following evening, 22 July 2006. His first contact to me being 20 July, however, because, thank you, timestamp. Our official communication. The beginning of this 'that's some ride for a dime!' coaster-trip through both heaven and hell, depending upon the day, and circumstances.
Something about him made me go, 'eureka! He's the one!' -- to write the lead character in what was now my own RPG in development. And, though he agrees in hindsight, it was just as crazy -- about five minutes upon meeting -- something made him go, 'hell, yeah, let's do this!' And so it was. Kinda.
We wrote together like we were of one-mind. He decided that his character, the hero, should be secretly in love with my character, who, at the time, was just his assistant. And our crackling Tony Stark and Pepper Potts' style banter was born. And everyone loved it. We were en fuego.
He was a formally trained chemist and sometimes-comedian. Writing became his way of dealing with the overwhelming ennui of his life; becoming other people, to envision more exciting circumstances. Getting lost in fantasy just long enough to forget the mundane disappointment that was his reality.
Did I mention he's a sociopath?
Well, you can't liken someone to the Joker and not have them be on the psychopathic spectrum. (And, well, the whole chemist / comedian thing. How often does that happen?) And I was the sad, lonely, formally trained criminal profiler, getting ready for her first big gig in DC with the FBI's NCAVC.
He was an ass. But he was also a bitingly intelligent, hysterical ass. And I am such a sucker for a man with a big brain and sparkling wit. He knew it, too; could read me like a book, backwards and forwards. I thought his backhanded compliments and bizarrely obsessive attention meant that he was into me. But he played extremely close to the vest, never daring to let the truth be known.
Like another character to which he'd be compared -- Will McAvoy, of Sorkin's The Newsroom (brilliantly portrayed by the versatile-as-all-get-out Jeff Daniels) -- he'd come in, play his character to perfection, and then disappear, as if he were never there. He wasn't looking for friends. And he sure as hell wasn't after a relationship -- God, no. So much the opposite. Total loner with a mask of charismatic sarcasm that kept him from getting his block knocked off. But, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to be getting him laid.
Nonetheless, one Friday evening, he tells me that he doesn't have time to run a scene tonight, as, that would be pathetic, and he's going to go meet his friends. Well. Okay then. It probably was the first time he was that rude to me, but I knew he had it in him. He reappeared online 5 minutes later -- if that. Didn't say anything. I didn't, either. Then another 5 minutes passed. So, I finally did.
'You forget something?'
'Yeah,' his message said. 'I think you're my only friend.'
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
I'd be the last you'd ever call a bleeding heart, but something, SOMEHOW, reached into the core of my heart in that moment, and yanked. Hard. I had an inexplicable need to be needed by him; to feel valued. To be ... special.
Every little minuscule scrap of attention I received from him, starting with that evening in which I became his confidante, was treated like pieces of gold; I treasured every moment, every word. He'd always made fun of my astrology, but when I ran our composite some years later, even I was blown away.
'It means we're soulmates, right?'
I melted. Maybe? Maybe we were. Maybe that could explain the incredible circumstances; the bizarre fact that this man from Phoenix, and this woman in Dallas, should never have even MET, let alone end up creating a story I'd later realise had all of the trappings of the twin flame phenomenon. So ... maybe we were.
There was just one teensy-weensy little problem, though.
... I had no idea who he was. And he basically told me that if I ever found out his identity, he'd be gone. Poof. Outtie.
Yeah. Little 'Eros and Psyche', much?
So. Of course, like an idiot, I didn't. I never pried. Never asked. Never dared. I couldn't lose my incredible writing partner, who had become my best friend, the man I was starting to see in my dreams, and, I hoped to God, I wasn't falling for.
Of course ... I was also a formally trained investigator. I knew that my You've Got Mail scenario was pretty on-the-nose, and his 'comedian friend' who 'totally has a crush on me', whom I called into a morning show and bantered with some months before, was absolutely him. He'd never thought to change vital details like his birthday, or where he attended school. It was transparent enough to where I knew.
And sometimes, he thought maybe I did know. But he didn't want to know if I knew, so he never asked. And I sure as hell didn't. So, we laboured under the mutual delusion that he was actually two people -- one of which had a crush on me, mind -- whom I finally met in 2010. 20 March 2010, to be exact.
Yeah. That's right. Four years later. I'd even since withdrawn my spot at the FBI-NCAVC and moved to Los Angeles. Which he, (as the guy who wasn't the comedian, but the chemist) referred to as, 'my wanting to see what it was like being west of him.' See? Always the jokester.
But it'd be October 2011 before things really changed.
'These still your digits?' I texted to The Comedian, (not the chemist) as we'd exchanged numbers the year prior when we met at my apartment. He responded in the affirmative.
After that, we were texting constantly. It was a crazy, heady experience, because of how much it felt like it was those, now several, years ago. I had an opportunity to develop our now old (as it ran from '05-'09) project for Starz Digital, a smaller distributor of the major network.
So, I asked the insane question.
'You guys are practically the same person. How would you like to play his character?'
He gave the equally insane answer.
'I'd love to.'
Did I care how he'd lied straight to my face, that March 2010? Or how he'd invited me to coffee the next morning, only to skip out without a word, texting me once he was back in Phoenix, because 'he had a gig come up' ? Realising that he'd realised the awkward silence that would eventually prevail, in which I just might ask, 'are you ever going to tell me the truth?'
Poof.
Of course I did. I even cried about it. I gave myself a serious head-check, saying, THIS IS NOT HOW SOMEONE WHO CARES ABOUT YOU BEHAVES. And, for the first time since our failed meeting, 4 July 2008, during a very brief 3-month long-distance relationship, following my leaving the psychopath -- I decided to let him go. To face reality, and drop it.
And, to answer your question, Em: his flight was laying over in my city, and we were going to ... uhm ... something about an airport bathroom. Not exactly mile-high club, but proximally close. It's probably best for all involved that didn't happen.
I was sick and tired of driving through Phoenix, to and from Dallas, and gnashing my teeth that I couldn't go and see the man who'd been my best friend for years. Because dropping in on an acquaintance, with whom I had spent only a few hours in person working on a project -- is just weird.
It was two days before his birthday, 2011. I'd been giving him an earful of my sorrow over our 'mutual friend' withholding his identity from me for so long. He fell into a sombre mood.
And sent me an email. From his email address -- you know, the guy who wasn't in any way, shape, or form, him.
And he signed it with his name.
Attached, was a confession, and third-person style narrative, about how he'd met this woman who'd basically changed his life. How he'd let her down. How he was so sure that she'd set him up, by not going to the airport. And how he'd acted like it didn't hurt. And that, now he had a real chance to make it up to her, he was going to.
I cried, but they were tears of legitimate joy. Shock. Closure and relief. And, to paraphrase his narrative, 'I thought it was a new beginning -- but it wasn't.'
The past lingered too deeply, too much, and too heavily. Suddenly, we had a HISTORY. And even though I'd get to go through Phoenix this year, for the first time, and see him, and hug him, and snap a photo that showed WE WERE HERE, AND THIS HAPPENED, it didn't change who he was. Even though he'd call me a week later, for the first time -- ever -- and that would lead to talking ALL OF THE TIME, it wouldn't change what had been.
Even though we were both undeniably falling in love -- we couldn't. But we could both agree that, hey, if something happened when we were shooting that next June (which never came) then ... well ... that's that, right?
It all spiralled out of control, 17 January 2013. I'd been backing off since the previous September, in which a misunderstanding led to a major blowout, and I could not longer take his mind-games -- like inventing women he was sleeping with -- if I wasn't picking up the phone. And later admitting to it. And considering it justified, because, 'you answered, didn't you?'
:: gnashing teeth ::
Yeah. I did.
I didn't want to be The Woman anymore. I wanted him to show me I mattered. I wanted to know. So, instead, he called me crazy, retracting everything he'd ever said, and there wasn't much he knew, except that he didn't want a romantic relationship with me, or even to sleep together. Because, in his eyes, I was crazy.
'YOU MAKE me crazy!' I'd said, throwing my phone across the room.
I am Auby's sense of crushed idealism, and raging broken heart.
By the time he (somewhat) apologised, on Valentine's Day, (as he couldn't understand 'why I seemed so cross') it was too late. And his apology was of the 'I'm getting the sense I should apologise for something I did,' kind.
By the time the truth would come out, the realisation that we're too close to try to have a casual relationship -- our relationship was ashes. I would've respected his admitting to me that he can't do anything but one-night-stands (which is true) and sleeping with his best friend, who knew him better than anyone (his words) was way too close to something resembling a relationship. Fair enough. Sad reality, but also true.
He then felt he was justified in playing the, 'but your husband wouldn't like it,' card. Until my now-boyfriend and I got back together later that year. We all had lunch the following May. The mood ... was mixed. My husband saying that he was my boyfriend, but I quickly countering that, no, we were just -- if anything -- friends with benefits. It wasn't like that.
Even then, protecting his feelings. Which, in all honesty, was probably justified on my behalf.
2012 was insane. So many dreams. So many weird synchronicities. So many odd experiences. And, God, SO much telepathy. We're STILL friggin' telepathic. Drives me bonkers. We were open frenemies from about June 2013 onward; periodic moments of civility. Rinse, repeat.
Mid-2014, he texts me; 'do you think I'm schizophrenic?' I call him. No, he's schizoid. That he already knew; but is he also schizophrenic? No, he's schizoid. You can't be both; it's a spectrum, and they're opposite ends. 'Okay, thanks.' I ask him why. Someone said they thought he was schizophrenic. (I could see why.) 'But I knew you'd tell me the truth. You know me better than anyone.'
Silence.
'Thanks.'
Pleasantries. One of us excusing ourselves from the conversation. Because, life.
Longer silence.
You know me better than anyone.
It hurt right here; somewhere between my heart and my soul, and my gut.
It was true, too. I think it probably still is. I don't think much has changed. He doesn't let people in, and, somehow, I ended up on the inside. Inside the wall.
But there's only so far one can go. There are always walls in front of that one. And that one. And that one.
All things which I'd encounter with my boyfriend. The major difference being, he always made me feel special. He always told me the truth. And, in March 2013, said that he wanted to learn to become someone who could really love me -- having all of the same problems, the same walls, the same fears, and the same inabilities.
But he wanted to try. And that's made all the difference.
So, why, almost a decade later, are we still kinda at this? I don't know. Honestly. We're in each other's background, and we occasionally resurface, to wish birthday greetings, or ask questions, or even commiserate. It'll never be the way it once was, though. I've healed. I found a self-love I'd never known before, and it allowed me to finally enjoy a love I couldn't have imagined.
He's still alone. By choice. Or something.
And some nights, at Oh-God o'clock, we get a little nostalgic, a little maudlin. Post this on Facebook. Listen to that song.
'This is totally not about you.'
But it always is. Rinse, repeat.
And ... life keeps on moving. It always does.
Lindaland
UBBFriend: Email This Page to Someone! 
posted November 05, 2015 04:52 PM
Everybody is different. 
posted November 05, 2015 08:49 PM
I was only sharing what i saw to give people some hope.Usually people freak out when they see this aspect.
