Kiss Me

We are not great friends. In fact, I have only seen you once, at an event we both frequent. I have no idea what kind of woes or joys you have in your life, and they aren’t any of my business.

 

The last couple of nights I have been having vivid dreams about my ex-husband. In each of these dreams we have been on the verge of reconciliation, and this has been something I have very much wanted; the dreams have been a continuous showcasing of what a wonderful wife I could be if he would just let me, and him accepting my many offerings but remaining mean and distant, and if not mean, then taciturn and avoiding eye contact and not returning any of my gestures of warmth.

Since I have no desire of reconciliating with him in real life, the dreams keep leaving me perplexed and emotionally drained. We did not leave things well, and the easiest and most probable explanation to the dreams is that my mind keeps working on the downfall of the relationship and my part in it, and of course they are also a manifestation of my guilt.

 

I used to be someone who could not stand to have people be angry at her. My volcanic relationship with my husband took care of that character flaw for good, but it did bring forth a bunch of new ones, ones that I will struggle to lose for the rest of my life. I became excellent at using my words to best him; we were always at each other’s throats and over time it became a necessary survival tactic. He kept vocally marveling at how I seemed to have a need to verbally crush him in an argument, and he never seemed to understand the basic outline; he was an established writer when we met, someone whose texts I had been reading for years and whom I held in the utmost regard, and I was a blue collar worker, an aspiring writer myself but so far removed from his professional or social circles it was ridiculous. He fell for me because he considered me an usually beautiful person who had managed to hide a brain in there, but our relationship was marked from the first by this inequality in status. I was not his trophy wife, but a lot of people saw me that way, and having a thinking mind seemed to be a constant surprise. I never felt inferior to him, but there were times when I did feel small. And I guess the feelings of smallness lead to needing to prove my razor-sharpness time and time again. 

He never knew how much I valued his opinion because I concealed it from him, not wanting to betray how much it meant to me, but the fact is that I would not have become a serious writer without his argumentative, almost angry incredulity at my holding hostage my work inside a desk drawer.

We both came out from our marriage with a whole bunch of very juicy new traumas to last a lifetime and to work out in our respective writing – except that when we divorced, he told me that he was actually relieved and more than happy to return back to his own statistical group, and the only reason we had stayed together for as long as we did was because he had been too lazy for the hassle of a breakup. As in thank god it’s over because I’m now done slumming.

Of course I understand this was specifically meant to hurt me, but I also think it was what he thought then.

I don’t know if the dreams are some primal way of subconsciously trying to crawl back into his good graces and ask for his acceptance and absolution. If it is so, it feels unbelievably weak of me and more than I can stomach. The comment about the reference group hurt me more than a lot of other stuff he said during our time together; and I am not some flickering candle in the wind here, I gave as good as I got, do not feel sorry for me. I became very astute in quickly noting where the blade was hidden and how to one-up it. The result, I’m afraid though, is that I see blades everywhere now and demand explanation as to why insult me like this. I am constantly at the ready for combat, and the moments when I am relaxed do not usually include anybody else in my space.

 

Three different people who do not know each other and for whom I have come to care deeply have recently argued that I tend to jump into the worst possible conclusions about myself if they so much as whisper a word that is not pure praise, and that I seem to consider everyone a possible enemy and pounce at the smallest assumption of criticism as if I was an aggravated feline.

As I said, I got over trying to please the whole world, but being on the receiving end of an almost identical set of observations thrown at me by people I consider dear and would very much like to have near me has been kind of a shocking eye opener.

I was asked by one of the observers to consider if I maybe have no real need for a conventional relationship at all since I seem to be so happy living inside my own little world, insisting on doing so many of the things that are important to me, that sustain me, and make me content, alone, and since I tend to shy away from people touching me – what do I need a relationship for anyway since being alone is what I seem to crave the most?

Someone else said they appreciated how deeply I focus on the person who matters to me but it is not a common at all quality to possess and they themself did not feel a similar need to focus as deeply on others.

A third voice of discontent came from a newer relationship, a very observant person as well, who, since they know me only a little bit, has regarded this feature about my amplified worst case scenario interpretation mind a dealbreaker.

I am not an easy person to know. I get into moods and funks and yes, sometimes I don’t like to be touched and I do like to go do things on my own a lot. My mother tells me I was like that even as a child, closing the door to my room and announcing that I would now proceed to play there by myself for some time in case anyone needed me.

These observations were, however, very disquieting for me, since each of these comments was made by someone I care about and would very much like to keep talking to and basically have in my life.

Not to cater to crowds, but to maintain a few people I can talk to.

Not always to be touched, but sometimes yes.

To do things independently, but to have people to return to.

But it is true, deep focus would be correct. I don’t do lukewarm friendships.

It is difficult for me to accept gestures and warmth from people who might up and leave.

In my attempts to not need anyone I seem to nevertheless project the utmost neediness, so urgent it is considered unattractive.

These are some hard facts to live with. Yet no one wants to be utterly alone, I dare say.

I don’t know what your hard facts are.

 

But despite how flawed and downright terrible a human being per rumors I sometimes am, I have a fool’s optimism towards others and myself.

If I go now – but what of the summer flower that was given to me as a gift with purchase? What of the basil? What of my family who still have no idea what to do with me but who love me anyway?

Also, I find it interesting that I have one person telling me I am so removed from the world they are wondering if I am cut out for ordinary relationships at all, and another saying I am so enraptured by the sensual world it follows that we have nothing in common. And the one in the middle telling me they can’t handle my intensity.

But what of my TBR pile? I swore I would only die after having read every single book in my bookshelf. What of the landscape that has accepted me as their representative? What of all these discussions that are right now in a bad place but might still pick up if I am patient enough?

Sometimes I feel like I matter to no one but myself and that everything I have accomplished is utterly irrelevant. Sometimes I feel like I possess such profundity of thought I must rush to put it on paper. Mostly, though, when I am writing, I lose myself in a state I have no words for, a happiness perhaps, or a state of the most urgent relevance, and right then it doesn’t matter if no one else understands.

But of course I, too, wish to be understood.

When someone touched me after a very long time of not being touched by another human being I became so overwrought with emotion I cried.

When I was likened to a dancer in the throes of the myriad seductive fumes of the sensual world and seeing life as a wild party while the observer sat in silence outside the venue with their eyes closed, not needing anything, I became so overwrought with emotion I cried.

When I was told my intensity was too hard to deal with and intensity was not an element they were necessarily looking for in a friendship I became so overwrought with emotion I cried.

Because I felt these things deeply, because I felt misunderstood, because weren’t they all correct assumptions about me, and like my ex-husband said, what a relief to be done with me finally?

The Special Needs Woman. The Royal High Maintenance Girlfriend. The Borderline.

 

The fool’s optimism, though. I don’t know where that comes from. And I don’t know why it felt so necessary to reach out to you with my very specific crap. In the torrent of my affairs I tend to become myopic and fool myself into thinking there just might be something in my set of circumstance that may be useful to others, even a drop.

It is true. I love everything. I love everything. I love the rain and the heat and the storms and the snow. I love the summer, the fall, the winter, the spring. I love the morning, the noon, the evening, the night. I love sleeping, and pleasure, and music, and quiet. I love M, to whom I owe the jump start of my public writing career, for giving me the push I needed to stop obsessing if I am good enough and just start putting my work out there, to start being part of the conversation and the world instead of nursing my precious texts endlessly in the safety of my soft chamber in the manner of a jealous lover. I love each of my critics and harbor a fool’s optimism of perhaps one day suddenly becoming understood by them and not all misunderstood.

 

I forgive you.

Do you forgive me?

I forgive you.

Do you forgive me?

Considering my ex-husband used to tell the story of how he held a decade-long grudge and refused to talk to a work colleague because they once had a dispute over some editorial issue, I am not holding my breath.

As for the others, I don’t know if they forgive me. I wrote in a book once that forgiveness should be regarded as a gift instead of a reward. Forgiveness for intruding into their lives in the first place and then demanding they let me in bed with them to watch the late-night showing of Rambo.

This is my signature, personal shit, mostly self-inflicted and as such not the most interesting interference imaginable, but if I managed to divert you from your pain for even a second, good for me, because the conspiracy of women is what secretly makes the world go round, isn’t it?

 

Catherine O’Hara said in a famous TV show that whatever faults we find in ourselves right now, there will come a time when we look at ourselves with much kinder eyes and think my god, I was a pretty thing. Also, that if we are in possession of nudes of ourselves we should post them online immediately.

I have no idea if what I am trying to say is coming through here at all, but please know I was thinking about you very hard writing this. The next time our paths cross, and here’s one more fool’s optimistic hope that they will cross, if you recognize me come over to me and kiss me.

Just because we are both here and alive in this moment in time.

Sincerely,

Tuija

 

For L.

Cover art for this one by the stupendously talented Utu Korhonen, titled "green toothbrush" and used with kind permission from the artist. Naked Tuija self snap.