Dismissive Behaviors

June 6, 2013

How can a person be so cold? Immediately upon entering the bar, tension arose. It was as though the two sides of the bar had become polarized, and they were both entirely too aware of the other. This game of cat-and-mouse had been going on for quite some time now, but never with such a cold, intense tension. Her friends began to be uncomfortable and the word “awkward” was mentioned. For her part, she did her damnedest to put up a brave front. She was not going to show how this affected her. She was not going to be run out of her bar, and she was not going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her wounded. She is woman, hear her roar.

Many lovers before had accused her of being a frigid bitch, with a penchant for being emotionally distant. This was the first time she had ever seen the effects on a man who could also be cold and distant. She didn’t like it. It seemed like it was too late to do much about it now, but hope? As the saying goes, hope springs eternal. She peeled back the layers of her own life in an attempt to study her own heart of black ice. She never believed her heart was made of black ice, but she had been told this on many occasions. “Perhaps,” she thought, “perhaps it is true. And if it is true, how do you melt your own heart?” The fact that she even vaguely desired to melt her own heart in order to show this man the love she had for him was shocking. No one would have believed it. She made the last man she loved wait, for almost ten years, to hear those three little words. Perhaps this ice queen was melting.

Carefully she considered the things her current lover had said to her. Weighing each statement, desire, fantasy, and question, she began to process what this man needed to feel loved. She began to examine her behaviors around him, and like a triage for the heart, checked her behaviors against a checklist she had come up with, on how to love him. She was woefully short. This man could have no idea of what he meant to her. If this had have been an emergency room, they would have declared her to be dying. Oddly fitting when you thought about it though, as this relationship was killing her. She could not continue the way things were. Change needed to happen, or a compromise of sorts. There was no sign of that on the horizon, and so she began to create her own.

Within forty-eight hours, she had a plan. She knew that this couldn’t be a power struggle, or it was doomed to fail. Instead, she would have to make him see and feel the love she had for him. It may be too late, you never could tell with these things, but she had to try. As she began to hatch out her plan, he walked in and all fell away.

Her main rules were 1) Don’t lie and 2) I don’t share. Yet, there she was, another woman. Her head began to swim and she didn’t feel so good. She would not show this, that was weakness and she would be strong. Over and over like a cyclical bit of warfare, her mind went over every little detail. Again and again, she was left without sleep as she repeated the scenario from earlier that night, and the pit in her stomach gnawed at her insides, making her feel sick. “Grandma!” she called out, “I really need you now! I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, or where to go. Grandma! Help me!” But there was no answer, just silence as the tears fell down her face. The spirit of her grandmother was quiet, and she was left alone with her questions and hurt.

Love hurts. Plain and simple. Something inside that had been buried under the avalanche of pain and wounded ego, slowly began to uncover itself and make itself heard. It may have been a tiny voice, but it was there, and in the stillest, quietest moment was heard:

“Love him.”

She knew in that moment that she would continue to love him. She may not stay, her pride and self-respect would not allow her to, if he was truly seeing other women. However, she would love him, even if it was from afar. She was able to still her tears, and in what might be the only moment of clarity for the day, looked into the future with a quiet certainty.

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