An Inhuman Condition

“To new beginnings?”
“To new beginnings,” she said.

I wasn’t sure when we spoke the words, and now the weight of that unknowing is the ballast in my gut.

“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”

But did she? Did she really?

I awoke to the diddle of a text; my blurred vision struggling with the electronic luminescence of the screen. There she was, in the top left corner among the widgets and hieroglyphs describing the phone’s current condition: the time, three bars of service, WiFi connection, battery charging and Jessie. I pulled out the charger cable and brought the phone back to bed. Dragging my finger down the screen, I saw the message:

“I can’t sleep.”
“What’s up?”
“My brain is just racing, and I feel terrible. I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”
“Alright, is there anything I can do to help?”
“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

There we go. I sat up in bed and grabbed my cigarettes from the nightstand. The clock burned a red “2:32” in my vision like a warning. I was well aware of every passing second as I felt for the lighter, formed a cautious response in the back of my head, prepared for the worst and lit the cigarette. The flame was brighter yet, and it hurt watching to make sure the damn thing lit. I took a long moment to inhale before pressing my thumb to the screen.

“What is it? Would it be easier to call me?”

I stared at the screen waiting for the reply. She’d been weird the past few nights, and I knew there’s something bigger going on in her head. Despite knowing each other forever, and even more, despite agreeing that there wouldn’t be any BS between us this time: no distance, no passive aggression, no resentment. We were going to give things a go, see where they went and be honest if something wasn’t working. I replayed the last few nights in my head and waited. I was trying to think of what horrible mistake I made, and nothing stood out. All I could do was wait.

“No, this is better. I don’t know if I can say it on the phone. Something doesn’t feel right with us, and I’ve been trying to make it work. I just know if we keep going that I’m going to hurt you. I hurt everyone eventually, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Isn’t it funny that the next thing people do after saying they don’t want to hurt you always stings.

“What doesn’t feel right? You don’t have to worry about hurting me. I’m sure we can figure it out.”
“It just feels off. I don’t know if I’m ready, and I’m still not over James. It’s been a hard year adjusting. I thought I was ok with things, but I’m just not sure. I just want to go back to the way things were between us, and I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s been keeping me up, and I think that it’s not working and just want to go back. Can we go back?”

I knew the score. I saw it coming, and every panicked moment of self-doubt felt justified. I’ve got this uncomforting knack for seeing things before they happen. People always get on me for being a pessimist, but I’m not usually wrong. I read the text repeatedly looking for some doubt, some room to wiggle in and fix things.

“Yeah, we can take a step back if you’re sure that’s what you want. I think we should sit down tomorrow, and you can tell me what’s going on. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want to lose you either.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I want to go back.”

Going back isn’t easy. There are some things you can’t gracefully turn back from, and the hardest, I think, is the often overused “I love you.” There’s a point even before saying the words that something ignites. Saying it is just the smoke from the fire. Somewhere in the history of our species it was decided that saying it too soon was a big faux pas. Along with it came the even more idiotic idea that there’s pressure to say it back whether you mean it or not.

It’s not as simple as “hello” or “have a nice day.” It’s the only verbal invention we have to compare those internally combusting feelings, and when you say it back you had better mean it. Obviously the level of fondness between two people is going to grow at different rates in varying degrees. It’s not the end of the world if two people don’t feel it at the same time, but it’s definitely the end of a relationship if someone says it before they mean it. Coffin nails aren’t as sturdy as that observation.

“If you’re sure, then you’re sure. Can we still sit down and talk tomorrow?”
“That’s ok with me. Try to get good sleep.”
“Goodnight, kiddo.”

Goodnight indeed like I’d sleep well after that. I retraced our relationship and smoked. I got stuck on “I love you” and smoked. My low self-esteem nagged at every insecurity, picked apart every show of affection, every action. I tried to find the moment things slipped away. I went back a few months. I thought about before we started, the first time we kissed, the last time we’d slept together. I looked for anything I could have done differently. I tried to find a way to win her back in my head, and I did not have a good night.

I finished a cigarette, lit another and smoked.

We were spending too much time together back then, but she didn’t have anyone else. Jessie needed to move. She spent the last three years moving quickly from here to Chicago, to San Diego. We hadn’t spoken in a long while when she was suddenly back in Michigan. It made sense to get together, grab coffee and catch up. She and James were doing great in California. There were awesome people, good jobs, beautiful city, etc. In the time since she left, everyone else had paired up and followed suit. In the previous year, I said bon voyage to three of the best friends I still had from the old days. I was the only holdout of the old gang and soaked with townie stench, but I never cared to travel much.

It made sense to get together regularly. I quickly introduced her to my new friends, and it was good to have someone from the old days around. When things started to go south with James, she called more often. Looking back, it’s like I was becoming a gradual crutch for her failing relationship. She inched closer, and that familiar feeling grew. We were having fun, grabbing food, seeing shows. When she and James officially broke up, we spent even more time together, became even closer.

I hadn’t actually thought anything through or really identified it in my head, but those feelings were coming back. I’d always had a thing for Jessie, and we were suddenly both single. She saw it and dropped the bomb, pre-emptive strike.

“You’re the only friend I have left in town, but lately it seems like you want more than that. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t feel the same way.”

Stings, right?

She was right, too. That’s what hurt the worst. I knew we wouldn’t work together. I knew it before she left for Chicago. We’d tried dating once before, and it was a disaster. That uncomfortable truth I see in people was telling me it would be a mistake. So I agreed when she brought it up. I convinced us both that it was just the proximity and worked on getting the thought out of my head. I was doing alright, I think. She was dating. I tried seeing someone else. I did everything I could to remind myself, and it was working.

But she had to bring that up. The day after she broke up with me via text, we talked about where we stood, and she gently reminded me of that day when said she didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t have a response to that, but I was doing my best to be civil. I was trying to hold back the crushing defeat of that spark smoldering. I wanted our romantic experiment out of my head as soon as possible to mitigate the wake, but I needed some closure for that.

So we met and awkwardly talked over the us that was. I asked her directly, “Was it something I did? What didn’t feel right about us?” The only thing I ever got as an answer was “There just wasn’t a spark.” This so-called spark is destined to be my downfall.

It was the same answer I got from the last one. I think I know what the spark is, and the problem I run into over and over again is that I feel it. But they don’t I guess. Maybe I’m just not a spark-worthy individual. Maybe I don’t do the right flame rituals and ignite them the way they’ve lit me. It’s something I haven’t been able to figure out, and I can never tell if they’re just holding back and taking the cop-out or if I’m just not a sparkler. Either way, it’s shit. Pondering this spark and my apparent dousing of it was always on my mind when it came to women.

We tried going back to the friendship, and it just wasn’t working. I was stuck resenting her for not having a better answer to my question, and she was stuck resenting me for apparently pressuring her into this relationship and making all of this awkward. The fucked up thing about that is, if you ask any of the women I’ve dated, the last thing I am is a high-pressure salesman. If I can do anything but confront my feelings with women, that’s what I do. I can’t stand feeling like the pushy guy or the sex-hungry guy. I don’t know what it is about me, but that’s really not what I’m about. I’m much too consumed in my head, too cerebral, too literal for all that. I’ve never been able to sit back with my dick on autopilot and let the chips fall where they may. That might not sound like a character flaw, but I have a suspicion that all my overthinking is extinguishing these sparks.

I want to fix myself, but I don’t know where to start. I suspect that most people feel the same way, make the same big plans. “I’m going to start eating better.” “I’m going to be more productive, spend more time working on the things that will enrich me.” “I’m going to watch less TV and spend more time in the world.” The long list of things that never get done, start and then fade, come back around and around to cripple you with the inevitable defeat.

But there I was, crushed without reason and stuck in my loop. She sat there across from me meekly reinforcing her lack of an answer, repeating the mantra that this was all my fault, all my fault, she was never interested. I stood there and took it too. I was the casual buddy. “Hey, kiddo. Just wondering what awful thing about me drives away anyone I start to care about. Any thoughts? No? Alright, well that’s just a gee-golly brain-bender then, eh?” And look, I’m not bitter that she decided to 360 on me, that’s fine. I would just, for once, like to get a brutally honest opinion of what is wrong with me. If I’d gotten that, it would still hurt, but I’d have somewhere to go next. It would give me room to grow and maybe I wouldn’t get stuck in the same loop.

But oh well.

I admit I wasn’t the best version of myself then. I get trapped in these cycles for years at a time where I can’t see anyone and enter destructive spirals. It’s been that way since high school, and it’s no prettier pushing 30. I was broke as shit, sleeping on a ragged mattress I’d had since college. I think most of my clothes had holes somewhere from overuse or misplaced cigarettes. I’d gained back quite a few pounds during the couple years since my last meaningful relationship. During that phase, I was still broke, but I was putting things back together. I cut out a bunch of shit and sugar. Things were getting better until they weren’t. When that girl left, she went out on a mushroom cloud. The destruction that followed took a while to get over, and I was just on the upswing when Jessie happened.

When things started up with her, I was optimistic. I thought we could pull each other up out of the spirals. As I sat there just taking her blame, my good intentions burned and fluttered up the chimney of her accusations. I guess being in love with someone isn’t a good enough excuse to want to be with them. Through all of my analysis since, I’ve just felt like an ass and an idiot. I know that it felt like I was in love with her at the time, but it seems like everything was an illusion, like I fell in love with a fictional character that just happened to look the same as the girl. Maybe I never loved her more than children love Mickey Mouse or McDonald’s. Maybe it’s all just something I’ll never be able to get a solid answer for.

After Jessie, it’s like I’ve been stuck in another loop, but it’s different now. Back then I felt like I still had some expectations, some things I wanted in my life. Now I can just laugh off the depression without getting stuck in bed. I can just do things to get my mind working again. I don’t think I’m going anywhere productive per se, but I’m not stuck anymore. In some ways it’s better like this; there’s less feast or famine in my head, but I miss those high times of glorious feeling when things are going great. I miss having plans and goals. I really want something to strive for, but I just can’t muster up the energy anymore. I’m just moving along through the motions, steady, never too high or low. Just wading through the stream and staying afloat. Maybe it’s better this way.

I remember when Jessie went to the hospital. She came over with a fifth of vodka to watch some TV that night. It was clear she wasn’t happy living with James still, and she went on at length about how much I meant to her, how grateful she was to have me in her life again. Between the alcohol and her adulation, I almost kissed her right there. But that’s not me. She was drunk, and I’m not the kind to get intimate in the whimsical throes of alcohol. I held back and watched the show. She finished the bottle and clearly couldn’t drive, so I set her up in my bed and slept on the couch downstairs.

In the middle of the night, I awoke to her falling into me on the couch. The only light was coming from the phone she’d just dropped and was trying to pick up. She handed it to me saying only “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to cause any trouble.” James was on the other end of the phone. “Hey, are you ok to drive? Jessie took a bunch of pills with vodka and needs to go to the hospital. I can call an ambulance if you can’t take her there.”

I got my things together and drove Jessie to the hospital. I tried to stop at the gas station for cigarettes (I was trying to quit at the time), and she started laughing madly. “I might be dying, and you’re stopping for cigarettes.” I turned the car back on and drove to the hospital despite really needing that cigarette. I’d never checked anyone into the emergency room before, but it was a fairly painless process. The hardest part of the whole thing was waiting. Her parents showed up, and I gave them the short version of the story. When James came with their son, the first thing I did was ask him for a cigarette. We smoked in the parking lot, and it was clear he’d been through this song and dance before. They all had.

I sat in the waiting room while her family all took their turns checking in. Pretty soon her dad came out “She wants to talk to you.” When I went back, she asked her mom and James to leave. Her mom obviously wanted to stay, but Jessie insisted on talking to me alone. When they left, she picked up telling me how much I meant to her. She held my hand and went through all of these big plans she had. She wanted me to move to San Diego with her, and then she wanted to move in with me here. She kept telling me how great I was, and the affection kept coming. After a few hours, we’d made the arrangements to get her some extended help. Everyone else had to get some sleep or get to work, so they left me at Jessie’s side to wait for the ambulance. I sang a handful of Tom Waits songs to her while she slept without imitating his signature growl.

When the ambulance finally came to get her, they were getting ready to put her on the stretcher. They asked if I was the boyfriend, and before I could answer, she chimed in “Yes, I love him.” They gave us a minute to say goodbye, and we hugged.

“We’ll pick this back up when you get out of the hospital,” I said.
“Will you come visit me?”
“Of course, I will.” I said.

The way she said my name made my heart melt. The came back in, moved her onto the stretcher and worked on getting her strapped in. The whole time she was giving me such an innocent look, and I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed her hand and leaned in close. Despite the ambulance guys and hospital staff hanging around, I leaned in and kissed her. It was a long and meaningful kiss that made me feel more in those seconds than I held felt in years.

“To new beginnings?” I said.
“To new beginnings.”

I should have known, yes. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have put myself in this place. I shouldn’t kiss longtime friends who say I love you after trying to kill themselves. I shouldn’t trust the words of someone who consumed large amounts of Xanax with alcohol. I shouldn’t fall in love with unstable women, or the loving, innocent versions of them that seem to exist only in my head. I should have bought those damn cigarettes when I had the chance.

I knew it wasn’t her fault. I just wished there was something she could give me now, some advice or feedback. During our talk it was like the moment in the hospital never happened. It was like she didn’t remember kissing me goodbye when I came to visit her after. I know she just wanted to spare my feelings, and that was fine for her I’m sure. I was just tired of hearing the same line ad nauseam about that infernal spark. Maybe it’s how I was raised, but when there were problems or grievances in my family, the whole world knew about them. It would sit better in my stomach if we fought about it. At least then I would know what I kept doing wrong; at least then I could change. But I didn’t get that. Again and again, I was stuck just wondering what’s wrong with me and whether I could break free from the destruction finally. Insomnia’s curse caught me most nights, and I would lament losing someone. When those thoughts threatened to take me lower, I had a phrase I said to myself.

“It’s not for me.”

Real love, genuine happiness and that elusive spark just aren’t for me, for I am wont to float.