Hot Stoves & Baby Steps

One of my favorites left a note on a entry back a bit.   Thinking about it, even now I don’t really have a feeling of "Brendan’s THE ONE.". Instead, what I feel is "I don’t want to be with anyone else."

Its only a piece of what she said, but I really agree with all of it.  But I know why its more scary to feel that rather than thinking he’s "The One".  When I was 16, I fell into puppy love.  I won’t try to argue it was anything more than that.  We were young and everything was roses and sunshine.  Except that he had leukemia and died.  I don’t know (or wish or hope) that we would have gotten married and lived happily ever after.  I know that we were 16 and young.  But something like that leaves a mark on you.  You can’t change the scars left from something like that.  I’m afraid now of admitting how much I want or need someone for fear that something will take them away from me.  I don’t want to need someone that much.  I don’t want to be that vulnerable and get hurt, intentionally or not.

There are daddy issues mixed into all that too.  There was one particular night that stands out to me.  My mother was gone, to Florida or to see her sister or something.  I was in high school (maybe jr high) and wanted to cook dinner for my father.  Like a Donna Reed wannabe.  He was always very busy, but I explained that just one night that week I wanted to cook dinner for him and eat with him and the whole nine yards.  I told him to pick the day and the time, since he was busy many nights.  He picked one and set the time, and I was so excited.  I timed everything perfectly (which I don’t think I’ve done since) so that everything would be hot and fresh when he was ready to sit down.  The napkins were folded; the iced tea poured; the meal ready.  I felt like a Top Chef (but before the show was ever on.)  And I sat down and waited.  And waited.

And waited.

I called his office but got no answer.  I started to worry that something had happened.  I considered calling hospitals.  But nearly ever EMS responder in Dutchess County near my father and would have contacted me if something had happened.  I tried his cell phone.  The office.

And waited.

I don’t remember how long I waited.  Four or five hours.  Maybe longer.  I was so angry.  And hurt.  I wanted my daddy.  I wanted to spend time with him.  I tried to be understanding that he was busy and had responsibilities.  I let him pick the time and date and everything.  I can wait for ages as long as I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  But the light never got there.  Eventually, I had to go to bed.  I left him a plate on the counter.  Maybe.  I don’t remember.  I just remember being heartbroken.

For all my other heartbreaks, nothing will ever top having my heart broken by my own father.  After that, the walls shot up.  I wasn’t going to need anyone.  I wasn’t going to open myself up to that much pain ever again.  I wasn’t going to ever want something that much ever again.  You can’t be disappointed and hurt if you never hope.  Or at least I can control how much I might be hurt by how much I hope.

This is pretty much the shortest version and explanation of why I have such a hard time hoping, dreaming and wishing.  It explains why I tend to self-sabotage and sell myself short.  It explains why I’m so afraid to believe good things might happen.  This is what it means to be a pessimist.

I’m afraid to admit that I don’t want to be with anyone except Mike in case something happens.  I don’t blame Matt for dying of leukemia; it wasn’t his fault.  But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like crazy.  And I don’t blame my father for working as hard as he did.  He had bills and school loans and a family to take care of.  I blame him for that particular night and other broken promises, but at the same time, I understand.  I don’t blame Mike for… leaving on ships, for going to Texas and that crazy road-trip.  I don’t blame him for wanting to try things with one of his ex’s a number of years ago.  I understand why he did what he did.  I understand what they all did and I don’t blame them.  But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.  It doesn’t mean that I didn’t cry into my pillow.  It doesn’t mean that my heart was ripped out and torn to shreds.

Its like putting your hand on a hot stove.  Maybe you do it once because you don’t know any better.  Maybe you do it once because you forgot it was turned on.  Whatever the reason, you don’t do it again!  Its not the stove’s fault for being hot.  It’s the circumstance and the situation.  Its the way things played out.  But you can bet you won’t be doing the same thing again!  You won’t be opening your fingers, extending your arm and placing your hand on that stove again unless you are sure its not hot.

And the analogy can extend further.  You know that you’ll have to touch the stove again at some point.  But you are more cautious now.  You put on a hot mitt, or test it with water, or ask someone else what they think.

I know that at some point I’m going to have to trust again.  I’m going to have to really hope and wish and want and need.  But I’m more cautious now.  I do things to try and protect myself.  I do things to test the person and the situation.  Sometimes its asking questions, sometimes they are stupid, girly tests and sometimes they are straight forward questions.  I ask my friends what they think.  I look for advice.

But eventually, at some point, I still have to open my fingers, extending my arm and place my hand in his.

One step at a time.  Just one step.  We’re not getting married tomorrow.  Baby steps.  Small steps.