[Not] Only In My Dreams

I dreamed I was talking to a guy I had been on a few dates with. In my dream, I knew the dates had taken place some months (perhaps even years earlier, and I knew that he had told me that he was not interested in me in that way after a few dates, but that we had remained on friendly (or so I thought) terms. In my dream,  he was telling me again, and asked me if I knew what he meant. I met his gaze directly and said I did in fact know what he meant.
He brought up the old conversation, as if somehow, because I was now sitting in the car with him with the engine stopped, cold seeping through my toes, I hadn't gotten the message the first time. He looked at me very intently and asked me again if I knew what that meant. (I was a little confused -- although in the dream I remembered that since the past conversation we had been in loose, cordial contact, I hadn't seen him since and I never made any overtures--in short, I had Behaved Appropriately.) And, like an idiot, I said I could. At the time, dream-me wanted to preserve good feeling. After all, I liked this guy -- enough that I had actually not wanted to stop dating him. But I felt like I was lying. I said I could...not that I was going to. I said I could...not that I would be able to right then and there.

He continued, as if he could sense my internal struggle, emphasizing that he would:
 - never want to kiss me,
 - never want to hold my hand,
 - never want to date me,
 - never want to marry me, and, most assuredly,
 - never want to look at me in wonderment and awe as he held our baby.

There was raw earnestness and honesty in his face. I could tell he believed he was "doing the right thing" by making things abundantly clear for me. I felt my heart crack, but I couldn't look away. I knew he thought he cared about me, but not in that way. My heart beat wildly in my chest; I felt my face suffuse in a telltale blush as I pinched my calf just by the knee and struggled to master my body's reactions to this news.

Again, he asked me if I could accept what that meant.

I snapped, emotionally. I did not feel at all that right then and there
in that moment
in that car
with his eyes boring into me
and my hands feeling clammy
and my strength of will keeping me from uttering even one sound of pain
and my eyes blinking just once
as I demanded that my body not cry, not cry, not cry
at the injustice that I was being forced to yet again acknowledge that I could really accept what that meant (infused with all the bitterness and vitriol I could muster).

I reminded myself that I had makeup on. Makeup is the code word for "armor against crying." It just adds insult to injury when your mascara runs. So I refused to humiliate myself.

He went on...and on. Repeating himself over and over. Making it abundantly clear, in and out, through and through: he was not interested, he cared about me, but not like that. I felt like he was batting raquetballs made of diamond, etched with Valentine word candy-esque phrases, onto the wall of my chest...and he was in good shape, so it wasn't painless.

"I care," drilled one ball. An "I never..." ball dribbled into the corner after resoundingly smacking into my heart. "I don't want to hurt you" hit a bulls-eye. "I want to keep you in my life" whizzed past at record-breaking speed.

Dream-self was hurt. It was clear that up until this point, dream-me had still liked the guy, but had in fact realized that he wasn't interested in her/me, and had let all but a tiny, occasional mirage of that way feeling evaporate.

Zingers continued to flow, jabbing into my heart with unerring accuracy. It was like dream guy was ruthlessly squashing any bit of good feeling I had toward him, methodically erasing all good-will, spoiling every memory, and creating only shock and hurt to fill the gap.

I woke up, feeling clammy inside and out.

I closed my eyes and as I dozed in and out, I played out the rest of the dream in my head: I lost the urge to cry. An emptiness bloomed inside me, great and terrible. After the emptiness, a curious calm crept over me. I looked at him. Really looked at him. And I realized that he wasn't the person that I thought he was, and that I didn't need to accept his assessment of me, and I didn't need to try to be nice to him, and I definitely didn't need to twist myself into an emotional pretzel to satisfy any ill-conceived "need" to keep him in my life.

That was when I undid my seat belt, opened the door, collected my purse, and walked away without looking back. I had nothing else to say to a person who would be so thoughtless that it was cruel, and tell me he wanted me to stick around for more of the same. I heard him calling to me, pleading. But my footsteps continued without pausing.

And my awake self is oh-so-glad I walked away.

Van Gogh

I used to wonder why you tried to cut your ear off.
Now that I have been infected for eight weeks, I know.
It starts as an ache, spreads to an itch, shuts your canal.
And that, my friend, is just the beginning of the show.

If it was just the hearing loss, or the bright red burn,
or the gooey ick, or the overwhelming fulness,
or even two of these foes conjoined in impishness
That would be one thing. But it's more than that, isn't it. 

It's the feeling that you've been dragged through the mud for miles
day after day, neverending grinding of life's stones
A slow, seemingly endless slog, framed by fitful sleep
episodic bursts so brief you think you dreamed them up.

So, Vincent (hope you don't mind the informality)
I'm here to tell you: I know. I care. I sympathize!
I dream of microscopes attached to tiny vacuums
The suction so sweet, the relief so complete...oh, rapture!

From the painting, I can see you tried to bandage yours.
I'm trying an alternate treatment method: so far
I s'pose it's an improvement, but just can't "git 'er done."
Waiting for the ick to end is proving very hard.

Dear Ear

(Please sing this in your head to the symphony that "If I had Words To Make A Day for You" -- sung by Farmer Hoggett in Babe -- is based off of.)

If I had words to make you hear for me
I'd string them into a strong melody
It would be soft and warm, encouraging
To not irritate, but be so soothing.

I'd sing you a song of hope for the best
Of longing for nights of undisturbed rest.
Of my dream that one day you'll clear for me
So I won't spend my life with ENT(s).

My song would show you I mean business
Your failure causes me nothing but stress
I know you really want to help me out
Please do so before I begin to shout.

Oh ear I love you, yes I really do
I'm just sick and tired of this--aren't you?
We'll both be better off without this yuck.
So to you and me I wish best of luck.

One day we will both be triumphant, ear!
Nights will be for sleeping, and I will hear
The whole of each word that is said to me
Repeats and ringing will not torture me.