annafdd

One by one, all these moments come and pass. Wiscon was one: now the various Pride marches. Next year will probably be better. This year, they all force me to remember The Time When Anna Was Happy. It's all very well telling myself that I am better, than I am not so much in pain, but then I remember that there are other standards.

Talked to my mom today. I told her about the counsellor wanting me to be "more self protective", and my mother started agreeing enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, that's it exactly," she said. "You know, you make me always think about masochism".

That was so not the moment to tell her "Mom, I think we don't mean that word in quite the same way."

"Take this thing you said of failing the copy-editing test at work: that is obviously self-sabotage. It's absurd that you are not up to do a simple copy-edit job. How can they tell you that your grammar is perfect and your writing skills exceptional and then that you miss all the typos? You obviously wanted to fail."

I listened in disbelief. Really, I did not know where to start. Not in the sense that I didn't know which of the many things wrong with her I could explain, but in the sense that I literally was speechless.

Finally I managed to say, "No, look, I think she meant something quite completely different. She meant that I am not able to communicate efficently to people what I want from them and therefore I end up disappointed."

My counsellor has told me to reflect on how I could be more self-protective. I suppose in this case I could just have said, "No mom, what you are doing is blaming me for everything that does not go well in my life AGAIN. What you are doing is once again undermining my ability, intelligence, competence. What you are doing is telling me once again that if things go wrong it's my fault and only my fault."

And I should have said: "In fact, when she talks about being self-protective she is talking about avoiding this kind of bullshit from you. STOP IT. I didn't WANT to fail the copy-editing test. It so happens that I am not suited to copy-editing because among my skills is not an ability to spot typos. Live with it. Just like I did not chose to fail that long-ago test for the literary translation school, I actually failed it. Just as I DID NOT CHOSE TO BE HURT, BETRAYED, ABANDONED OR DITCHED by all the men I ever loved. It is not my fucking fault. So stop blaming me."

I am not capable of doing it. Long, long ago I promised myself that I would never do to other people what my mother did to me - open her mouth and let all her anger and bitterness come out unchecked, only to later tell me, I didn't mean it. I promised myself that I would never, ever tell people hurtful things without thinking about it.

This evolved into not being able to tell people hurtful things, period. I still manage to hurt people, but only because efforts at communications go awry, because the truth hurts ("I realized I was never really in love with you"), because people misunderstand me. Things do slip out, occasionally, but usually I'm very good at keeping them in check.

Which is why I won't tell all of this to my mom. Plus, a lifetime of experience thaught me that it doesn't work. What would have happened would be that my mother would be horrendously offended, would have cried, screamed or put down the phone and weeks of excruciating non-communication would follow. During which I would feel miserable, guilty, and think about my mom all the time.

So instead I quoted Aynathie's brilliant analysis of my counsellor throwaway line about "if the world was fair, you would not have to be alone, because you're lovely". I told her, see, she said that so that I would not think that my being alone is somehow my fault.

My mother seemed genuinely puzzled. I don't think she understood what I was talking about.

So, I am supposed to think about self-protection. My mind is rather blank. I am thinking about my last Wiscon, and I suspect my counsellor would have liked me not to go. But that is not self-protection, that would have been cutting myself off from people I loved and moments I cherished. In hindsight, I should have prepared myself better. Try to negotiate what kind of contact we could have.

But, well, hindsight.

I went to see Pirates III. All in all, I wished they had stopped at number I.

On the other hand, I went out running today, deliberately doing a reduced run, and switching to distance instead of time. I am very pleasantly tired, and torn between the wish to go running tomorrow as well and the realization that, really, tomorrow should be a rest day, because my legs are getting a little sore.

I looked at the first of the seasons' strawberries today(the season being Morocco): plump, red, inviting. I realized with a sinking heart that I can no longer enjoy eating strawberries.

Maybe next year, maybe at the next turn of the wheel, when I will be grieving for somebody else.

I thought about the last three years last night, running a brief timeline.

August 2003, split with Emiliano.

November 2003, ascertained that J's open relationship wasn't open after all.

February 2004, hospitalized for depression.

March 2004, Emiliano breaks contact with me upon request of new girlfried.

Summer of 2004, travelled compulsively trying to cheer myself up - World Fantasy, Arizona, Austin, Viable Paradise, New York.

October 2004, got email from J asking me if he could come live with me.

November 2004-May 2005, waited for J.

End of May 2005, decided to go see J in Kentucky and travelled to Wiscon full of hope.

June 2005, dumped by J in Cincinnati airport.

August 2005, decided to move to London.

October 2005, moved to London.

February 2006, depressed again.

May 2006, gone to Wiscon and felt happy and cheerful. Met S at Wiscon. Came home dizzy with happiness.

December 2006, dumped by S.

As they say: may you have an eventful life.

There is an old alpine song about the Captain's last will. He asks his company to gather around his deathbed and for his body to be cut in five pieces, each given to one of the things he loves: his mother, his lover, his country, his company, his mountains "that they may cover it in roses and flowers".

Although from a fight-against-the-illusions-of-plurality this may be a bad thing, yesterday I realized that there are many different, contradictory and sometimes warring aspect to my heartbreak.

There is the pain of losing one's life foundation, that bedrock of happiness that makes everything else bearable. That is by far the hardest part. It is an incurable pain and no assurances that it will get better touch it. Yes, things will get better, but what they won't do is get as good as they were. I had that bedrock for the first time in my life and though people make optimistic noises about finding it elsewhere, I know there are no assurances that I will. That part of me resents the fact that my love did not have to endure this when he broke up with me, and resents his still having it. This is not a nice reaction, but it is what it is.

Then there is the loss of that one individual person, and I could touch that pain very clearly yesterday. I had forgotten how much I liked him: how beautiful I found him (yes, I can hear my gay London friends cackling. Tsk, tsk. You lack the right eyes.), how funny, how kind, how much I liked his soft mannerisms, his clear brown eyes, his goofy way of turning theatrically when he makes a joke. How much he made me laugh. How much I made him laugh. How much his earnestness would pierce me. That is the part of me that liked him long before we were lovers, long before I thought we might be, the part of me that would go to his panels and spend time talking to him at parties. The part of me that took a photograph of him because I just had to catch him. That is also something that no assurances that I will Find Someone Else do anything to assuage. I have lost him, and I liked him so much. That part of me is comforted by the fact that I know, for sure, that he liked me just as much. There might be a time when I will have him back for as much as this part is concerned - the only bit I will get back - but it will never be for as much time as I craved.

Then there's the hunger part of me. The part that craved sex with him, the part that felt that it was the first good sex I had ever had, the part that could have long chats about sex with him and not feel unclean afterwards, the part that felt that talking to him about sex was better than a lot of real-world physical fucks. That part got a real bad whopping at the Citadel two nights ago, and not in a good way.

Then there's the part that loved him, the part that wanted to cuddle him, stroke his beard, hug him, comfort him, shower him with gifts, reassure him, protect him. That part is happy that he's not in as much pain as I am, but is outnumbered and outvoted. It's a soft, squishy part, which people might call wussy and weak, and it is there hunkering a corner, trying to feel compassion for him - and others - in very difficult times. I would call it the best part of me, where it not that there are, of course, no parts of me.

And finally there's the part that missed his world, this community, this people, this way of living. Who misses going to a party on the other side of the world and being able to talk about common friends. Who misses being able to talk about poly perverts and actually finding people who nod instead of going "but he was married! Of course it didn't work out!" I know that lots of people will tell me "but you can come visit anyway!" but I would be a visitor. I wanted to belong. There was no way I could have moved here, but I thought I would visit a lot. I can get that online, a little bit, and at cons, but it will never be the same thing as sitting in a room and laughing at Nixon jokes surrounded by my books and my people. I will miss this city.

And that makes five, like the captain's body parts. I suppose I can trust the Bay Area to do the roses and flowers thing. It still will be a burial.

That wasn't a good idea. I suppose I would have been just as unhappy at home, but... I sat in a corner and cried. The people there were nice and friendly and one woman spent a lot of time comforting me, but coming back, I just felt so tired, so defeated. So ready to give up.

I'll take a bunch of valerian pills now and go to sleep.