Still waters run deep

I think I can feel some semblance of a sense of humour returning, and that return is very welcome indeed. It's been a rough couple of weeks, and the fact that I didn't post my usual 'progress' report last Monday is telling of its own.

So, the bad stuff first.

I spent many days trying to break the elastic joining me - via cyberspace - to the invisible woman. Depending on the hour of the day, or more accurately the minute of the day, I'd be in one of two polar extremes mentally. One extreme was borderline anger mixed with frustration and a dash of suspicion. The other was concentrated longing, disillusionment, and powerlessness spiked with a good measure of emasculation.

Let's get things into perspective first though. I must admit that I do feel foolish when I say that I think I'm in love with a woman I've never met. There's just no way that that can be said out loud without incurring an incredulous response. I'm not going to dwell on all the details - as it is, I'm already bending the rules by even mentioning this woman on my blog (her rules, not mine - my mental health comes first from this point onwards though). However, even my shrink was forced to recognise and, indeed, said unsolicited that there was definitely some kind of strong emotional connection between us. We were both getting something out of the whole thing. There was something there. Being instinctually pessimistic I have a tendency to think the entire relationship through before I've even got to the first date, which is a feminine trait if I'm not mistaken (imagining how we might 'look' together as a couple, what our kids might be like, etc). Whilst speaking from the perspective of a divorcee, making all this uncomfortably ironic, I like to think that I'm cautious if not tentative to start something I don't think is ultimately going to lead to anything. The downside of course is that I probably could have been laid a lot more than I have if I were more able to put this aside. I'd probably be better in bed by now too - it just depends how much of my sexual prowess is technique, and how much is pure talent (if any). Suffice to say, I could see the potential of this relationship, and the life together we could have. In fact, there are precious few things that would have the power to persuade me otherwise. Finding out she's a "he" would do it, but despite my suspicions and the cognitive distortions beating a path to my brain even I know that's impossible...unless the guy I was talking to on the phone was so young his voice hadn't broken yet. What a horrible thought!

Anyway, I think power and control, or the 'lack of', were at the heart of it all. There I am, now stuck with this relationship I've been trying to make real for the last seven months, unable to let go because I've allowed myself to get emotionally involved, but unable to improve it because I don't have the power to do so. I think all this time I'd been kidding myself because I had a vague memory that one of our old MSN conversations held within it two possible addresses in Toronto for the invisible woman. Long story short, it stems back to a time when things were more cheerful and we were excitedly chatting online, trying to figure how close I lived to the houses she was - allegedly - looking at with a view to buy. That gave me one precise address and another street in The Beaches.

So, being a tenacious chap I took things into my own hands.

I was, and am, 99% sure that - ceteris paribus - if we were to meet then the invisible woman's reasons for fearing a face-to-face meeting would immediately dissipate. In order to put the seven months of, well, let's call it "experience" (which is what you get when you don't get what you want) behind us and start a new chapter I figured I'd use my initiative and go visit her. Further, I chose to do so on my way back from a mountainbike ride to ensure I looked - at best - dishevelled, and at worst pretty ridiculous. Stomping around in cycling shoes and lycra doesn't do much for one's manliness, but the intention was to ensure that if she happened to be similarly ruffled from a workout at the gym or similar, I would still be on the weaker ground looks-wise. Despite the careful thought that went into that, and what I'd say, and what I'd do, it still didn't work. I got neither my dream woman, nor closure.

At the precise address there were people home, even a brunette woman and a young daughter, but it wasn't them, or her. That said, the owner did confirm they'd only recently bought the house. February in fact, just after the MSN discussion.

On the other street I didn't have a specific house number, and the only clue I had to work with was the fact that she owned, or at least had owned a red Ford F-150. I didn't see one, and I already felt slightly sullied and stalker-ish for going as far as I had, so I had to call it a day.

I won't bother describing the hand-trembling, knee-knocking, bitter after-tasting anxiety that made simple movement seem like I was wading through rice pudding, nor the times when I got right in front of the house but then couldn't go through with it and rode away again, rife with self-loathing. The point, dear reader, is that I'd played my last card, used up my last of the nine lives, done everything I could. What the whole escapade meant was that I was, indeed, utterly powerless in the so-called relationship. Unable to see her, unable to talk to her unless she deemed it worthwhile, yet sufficiently committed to her emotionally for it to hurt. Physically hurt, that is.

So what followed was several days of angst bordering on panic - fearing the pain of unrequited love and then having that fear come true for every minute I was awake. Oh, and that combined with the frustration of wanting to mean more to her, knowing I could mean more to her, knowing deep down that I really do mean something to her, but being paralysed to progress things because I have no idea where she is or whether she exists in real life the same way she does in my mind. Oh yeah - all that plus a feeling of annoyance that, despite all that we'd shared, I really had absolutely no idea how she was doing, what she was up to, where she was, whether she felt even close to the same way as me, or whether her Adam's Apple was bigger than mine or not.

The only way I could stop it was to comprehensively distract myself, but focus and concentration aren't easy at the best of times so the only things that worked were those things that occupied my body and mind. It would only take a few moments of doing nothing for my thoughts to return to her, and that's not including all the visual and aural stimuli in the world around me that reminded me of her: red trucks; yellow Hummers; brunette women; anything involving stationery (I'll tell you that one another time); working out; anything to do with the entire region of Toronto where she allegedly lives; chocolate buttons and jelly babies; anything related to parenthood; taking a shower. The list is endless.

The result was a very discernable peak in anxiety and a greater one in depression, illustrated in the graph above (click to enlarge). And, there wasn't much I could do about it except go to bed and hope it wasn't still there in the morning. That said, many nights I was still trying to get to sleep as the birds were singing outside but my sleep schedule at least has recovered. My fitness schedule hasn't, although that's as much to do with a week of bloody torrential rain as much as anything else.

All that and an entire case of beer brings us up to today. Lucky I had no weed or 'hard liqor' else my liver would have developed the same contempt for my body as the members of CUPE do for being told they won't get paid to slack off work like the self-centred wankers they all are. She is still on my mind though, and I think it'll be that way for a while. I still catch myself glancing North up the street as I walk out of the subway station exit, looking for a red truck that wasn't parked there before. Certain songs still turn my stomach. Walking past diapers/nappies in Price Chopper still makes my face fall. I have somehow developed a Spidey Sense that, no matter where I am in the house, tingles every time a vehicle slows down out front. Evidently it's not her, else this would be a rather different blog entry. I'd love it if that were so, to be empowered to write about a long-awaited get-together: the surprise; the shock; the sheer unadulterated glee I'd no doubt be overcome by if she were to just show up at my place without warning. But not today, and as I'm slowly beginning to realise, perhaps never. Regardless, it will probably be months before I'm able to consider dating again properly. As I discovered, the invisible woman has had a greater impact on me than I previously thought, to the extent that even wondering what that attractive woman passing on the street looks like in nothing but lingerie incurs guilty feelings. It feels like I'm betraying the invisible woman. As ridiculous as that sounds, I'm having to just learn to accept it because trying to fight against it with anger, indifference, or even dewey-eyed positivity is an exercise in futility. I just wasn't wired the right way to be a cad, and I have to let go of hope because it just prolongs the pain.

Onto the less bad stuff. Oh, alright then, the good stuff (he says grudgingly).

My shrink says I have to learn to relish the moment more. We discussed how on Earth I was going to remember to do that each day given how furiously my mind races, especially in the mornings. The best I could come up with was to dangle a large, concrete paving stone above my bed so I'd hit my head on it every time I sat up in bed. Upon the paving stone would be a brightly-coloured post-it note bearing the words "Relish the moment, idiot!" in big red letters. I don't think that's practical though.

However, right now, as I type, I've just eaten a piece of fruit for the first time in a fortnight becuse I managed to get my grocery shopping done. The sun is shining, making me squint and no doubt surreptitiously turning my shin bones a subtle shade of fluorescent crimson. The intermittent, cooling breeze is liberating the fluffy seed pods from the nipple-high thistles growing in the front lawn so that they fall on me like wizened snow. They're falling onto the laptop too, which has been outstanding thus far (thanks folks!). It's just sooooo fast. Even little things like opening Firefox happens in the blink of an eye so I'm trying to get into the habit of taking it and my camera wherever I go, lest I get the urge or the opportunity to write when away from the house.

I'm slowly building my portfolio of jobs too. After a slow start on the initial three stories I've been comissioned to write I've now completed two interviews and will hopefully complete another this afternoon or tomorrow. I also got a lead on another story from a fellow writer, and without thinking about it long enough to get anxious, asked at my local Apple store whether they were looking for staff. They are, and my resume has already gone to them. If I can get this, it'll be the "regular revenue stream" my parents perpetually talk about me needing. Not that I disagree with them - it'll be the foundation of a weekly routine that I can build my writing, and my recovery plan, around.

The bike is running better than ever too. I had to fork out another $200 on it though, which is still making me uncomfortable as it had to go straight onto the credit card. I actually needed the new bottom bracket/chainset more than I thought though. I'd decided the pepper mill-style grinding noise that came from my bike every time I pedalled was the old shoe cleats on the older pedals. Turns out it was actually the bottom bracket. Now my lil' baby runs quieter than Red October, feels a lot more solid, and doesn't keep changing gears on me when I least expect it. Turns out the chainrings on the old chainset were buckled too!

I'd dread to think what might've happened had I continued to ride the bike as it was. I've had various components fail while I'm mid-ride, but nothing that couldn't be repaired for long enough to get me home. If the bottom bracket had've seized while I was thundering down a muddy hill, or the cranks both unwound themselves and fallen off while I was trying to navigate a narrow path or plank, it could have made for a rather interesting and acrobatic situation.

Ahhhhh...zen and the art of bicycle maintenance. It's one of the few things in life I still enjoy. It's nice to know that there's something positive in me that runs as deep as all the character flaws and emotional disorders.