I took myself to dinner the other day.
In a year and a day, I’ll be jumping on a plane to Germany.
I’ll have been in NZ for seven years. I don’t know why it’s important. But it is important that I leave exactly seven years after I arrive. There’s currently only one stamp in my passport.
I’ll happily admit: I’m running away.
I don’t know what from. I don’t know why. But fuck being here any longer. I love this stupid little country and I’m coming back to see even more of it, but I’m tired of it, tired of the way people live here, tired of the restrictions I feel I’m constantly living under. I’m tired of watching life pass me serenely by.
The thing is, I always tell people that changing your situation doesn’t change you. You can’t run from your problems, you can’t run from who you are. So part of me thinks that heading to Germany goes completely against what I believe – except, it doesn’t: I’ll happily carry my baggage with me.
Of course, I have and will have expectations of Germany – hot guys, cute girls, Porsches and Beemers fucking everywhere, all the things that matter in life – and there’s a strong possibility that too much dreaming leads to huge disappointments.
But that’s true for life. I blame it on movies and books and stories: you never see a scene that doesn’t matter. At no point during a movie will a boy walk past the house of a girl he likes and nothing happens. He will certainly not simply walk, lost in thoughts of said girl, and notice a few minutes later where he is.
And so we live with this stupid expectation that Everything Matters and that Something Will Happen.
And it fucking won’t.
Sitting around waiting for life to happen is only worthwhile in a movie or book.
So I can’t sit around waiting. ‘Cause nothing will happen. I’ll get stuck somewhere, content in the belief that things will magically get better or return to where they were, which is seldom better than right here.
No, I have to happen to life. I have to go and happen, I have to make my own stories. I have to make the changes I want to see.
Of course I could do that here. I could completely happen here. But I don’t want to. Nothing in me wants to stay, nothing holds me here; everything pulls me away. So I’m going to happen somewhere else.
Most people my age have settled. In a few years they’ll be married and kidded and bored and longing. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be comfortable. They’ll be happy and secure and content and dreamy. They’ll have things to work on, they’ll have work to do and a family to grow. They’ll have things to be proud of and people to love them always, unconditionally.
Not one aspect of that appeals to me. And I’m perfectly ok with that.
Because I could totally settle. I could find a lovely woman and settle into an analysis position and make my home here, make my mark right here so that when I die my memorial stone will say “BRB, gone to fetch my girl. See you kids soon.”
But so could anyone. And nothing makes me better than them for that role. There is nothing in me that makes me the sort of guy you’d marry and live forever with. Mostly, because I’ve never really wanted that.
Yes, I said I did. Yes, I love kids. But I feel that there has to be more to life. There has to be more to my life. I can’t simply raise some perfectly imperfect cultural mongrels and consider my life well lived. I just see no point in that.
What draws me is stories. What draws me is people. What draws me is love and sex and laughter and cars and drivers. Because I’d rather be broke in the passenger seat of a Porsche on the Nurburgring than wealthy in the driver seat of a Porsche on Tamaki Drive.
So I’m dawdling to Germany. And we’ll see what I do from there.
I went for a walk this morning. It took me and a hot coffee over wet grass to a small bench and – when I looked back – I realised my feet can’t even walk straight.
Sitting on the bonnet of Someone’s car, talking to Her like we used to, not even noticing that we’d been there for two hours and She still hadn’t given me the key, I realised something: I’m a complete an utter Eurowhore.
For a good thirty minutes, we spoke about nothing but cars – almost extensively European. We spoke about the Ferrari She’d sat next to in traffic, admiring the way it’s engine note rebounded off the vehicles around Her. Moments later, it drove by us, blinding us with its gorgeous lights. I’ve photographed that car so many times, I’m surprised he still drives by my house.
I told Her about the Rolls Royce Ghost I see at work and the smug driver. We talked about the Mercedes G55 AMG and how sensual that engine sounds, and discussed in detail what straight six turbo could be blasting past my house every afternoon.
I also told Her I still love Her.
I told her about the Danish girl (who’ll get annoyed if I call her Dutch) and how Someone seems almost sane in comparison. She told me about Her new hangout. I got annoyed that She spends time there, but never spent time with me.
She told me She thought She was happier where She is now. I told her I am happier single. I told Her and She told me how nice it was to not say “I’ve just seen such and such and I’m going here now” and we both said how much we missed getting those texts. I told Her I missed Her annoying “Hey hun how is work?” texts and how I checked for them every half an hour. She told me She missed having someone to call at 2 in the morning.
We both agreed we dated too soon. We both agreed breaking up was a good idea. And I think we both cried once we said goodbye.
I told her how drunk I got; She told me how sober She stayed. I told Her how sorry I was for the things I said; She said it’s ok, but She can’t get my voice out of Her head.
I will fall in love again – often, repetitively, with broken European girls. Hopefully, I will grow. Hopefully, I’ll learn to love myself first. To soothe myself first. To not need someone to care for me, but to care for myself.
And I’m going to hold on to Her. Because the fights were epic and the conversations eternal, the sex was magic and the love was open, and there’s a part of me I’m locking away that says “I belong to Someone” and that won’t change.
It took me 10 minutes to pile all of her things on one side of the room, ready for her to pickup. I didn’t feel a thing. There was nothing as I picked up her collection of perfumes and nail polishes, nothing as I piled up her books,nothing as I took down her clothes. I knew she wouldn’t take long to get here. Once she was here, she could take her stuff and be gone. Out of my life. Nothing left. Just me – free.
For some reason, I couldn’t quite read the words on the cds. I couldn’t work out which where hers and which where mine. I just kinda stared at them, trying to classify them – if they’re about cars or movies that make me cry, they’re mine, otherwise hers. But I couldn’t remember which ones made me cry.
She arrived whilst I was still bent over them. And she just kinda stood in the room, staring at the growing pile of stuff in the corner. Her eyes sprung a leak.
It’s not like either of us have an easy life. It’s not like either of us is worse off than the other. It’s not like either of us is not giving their all.
But there is so much fucking anger inside of me, I’m struggling to forgive. I’m struggling to see another side of the picture. All I see is my view, and my view is all that matters. Everything else is an excuse, a reason to not love me, a reason to not want me.
It’s so hard to keep trying when you feel you’ve given your all, and the only thing left is your anger and you don’t want to share that at all.
Her stuff’s back where it belongs now. It stayed sitting in the corner for a day. It made my room lonely. Where before there’d been little essences of femininity, there were now simply stark walls. So I returned it all from where it came, I replaced those touches that sparked off memories and thoughts and good ideas and my room is mine again.
Am I happy?
Every day is the same day with different spelling. Every day, the same patterns, hopes, dismays, dreams and anger blaze through. I’m slowly being crushed under a weight I can’t hold.
I’m not fucking giving up. God no.
There is no going back. There is no “it get’s easier.” It fucking doesn’t. don’t fucking lie, it never gets easier! It only ever gets harder, there’s always more to add on, there’s always more to do, there is no quick fix, there is no point, there is no attainable dream.
The only options are to give up or to get stronger. Stronger and stronger, till what was heavy is light and light is unnoticeable. Stronger, until what took everything takes nothing and smiles are easy once more. Just keep fighting, keep pushing, keep holding on. The only easy way out is death, and that comes eventually so I may as well keep holding.
I don’t know if it’ll be enough. I don’t know if I can make it through. But I’m going to try. Though it hurts and every part of me is telling me not to, is asking what’s the point, I’m going to try. Just in case I can.
Don’t you just love pussy?
Especially when you storm out the house late at night in little more than underwear and sit under a tree. You slap away mosquitos and imagine a world where the worst has happened and you can just leave it all behind.
Out of nowhere sounds a meow. A small, vibrating mass of fur walks up and headbutts you with enough force to start a minor earthquake. You stroke his head and he meows and purrs and walks off, looking back at you. Because everything else is fairly fucking directionless – and those mosquitos are fucking annoying – you follow.
A racing WRX sounds in the distant, doing “the loop” – a lovely stretch of road that I’ve also driven way to fast through. He’ll reach the road at about the same instant I do if I walk down now. He’s going very quickly. I should teach him a lesson.
Which, frankly, is a stupid idea because I think he has the right idea. I’d love to be doing that right now. I’d be so pissed off if some angry idiot decided to step in front of me. Why?
The cat meows and there’s only one thing I can do: head home and claim the cat loves me more than she does because he came after me.
Because, obviously, that’s the point of all this shit.
“If you cared for me, you’d come after me like the cat did!”
Did you know that? You can only show you care if you go after someone who’s walked off. And walking off? Is that caring?
Somehow, I don’t think so.
Happy 1 year love. Yep. It’s our anniversary today. And we spent the night fighting. I even had to throw all our alcohol down the drain because I thought downing shots of Vodka would help.
It didn’t. It just made me realise that – no matter how much I drank – I’d never forget everything.
Which is a huge pity. Because I wanted to forget everything. Or, many things. I wanted complete and utter emptiness. Just take it all away. Everything, every relationship, every request, every desire, every dream, goal, wish, accomplishment. Just give me sweet nothing and a way to survive. Please.
Then there’d be no pain. There’d be no hard decisions. There’d simply be today. Every day. Nothing happens. A holiday, really.
I miss being single. I miss the selfishness. I miss the required soul-belief. I miss my decisions being mine – including their consequences. I miss the times spent doing exactly what I want. I miss the ability to honestly lie and say “I’m ok.”
I miss the simplicity of being happy single. I miss the rejection and bouncing back from my own wallowing because there’s no one else to save me. I miss the ability to say “I’m going to do this” and being the only one accountable for it.
But most of all, I miss knowing – constantly – that I’m alone.
Because a relationship pretends you’re not alone. A relationship pretends that because Someone else cares for me, She’ll come after me and make it all better.
It’s so easy right now. All I have to do is sulk. Someone joined OkCupid. She was still setting up her account when the first person messaged Her. Within the hour, She had messages flying in. Some of the people messaging Her were seriously attractive. And they want to meet up…now. Right. Now. Or else tomorrow if you’re free?
Considering I’ve spent many hours attempting to send the wittiest messages to every girl it is heartbreaking to know that She doesn’t have to try. It sends my self-confidence free-diving. In a locked Audi. Filled with cement. In the Mariana Trench.
(Some guy just sent “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.” Which doesn’t even make sense. Oh, best pickup line, guaranteed to send girls squealing in terror (seriously, I tried): Lick your finger, then wipe it on their clothes. Say “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.” )
Seriously, it would be so easy to sit here and sulk. Because I told her how I’m feeling. I keep opening Facebook and hoping she’ll reply and talk to me about it.
It’s truly pathetic.
Because I also told her earlier I want to do other things – I don’t want to talk on Facebook all night.
It doesn’t matter what she does: she’ll be in trouble. She can’t fix it. She can’t come after me and make everything better. There’s no possible way for her to do this.
The only person that can make things better is me.
And that is why I need to realise I’m alone. Because only when I realise I’m alone will I realise I must make the effort. Only then will the change be made.
Only when I realise that I’m alone can I begin to make our relationship work.
And if I don’t realise I’m alone? I’ll definitely end up so.