Sick of Deferred Hope

I don’t want to hope anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of its cold indifference. I’ve come to believe that it’s got to be easier to long for nothing than to hang on to this dead tree.

I don’t want to anticipate the next email, I don’t want to wait for the phone call.I don’t want to consider the results of one last moment of patience.I don’t want to envision the joys of the final answer.

I’m done.I don’t want to hold on for………….

I want something else. I want something different. I want something more than these dying breaths. I need something more than this unfulfilled emptiness.

I’m sick… I’m sick of the cycling roller-coaster… I’m sick of deferred hope.

Five-hundred pounds and a room of my own…

At the end of her biographical novel, Nervous Condition, Tsitsi Dangarembga notes that a woman needs five hundred pounds and a room her own to write. This phrase has stuck with me for over ten years now, and the older I get, the more it rings true. I find that I cannot write anything with my heart unless it is heavy, weighed down and full of something that cannot be expressed. It’s been an emotional few months and I have a room of my own…

 **Never loved at All – A very long story**
“Old boyfriend, huh?” His words cut like a dull knife in the awkward silence.
I continue to stare out the window, at the sidewalk filled with passing strangers. “Worse”, I mumble, but my thoughts say so much more…
More like, an old one-sided relationship in which I’m completely infatuated but he doesn’t even realize it because I’m so good at hiding my feelings; or like an old I wish for once I lost all self-control and kissed him when he dared to stand so close.
If it had been an old boyfriend, running into him halfway across the country would be awkward at worst. There may be a brief silence, a sudden heartache, a feeling of anger. But at least there would be solace in thoughts of what was shared. Or, at best, there could be the realization of another reason why life is better without him. But, what have I got?
An old I still don’t know the feel of the touch of his hands… an old I wish I knew what it was like to hear him say, “I love you”… an old I’m such a great girl and he’s so glad we’re friends… an old everything about him still makes me feel like I’ll never be enough!
Where’s the solace in that?
A fat lonely raindrop splattered against the window pane, pulling me from my thoughts. I watch the trail of water slide down beyond my view, wishing I could join it. I sigh and finally reply, “Whoever said, ‘It was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all’, was right”. I watch the silent trail for another moment, I whisper, “He’s an old never loved at all”.

**Signs of Little Significance – a very short intermission**
An open door
A hand on the small of your back
A kiss on the shoulder
A slow dance
A hand reached out in silence
A secret hug
A gentle squeeze
A moment of un-noticed silence
An eager smile
An un-ending conversation
An un-interrupted thought of happiness and joy

**Far Enough – a very sad ending**
There is a growing distance between us. I watch you across the divide and I want to yell, “Stay!
Far enough that you can hear my voice…
Far enough that I can see you smile…
Far enough that I can reach out and take your hand… and you can reach out and touch my back.
Far enough to know you’re close…
Far enough to say you’re far… enough…” But I don’t, I don’t say anything. I watch in silence across the growing divide as you go…
Far enough not to see me crying…
Far enough to know you’re far.

Writing about nothing

I have spent the better part of my life journaling about nonexistent relationships. Wishes, hopes, dreams, fantasies of what could have, should have, and would have been fill pages upon pages of my diaries. Yet, what is remains undocumented.

Maybe it’s because of work, school, business. Who has time to journal with all of these responsibilities? Maybe it’s due to all the stress. How can I even think with all that’s on my mind? Or maybe, maybe I’m just living. Not writing about living, but living. Not writing about loving, but loving. Not formulating stories about heartfelt conversations; not imagining the feel of the touch of a hand; not considering the excitement of a long-awaited hug; but experiencing it… all of it! Not in the pages of my journals nor in the recesses of my thoughts, but in my life… finally.

Side hugs are for the sexually oppressed

Side hugs are for the sexually oppressed. Oops! Did I just say that out loud? Actually, I am doing way more than saying it, I am writing it for the world to see.

OK, I don’t really believe that. However, the frustration behind this outburst has been brewing in my draft box since June 7, 2008 -  and in my mind for much longer. So, before I’m labeled all sorts of colored letters, I will take an opportunity to explain.

There are two factors that affect this repulsion to side hugs. First, I grew up with brothers. Being a bit of a tom-boy, I rough-housed with my brothers and male cousins constantly. Respecting our physical differences didn’t equate to rejecting one another. Second, I’m from a Haitian culture where we greet each other with hugs and kisses. I am not naive enough to generalize these two factors. In fact, I tend to be very reserved with my personal space. But for ME, hugs were a sign of safe and friendly affection – regardless of sex. Even within the church – I attended Haitian congregations for most of my childhood and young adulthood. And beyond that, I became a member of a Messianic congregation. Although in both settings, sexual purity was always emphasized, it wasn’t until I became involved with the American church that I encountered the side-hug.

What is a side-hug? Well, to put it plainly, it’s exactly what it sounds like. A girl and a guy hug each other from the side in order to avoid any “frontal contact”. With my background, I was well into my twenties when I first received a side-hug. The concept was so foreign to me that I felt confused, ashamed and rejected. “What was that? Why would someone pretend to give me a hug and then stop halfway? Did I smell? Did I do something wrong?” Unfortunately, the answers to my questions only made me feel worse. How, I wondered, could anyone take something as warm and wonderful as a hug from a friend and pervert it? Hugs are like Oreo cookies and milk after school; a warm cup of chocolate on a cold night; a tall glass of lemonade on a hot summer day! What on earth has gone wrong the world, the Church, that a hug is something to be ashamed of?

This may sound harsh, but I genuinely just don’t understand. If I don’t feel comfortable with someone, or I don’t know them very well, I just don’t hug them. There are other options, i.e., a handshake, a general wave. I don’t half accept and half reject them from my personal bubble. That’s just weird, and I’m just plain tired of playing along like it’s OK. From now on, I will reserve my precious hugs for the precious few that appreciate it: Kens, Julie, Alex, Kris, Cathi, Jude, Paul, Pat, Brian, Klebert, Marie, Sasha, Jugi, Betsy, Ryan, Sara, Nydessa, Lauri, Joyce, Bethany, Michey, Wendy, Charles, etc., etc., etc.

… Still

So last night, a boy talked to me. A regular boy and I had a regular conversation. Just a nice, Christian, good looking boy and I had a nice innocent conversation. Nothing truly personal was discussed; nothing extraordinary to make note of in a journal; no deep theological debate to ponder over for hours; not even any commitments for any further discussions…

Still, my mind is buzzing. Still my thoughts are racing. Still my imagination is running… wild

Still, I’ve lost my peace. Still, I’ve misplaced my contentment. Still, my heart is going… wild

This year I had committed to be more mature when it came to the opposite sex. Gone were the days of planning outfits based on a certain someone being present. In my dust I had left the silly doubts and insecurities about who “I” was. No longer would I be 28 going on 18. My imagination had been reigned in and corralled into productive, fruitful ventures that left me with a sense of empowerment and satisfaction.

And still… all it took to knock me off my high horse was a beautiful smile from a beautiful boy.