Wrecked

I've been dreaming a lot lately--which is bad news, because it means I'm not sleeping soundly. The usual stuff, for the most part (though perhaps with less travel anxiety and more RPG products). One dream from a couple of days ago stuck out because it featured Monshu. It was brief, but you could find lots of symbolism in it if so inclined.

The setting was a messed-up version of the house in Troy. Monshu said something to me (a bit of badinage?) and then passed into the hallway. I was hungry and about to prepare some food, but it occurred to me that I saw him seldom now that he was dead and if I waited too long, he'd be gone again, so I went after him. When I stepped into the hallway, the closet [which didn't exist--it was only a bulletin board] was open and I noticed that most of his Buddhist altar supplies were gone. Instead there was just some open space above a pile of folded cloths.

I figured he'd gone up to the bedroom, but there were no stairs. It was like they'd been torn out and I had to chimney my way up to the second floor. The bed was against the far wall and he was lying with his back towards me wearing a t-shirt and dark shorts. There was room enough for me to lie down next to him and spoon. I awoke to find myself in the same position, but instead of him warm in my arms it was the cat.

Have at it, Freudians!

I feel like I've been missing him more lately and I can't find much cause unless it's simply his birthday coming up again. He was sick for so long that there's no time of year which doesn't remind me me of him. There is the gap between his cremation in mid-December and his memorial service in late March, but January and February are depressive months to be in Chicago regardless. (Not to mention that I was crushed by grief for much of that first winter and snow and cold remind me of that.)

Oddly, I think the part of the dream that resonated with me the most was the wrecked stairway. I sometimes feel like the house is falling down around me. (He was always the one with less tolerance for mess and malfunction.) The faucet in the downstairs bath has been leaking for years but a few days ago it went from a drip to a trickle. I ended up putting an empty wastepaper basket under it to soften the sound and it filled up within in hour. I was wondering if this would be what finally pushed me to get it fixed when a day later it mysteriously stopped leaking almost entirely before returning to its regular drip last night.

Puddlejumping

So yesterday was another lesson in managing expectations--along with a host of related challenges, like self-love, patience, and empathy.

Last week, I received word that an old LJ friend, someone I'd never met in person, was going to be in town. It was a complete surprise; we chat every now and again, but I had no idea he was considering a trip up here. I was excited: I contacted him and offered crash space (though I figured he'd already made arrangements) and asked what he wanted to do.

He said he wanted to see people on the one day he had in town before driving out to the sticks but was vague about his plans. Maybe Great America? Maybe some World's Fair sites? I told him I'd be up for the latter but not the former. When he talked about an informal meetup so that he could see his friends from among the locals, I suggested some places and contacted a few mutuals.

With nothing fixed, I still took a leap of faith and took the day off. I told him that if getting together didn't work out, I could always use the day to do some errands. The was a polite fiction; there's no way I would have taken the day off if I thought there was a strong chance we wouldn't get together. I trusted him to come through for me.

By Tuesday I was getting antsy. I mentioned to a friend that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about the trip. What I meant was that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about me. All my old insecurities came to the surface, all my fears that people mostly just tolerate me, that I have to be careful never to demand too much of them if I don't want them to decide I'm not worth it. So as much as the uncertainty was bothering me, I didn't press for firmer plans.

I slept badly and woke up Thursday with no messages. Knowing that he'd most likely be sleeping in (what with the combination of late flight and time difference), I'd already planned to get a haircut when the place opened at 10 a.m. I sent him a message to this effect, got the haircut, and came right home. Still nothing. I decided to nap and succeeded despite a wave of thunderstorms rolling in around noon.

To cut to the chase, he never did come and see me. He did get in touch after 2 p.m., still groggy. We texted back and forth for over an hour. I continued to dispense advice and make offers while carefully leaving my emotions out of it; he remained frustratingly noncommittal. Meanwhile I was bitching about the situation to at least three other friends. I thought about all the time I've spent in my life waiting for men who never came.

The rain had cleared and it became a beautiful day. I regretted the lost potential of it and went to the porch intending to read a bit but I spent more time playing with one of the stray cats from next door. I told myself I should do something around the house so I sorted some mail and found an invite to a cousin's wedding. This spurred me to call my mother and make vague plans for fall.

I'm very slow to abandon all hope. Even as late as 7 p.m., I still hadn't totally given up on the notion that he might still make his way in from the burbs for a bit. (Though I was confident enough I was on my own for dinner that I ran to La Única for some bacalao.) My brain knew this was a lost cause, but my heart still wanted to believe.

His apologies were effusive. They made me feel petty for running him down to others (anonymously or otherwise). I immediately switched into caregiver mode and did what I could to make him feel better. No, he wasn't an awful person. We all have bad days. Of course I understand. Part of me still dared to hope that he'd offer to change his plans to accommodate me though I knew he wouldn't.

By that time, I'd worked through my disappointment. I reminded myself that he'd never asked me to take the day off. That was my choice. I'd done it knowing he might not be available but the prospect of finally meeting him outweighed the risk of being left high and dry (and short a paid day off). I didn't regret the choice (though I don't know if I'd make it again).

I thought of a friend who'd recently ended a relationship after finding he'd been lied to and betrayed for months on end but is adamant that he won't stop trusting people on account of that. I thought about the importance of still trusting people, of still giving them the opportunity to betray and disappoint you because that's the only way you find the ones who won't.