A realization

It was 3AM before I went to bed last night. 4:30 before I could sleep. I've spent a very busy week and couldn't even tell  you what I did. I've been out of the house more than ever. Late at night: downtown walking around, visiting sites, having drinks with strangers, staying out until the bars and restaurants closed. I told myself, "This is healthy. This is what normal people do. Aren't you supposed to go out and do things?"

I stayed out all night Thursday. Friday. Saturday nights. At a bar, I met a nice looking man in his thirties. Considered trying to date him. That he is completely inappropriate (e,g, immature, an alcoholic, and fucking his foul-mouthed work partner) didn't dissuade me. I was driven by an agitated, cold, and detached energy.On Friday night I had midnight pizzas with three people I'd only just met. Last night, I walked city streets until I was exhausted and my feet were blistered.  At home, I tried to work on my laptop. I flitted from one task to the next. I lay in bed last night, restless, unable to sleep. 

Finally I tried a formal meditation. Focused on my breathing. As I became present, as the calm took over, a piece of the puzzle fell into place for me. I finally understood. 

This roving about; the walking; the aimless visits; the late night conversations with strangers and agitated, unsatisfying phonecalls with friends; studying languages; applying late night for jobs in far-flung places; looking for postings in Afghanistan and Iraq; this is what despair looks like for me. 

Two weeks ago, for the first time in years, I began to truly and sincerely hope again. I've never been able to stop believing that Sjors' soul is companion to mine: an unmovable faith that is tethered to faith in god because nothing I've ever known or experienced has felt so right and true.  So when I had a powerful dream about a child and woke with a calm inclination to reach out to E, I felt this was perhaps inspired by god. This belief was reinforced when E actually started reading my blog and continued for three days. He was only the second invited person to ever visit this site. Marie reads my words here - and so, uninvited, does MIVD. I felt so nervous about sharing the link with him. I could never have expected or demanded that he come. It was so comforting and validating to know that he did. Some untouched and tender faith was gently urged to life. If god had inspired this, maybe there was some higher purpose. Maybe it was possible and right to hope. 

I began to pray again. For E. For Sjors. I began to fast because I was raised to believe that fasting and prayer is somehow more potent to god: the humility an expression of faith. As I did for years, longing for Sjors, needing him more than I needed breath, I begged god to bless him, to inspire him and soften his heart toward me. 

I checked blog statistics. If E told Sjors about it, he would surely send him the link. If Sjors was receptive to me, if he read my words, he would remember me, remember who he was with me. The man I knew might be brought back to life. God, I prayed for a resurrection. One week ago I had dinner and drinks with Shelley, told her about my unreasonable faith, and felt calm and loved and hopeful and happy for the first time in years. 

But there was nothing. I bicycled hard on Friday, Saturday and Sunday to push away the worry. I wondered what E had thought about me when he read my years of personal thoughts. How might my writings come across to another person? Had he despised me? Maybe he didn't share my blog with Sjors because he agreed there was something wrong with me. Then, I thought: maybe he didn't share my blog because he knows Sjors loathes me. 

I imagined what it was to be Sjors right now. I remembered the way he blamed me for his professional losses. I remembered the darkness in his face at the train station in Amsterdam Centraal. I remembered the months of ugly messages. How was it reasonable to hope that this angry man would ever transform back into the vibrant, loving, kind person who had loved me? I never understood how he had become lost to me. After years of trying I was never able to bring him back. How reasonable was it to hope now? Flickering faith turned to despair. 

I understand now why I have been angry at every man I've been with: why I despise them for not being Sjors. I seek them out, let them touch me, laugh at their jokes, and move with them in the dark. I tell myself I'm moving on, that this action is a hope for the future, but this is a lie. Rather, these actions arise as an expression of a deep and profound despair. I despair that the man who is my soul's mate is lost to me forever. This was the despair that brought me to the beach in Boa Vista, took me to the roof in Yaounde. The blackness of my depression has only been the subtlest reflection of the horror and realization that I am damned. What is hell besides separation from the people you love most dearly and knowledge of their misery? 

Today, this self-knowledge stops me. I will not consider the reasonableness of my faith. I will not calculate the probability that what I wish will ever be restored. I will not put a time limit on an outcome. Love is improbable. God is improbable. This was never a calculation.