I always thought that when it came to being intimate, my thoughts were so blaringly loud in my head that I was sure the other person could hear them. But I have to remember that I experience things much differently than other people. And I can’t be expected to be having the same experience as anyone around me. And that has been sort of heartbreaking.
For the longest time I just lumped Max in with everything I experienced in Australia that first time. Like because he was there…he had experienced it too. Or that it was in some part manifested because he was there. Or some combination of these things. Psychologically I couldn’t disentangle it all. So I thought Max was magic too. And it wasn’t until years later, when we were living together in Australia that I came to understand that he didn’t experience a whiff of what I experienced. That he didn’t understand it and he didn’t want to understand it. And that was truly heartbreaking. I gave him the link to my xanga our senior year of college and he said he couldn’t understand a word of it. I should have known right there. And I think our entire relationship actually fell apart because of that. Because it freaked him the fuck out. That I had all these thoughts and ideas. It’s all we ever really fought about.
It haunts me because I remember in our last fight I said…you’re going to be fine. You’re going to find some nice, simple girl who wears little pearls in her ears and dresses the right way and she’s not going to challenge you and you guys will have a nice, good, happy relationship. And that’s what you want. You don’t want magic and mystery. You thought you did, but you don’t. And it haunts me because that’s exactly what happened. She even wears little pearls in her ears. And dresses right – the way girls are supposed to. And they seem happy and nice and good. And I wonder if that fight haunts him too.
So then what I did with Jeff was just convince myself that I didn’t need any intimacy at all really. That it would be much better to just be simple. To not care what was in his head or what was in my head. And we’ve never talked about anything really. And when I asked him what he would do with his life if he never had to work again he said “I would work.” NO hopes or dreams or aspiration. WHAT. And he never says he has anything going on in his head. And he never asks what’s going on in mine. In fact, he really REALLY doesn’t want to know. I tell him I’m writing a book. All winter. He grunts. He never once asks me what it is about. I make a painting and he doesn’t even grunt. He refuses to ever even speak a word about anything I ever do creatively, intellectually…or really in any capacity ever. No recognition of anything. Ever. And in fact it seems he really DOESN’T want me to do ANYthing creative because it’s threatening to him. He just wants me to sit alone at home with his dog and raise his baby for him. I don’t even understand.
And then when I finally get the courage up to ask for a little tiny ounce of recognition. Like…to ever…just…ever…give a shit about anything about me. He says ‘I make all the money and you can move out if you want but haha – laugh in your face…where would you go? That’s right. No where.’ It was the craziest Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moment ever. And I don’t understand how I keep finding myself dating my father.