The mental battle had begun, just like it always did when I decided I would go visit him; was this a bad idea? I was so disconnected to the assessment of that question. Every step I took with him felt like a bad idea. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to be happy. I believe that is at the core of all human beings. Everyone really just wants to be happy.
People may appear to be guided or motivated by many different things. Swirling around each other, sometimes running one another down, or disregarding others entirely, we each individually plunge forward in life going after “something.” But I really believe that whatever form that “something” takes on, is just our perception of what will make us happy. Right or wrong, accurate or mislead, it is our driving force.
And that’s what Roger looked like to me. All I knew was that when I was with him, regardless of what we were doing, where we were, the conditions we were under; if we were together, that is when I felt the happiest. I couldn’t walk away from that feeling. I felt the most alive, the most electric, the most content, the most at peace, the most fulfilled in his presence. How is one supposed to just walk away from that? To feel those feelings all at once in their most extreme state, made the hurt, the let down, the blatant stupidity of falling for a man that continuously hurt me, justifiable.
As I walked the long, now familiar path to the terminal of Dulles Airport, I was flooded with the typical emotions. Excitement, anticipation, impatience, joy. I could never keep from smiling to myself; I’m sure wearing on my sleeve that I had a special secret. I also battled with the same three thoughts that pervaded those blissful emotions—I can’t believe the lengths at which I am going through to see this man; I wonder if maybe, just maybe this will be the time something changes for us; and, I know when I return to this airport I am going to be a completely different person, plagued with devastation. And as always, like a soundtrack to this banter in my mind, was the recorded female voice, “Caution, the moving walkway is ending.” How about, “Caution, you have gone too far. Turn back before it’s too late and you have lost your life.” I felt that may be a more suitable warning for this particular traveler.
When I finally arrived in Chicago, the feelings that had guided me there in the first place were at their peak. When Roger opened the door it was that familiar, yet fresh feeling of elation, yet contentment. I threw my things down and jumped into his arms. People could say what they wished about him, about me, about us, but the electricity and the feeling of completeness when we kissed could not be manufactured, and I felt quite certain, could not be one sided. Our hunger and longing for each other exploded. Being touched by him nursed this ache that felt like I hadn’t been touched by another soul in years. Most of all, it felt real. Real and reciprocated.
We spent the next several hours like we always did. Talking and laughing. Holding each other. Looking into each other’s eyes, not uttering a word. We fell asleep holding one another, alternatively opening our eyes to find the other watching while we slept. It felt like being home. There was also the sting of knowing something so wonderful and seemingly so perfect may never be.
The next morning he hadn’t said a word and I already knew. I could see the conflict in his face. Normally, if we were waking up together, the conflict he felt centered around the fact that he couldn’t imagine having to live a life without me. This particular morning I knew the conflict had more to do with figuring out how he could get rid of me. He kept saying we were crazy. He kept asking aloud what we were doing. He kept saying to himself that he was an asshole for pulling me back in and that we had an addiction. I wondered if he knew the depth of the cut it was to my heart to hear him describe me, or to describe us, as a problem, or a sickness, or an addiction. Maybe he was right, but I was tossing my life to the side in pursuit of this unbelievable feeling I had for him. A feeling that he himself perpetuated. I was disgusted with myself. I felt like a fool.
