Tonight I am trying to watch the Belgian film Bullhead and my attention span is so short. Episodic TV has ruined me.
A family picnic, sitting at a table under an umbrella near a body of water. He sat so close to her, wrapping his arm tightly around her back, his hand tightly gripping her waist, leaning in repeatedly for a kiss. It perplexed her, each time, because this had never been their relationship – open, public, transparent, affectionate. They were essentially strangers apart from the intermittent physical contact – years apart. And suddenly here he was openly affectionate, clinging almost, meeting her family. Nothing had been quite so uncomfortable as this shift.
For a long time, invisibly perhaps, I have spent my life taking on other people’s boredom and heartache and other forms of emotional manipulation. They might not know they’re doing it, but they are. If you care about someone enough, you will fall into the trap every time.
Yesterday someone who used to mean a lot to me – but who too many times pushed me too far – suggested that maybe he should come to visit me. But no, finally, I said no. A firm no. He countered with, “my fucking heart is dying here – the girlfriend and her blazing stupidity and selfserving. Being on the road to somewhere would be a perfect meditation to forget…”. Is that my responsibility? No.
Overlooking how hilarious and hypocritical the calling someone else out for being “selfserving” is, I can only say that this is all I have ever been for people like this guy – the owner of a relaxing meditation retreat. It’s not about me or my company. It’s just that I am a pushover who has a bit of disposable income and a place to crash far away from everything. This seems to be a recurring theme. A mattress to crash on. A tall patch of grass to fall in. I’ve been compassionate but there’s only so far that extends.