Piled on the sofa amid pillows and blankets in front of a blaring television— nursing a mild cold on a nasty wet night. The Howie episode ended officially Sunday— wind, after being at the dance together last Saturday night (Mac, like a knight in shining armor, insisted that I go instead of sulking at home) and after being at Washington Square Sunday and not even acknowledging each other’s presence. Such immature behavior. Basically what Howie said was that I was just too much, too fast. I implied that his perceptions were wrong. Although I was smart enough this time to refrain from verbalizing my romantic drama— my actions belied my plotting. Howie was right, of course. I spent the next couple of days giving my version to friends as his own neurotic problems with intimacy. Finally, I faced what I was up to. A kind of honesty new to me in sobriety. I realized— how important it is— how unnecessary— to attach blame— TO EXPLAIN why something happened— always with myself as the wholesome victim. And I have to admit the fact too that there I was wooing a man I found myself barely interested in— with roses, jewelry and dinners, and passionate lovemaking. And I knew— and he knew— and we were aware of each other’s awareness— that whatever IT is— whatever vital chemistry that is fundamental to honest desire— was just not there. I was indignant that he had the honesty to face reality and I apparently did not. The lack of self-esteem prevents me from validating my own feelings.
March 4th, 1982
March 4th, 1982
March 4th, 1982
Piled on the sofa amid pillows and blankets in front of a blaring television— nursing a mild cold on a nasty wet night. The Howie episode ended officially Sunday— wind, after being at the dance together last Saturday night (Mac, like a knight in shining armor, insisted that I go instead of sulking at home) and after being at Washington Square Sunday and not even acknowledging each other’s presence. Such immature behavior. Basically what Howie said was that I was just too much, too fast. I implied that his perceptions were wrong. Although I was smart enough this time to refrain from verbalizing my romantic drama— my actions belied my plotting. Howie was right, of course. I spent the next couple of days giving my version to friends as his own neurotic problems with intimacy. Finally, I faced what I was up to. A kind of honesty new to me in sobriety. I realized— how important it is— how unnecessary— to attach blame— TO EXPLAIN why something happened— always with myself as the wholesome victim. And I have to admit the fact too that there I was wooing a man I found myself barely interested in— with roses, jewelry and dinners, and passionate lovemaking. And I knew— and he knew— and we were aware of each other’s awareness— that whatever IT is— whatever vital chemistry that is fundamental to honest desire— was just not there. I was indignant that he had the honesty to face reality and I apparently did not. The lack of self-esteem prevents me from validating my own feelings.