I prefer when circumstances align that allow me to be either a written processor or a verbal processor. When I’m struggling with something, I come here and write about it, or I call one of the people in my inner circle, or I do some combination of the two, ultimately arriving at some level of peaceful understanding or acceptance. This works for me; plus, I haven’t practiced enough meditation to quiet my mind to sufficiently allow for silent reflection that isn’t constantly derailed by inane interruptions. Do I need to add olive oil to my grocery list? I should trim my nails. What’s the name of the song that I can’t get out of my head?
I like to imagine that this is a common problem, and I’d be obliged if you’d allow me to keep on believing it. That said, my life is often inhospitable to the types of processing I prefer, and I’m forced to remind myself of a phrase I’ve used often as a parent: “You get what you get, and you don’t pitch a fit.” In other words, suck it up and do the best you can.
I recently spent about twelve hours behind the wheel, which normally would serve as a prime opportunity to catch up on podcasts or knock out an audiobook. Both are activities that I enjoy but which fill the empty space with noise that drowns out productive thought. Instead, I chose to put on mellow music that I didn’t know the words to and dedicated a few hours to working through some things I hadn’t been eager to confront. Most of my mental processing dealt with the dynamic between The Voyeur and me, and also between The Leo and me.
In broad terms, my concern is that by reconnecting with The Leo so quickly after (a word that inaccurately implies that there was a clear ending) the emotional debacle that was/is my relationship with The Voyeur, I may have inadvertently made him into my rebound.
<<Time Out: I’ve lately been reflecting on the wisdom (or lack thereof) in sharing my blog with anyone I know in real life. There’s a lot to be said about bravery and honesty and vulnerability, but dammit — if I’m feeling like doing some written processing about my relationship woes, knowing that the folks in question are likely reading them makes me want to pretty up these words, soften their edges. Is that honesty? Is it bravery?>>
What this tells me is that 1) I’ve still got work to do when it comes to me and The Voyeur, and 2) I’ve got to do some serious motive-checking around how I move with The Leo.
I don’t have a whole lot of personal experience with rebound dating, but a childhood’s worth of 90’s sitcom training casts a shadow of foreboding over the mere idea. The term “rebound” evokes reaction over response and transcience over permanence. No one wants to be cast as either the reactive dater or the placeholder, yet we all find ourselves in one role or another from time to time. To be clear, rebounding isn’t necessarily a drudge — plenty of fun and authenticity can be had, but all within the shadow of waiting for the other shoe to drop (in this case, that shoe looks an awful lot like closure with The Voyeur). As a rule, one person is more acutely aware than the other of the nature, or even the presence, of the shoe.
All the fruits of my processing are unsettling to me, as I’ve been coasting along, enjoying my time with The Leo and convincing myself that things were relatively peachy with The Voyeur. But that whole ignorance is bliss routine is a precariously-balanced glass, requiring very little to send it toppling to its demise.