So, I’m single again.
Now, I know it’s always been my fault. Half of the time at least. I’m probably a benign sociopath who should stay that way.
This wasn’t intentional — I have been doing a retrospective mental review of my year for the past 20 days. Is it because of the burial? I’m not sure.
I have a draft post of the conversations/people who affected me positively in 2016. So, although this isn’t an End of Year post with resolutions to a) Find love and b) Start my content management and creation company, know this:
2016 was an amazing year. I kissed very beautiful women and I don’t regret a single moment spent with any one of them; both digitally and otherwise.
Yes. I said women. They’re are just three. I’m not Tucker Max. Not yet anyway…not that I want to…but…Ugh. You get my point. I hope…or not…
You know what? Never mind.
I have written multiple times that given my propensity for lengthy, lonely hours and religious preference for sapiosexual discussions over the other requirements of a healthy love relationship with the humans of the other sex, I once made the choice to be single.
However, it seems every time I feel deep in my heart that this is it! I have finally conquered my need to be loved and pampered by someone other than my mother and who I can kiss even though two minutes ago we didn’t agree that Westworld better start in 2017 and NOT 2018! Every time I make that decision ( in my head and sometimes through digital footprints difficult to erase), I end up falling totally and completely for another yet random stranger who just has…that…thing.
Whatever that thing is.
I carried a dying relationship into 2016. Then I killed it. We’re friends now — that is what I want to believe. But I think that if there is one thing I have come to understand as recurrent in my love life, I, Tchassa Kamga, of sane mind and spirit, cannot be friends with someone I was in a love relationship. Why? I might need a book to explain. So, here’s is a blatantly incomplete explanation:
When I love, I love deeply and unequivocally. I dedicate my time to making you laugh, and I pay attention to the details of everything you say. I play conversations in my mind and I remember what you wore the time you made that joke about that lady who looked funny while we waited for the taxi. I drink your Facebook profile and I xerox your Instagram. I consume everything you create.
When I stop loving you, I cut that supply. Entirely.
Before you call me an asshole, I should do it myself. I am an asshole. I have tried to be a nice person, but some things can’t change.
Then again, this depends on your definition of the word. Mine revolves around the following: I forget birthdays. I like long hours of uninterrupted silences. That I cringe-physically- when you use am to mean I am. I am the asshole who asks you whether you are tired or exhausted AND if you know the difference. I am the one who starts thinking about our relationship , during the first month, if you don’t hold my hand in public.
I have issues. I know. I have been able to deal with way more than 90% of them in the past year? How? By doing the exact same thing I vowed online not to do.
I dated. Loved. Had a great time. Connected. Installed a new version of my mature, ambitions assholery and failed. Again.
Now, as you read this, I am single, not actively searching, making a round-up of how what I did wrong or how much of the failure of the relationship was my fault, so that I can finally tell myself a truth that would make me get closer to my hope of meeting a woman, getting married and having kids.
By the way, I want a daughter first. Her name would be Ada- like Ada Lovelace, the Countess. Daughter of Lord Byron. First Programmer (in my books)*wink*
At the start of the year, my relationship tanked . All because of an attempt to trick me into expressing my incipient male debauchery. She ( or her friend- I didn’t find out who, didn’t matter to me anyway) made a prank call and went on to lure me into philandering conversations that she intended to us in order to prove my maleness. In my curious nature, I wondered who that was. And I pressed on. I was a fool. Eventually, everything backfired.
It seems almost every woman in my part of the world believes in her heart and soul that every male cheats.
First, I don’t have data to back my assumption on the woman. Second, I don’t have data to back males either. I can back my own statements with a simple declaration: I can’t help but focus. For example, now that I am single, in every single conversation I have with a lady, I have a background programme scanning and archiving any statements that may lead to a potential relationship.
In my brain I mean. Not on my computer. I am weird. But not that weird.
I can’t cheat. I am psychologically incapable of cheating. I will start telling myself that if I am cheating, she probably is too. Next thing you know, I am telling her we need to break-up.
Plus, when you lie, you need to remember a lie. I find that exhausting.
My next two relationships however died a more…miscommunicatory death. (Yes, I just made that word up.)
Side note: I find it fascinating how I get to analyse my own thoughts in my relationships without the input of those with whom I was in the relationship. It’s almost sad- and borderline megalomaniacal. How I decide why what happened and what it led to. Maybe my way of coping with this is finding a rational explanation to my inability to maintain a relationship. Or…maybe I’m just right. *wink*
After we met for the first time, we told each other things we’d never told anyone. Ever. Interesting, is it not? How one week with someone and I build these preposterous castles in the skies of affection. I must tell you, those things she told me would die with me. That’s the reason why sometimes, when I look at the grand scheme of things, I am extremely grateful I have this overdeveloped sense of confidentiality. Unless you hypnotize me, no matter how hateful I am about a past relationship, the things we shared intimately stay with me. Forever.
But then she failed me. Tried to rationalize feelings I didn’t get. Even the semblance of the friendship I thought we had crumbled. Now, I am glad she even sent season greetings.
Or what is a trap? *holds chin and gazes dramatically up and sideways, slowly*
Am I sad? Yes. Will it drain me? Nope. If there’s one lesson I have learned from my massive consumption of podcasts and books in the hope of battling creative angst, depression and laziness, it is this:
Focus on the things you can control. Don’t think twice about the others.
I can control how well I communicate my message to you, I can adapt, twist, change pace, use various media, even bait you into finding answers. But I cannot control if you choose to listen or not. Or even if you choose to act on my message.
I told her we needed to talk. When I was comfortable. She, on the other hand wasn’t comfortable given that I’d blocked her on all social media. She made that clear. And I didn’t push further. Some things must end. Maktub.
The last one, the one that sealed my year in the iced sea of celibacy, was, admittedly the most promising. Truly, I thought we could start a family together.
Side note: I don’t even know how, or why I am able to move on so drastically in these relationships. Maybe it’s because I take these week long hiatus where I go through all the stages of loss and remember that there are things I can’t change. I hope I am not a sociopath.
But then, miscommunication happened. I can’t go in the details of this. So, I’ll ask that you trust my conclusion. Maybe she has hers, at this point, I really, really don’t care.
We broke up and made up. We didn’t last up to a week. Then, on phone ( how cliche) we ended it: a clumsy conversation over what each other felt was right for us. An awkward debacle.
I was mean. I said some things to hurt her. But when I look at them now ( I never delete my messages, I tend to quote statements made in print- digitally or otherwise to backup my arguments. Add that to the list of things that make Kamga an asshole) I still believe the things I said. I can pick bullshit ( and some mental illness traits). 2016 has been my practice year. My test subject? Yours truly.
You see, I have issues. I go through not-so-mild depressive bouts and I have never taken medication for it. I have a support system I talk to when things go really bad and I only started articulating these thoughts with my parents recently Especially with my mother who heard about it just two months or so ago. Yet, many choice in my academic, professional and emotional life were made, at some point or the other, with the full effects of my — ailment at the time.
Prior to 2016, I wasn’t even aware. Now, by reading, talking with people who truly care, communicating fully, and writing, I’ve been able to handle a lot of things really well.
You want proof? I have more to be grateful this year. I go to my mother and hug her for no reason, randomly. I have conversations up to 2.30a.m with people I find interesting who I hope to meet because they live at the other end of the world. My poetry collection is up for reviewing my by closest peers. And ( this is the best part) I can disappoint people, plan a proper apology, and make it up to them in full without letting the guilt spread through the rest of my life, and affect those who are not related to my own problems with others.
I am single- not exactly by choice. But I am getting used to the suit. I need to understand that some call-to-actions are merely click bait and there is a lot more than to be able to watch movies together, have dinner, cuddle and change Facebook profile status.
Also, I have understood that I must step-up my standards AND my game. I cannot compromise in the hope to get her to be like me. Because I have accepted another simple truth:
You can’t change anyone. People change themselves.
I love sitting on my own and reading for 12 hours. Whenever there is a movie I am anticipating ( Dr. Strange, The Fate of The Eight- top on my list), I watch it alone. I love food. But I hate cooking. I HATE WASHING DISHES. I HATE DOING LAUNDRY ( a washing machine is quite the luxury in this part of the world- we use our hands and soap. Ugh. I can’t wait to be a billionaire. *smirk*).
Hate is a strong word, you say? I mean it. I’d rather pay for anyone to do it, and if my significant can’t cook, there are chances we’d have issues when it comes to food- especially because I also expect you to have your own passions and obligations.
She (notice that I don’t specify which? That is intentional) didn’t cook. Well, not often. I was always hungry. And one thing that is less likely to change is that when I get hungry, I get less chatty. It’s like my brain tries to save energy. And when the regular conversationalist I am (when I trust someone completely) goes into hibernation mode, every nod is interpreted differently. Plus, my sarcasm ups a couple of notches. I know she notices. But there’s really nothing she can do about it. But then, she tries. At best, she gets moody too. At worse, she decides that she has done something wrong.
Sweetheart, I’m just hungry.
Food plays a big part of my life. Until I figure out how to take care of myself- feed, wash, care etc, anyone who comes into my life would either have to help or deal with my attitude. Is that demanding? Yes. Should any rational woman rationally say yes to an asshole like me? I hope not. I wouldn’t say yes to me.
But before you dismiss me into the footnotes of self-inflicted singlelology, let me tell you this: I have met many men AND women who love cooking and cleaning up. I just hate it. ( I also know other people like me — men and women).I want to find someone who does. So, for me, if you don’t cook, that’s a red flag.
Side note: This would make a cool T-shirt poster…
I love food. I’ll only marry a cook.
I like how this year ended. No relationship potential in the air. No unfinished conversation. No budding crush. And appreciation of the work I need to do on ME.
Maybe I’m just being lazy. Maybe I just need to get my stuff together, take care of myself and the rest would happen.
But from my recollection of this year, every time I let things go according to my mental state or for “life” to push me around, I’ve only felt worse about myself. I’m going into 2017 owning my assholeness. Why?
Because despite all these things that go on in my head; gracious, beautiful women have taught me that I can be a decent boyfriend. They’ve taught me that love- attention- care- those googly eyes you see in the movies, that stuff is possible.
And writing this has taught me that change is possible. I’m a better version of myself. I can’t wait to see what I come up with in 2017. If this is what being single sounds like, I may start to finally stop trying to be or not be- single.
