Debbie's gone

It’s Wednesday night, though I suppose this won’t post till Thursday.  And I don’t know how much of this I have the heart to write.  But I had better mark the day, at least.

Debbie was in town today.  We agreed to meet at my apartment after work, to cook dinner.  When she arrived, she brought a bunch of things for dessert too … sweet and very tasty.  So we cooked dinner together, spending an hour chit-chatting about what’s going on in her life and in mine.  Then finally we sat down with some food, to talk about what’s going on with us.

I’m not going to try to trace the whole conversation.  But she said her therapist told her, “In every relationship there comes a point, between three months and a year into it, when it becomes real.”  We’d had various sticky spots, and she had tried to decide what among them was important and what not.  She decided that two points were critical: then, if we could meet on these, she could let the rest go. 

First, she thinks I have a lot of psychological work to do still before I recover from being married to Wife.  Bad habits buried deep.  Dysfunctional reactions etched into my soul.  That kind of thing.  For her it took many years and a lot of therapy to get free of her baggage; she says even if it takes me less time than that, it’s still way too early for me to be starting a new intimate relationship.

Second, she decided that she really can’t be involved with me while I am still married to Wife.  Partly because it will tie up my “energy” in ways I may not even see or understand.  And partly because there are social norms against that sort of thing.  She actually used the words “social norms.”

I told her I can understand the first point – that is, no, actually I don’t understand it at all but I can imagine what it would be like to understand it.  I can imagine what it would be like to be involved with somebody whose head was all twisted around, and to want to say, “Look, get your head on straight and then call me.”  I can imagine that.  So while I don’t really have any idea what she thinks is batty about me, what neuroses she wants me to process, I’m not going to argue with that one.

I cannot understand taking “social norms” that seriously.  Sorry, but I just can’t.  I won’t argue in the sense that she has to decide where her boundaries are and I can’t decide for her.  But that one I just don’t get.  At all.

And in any event, that one’s the dealbreaker.  Because as near as I can tell the future – and I admitted that I am notoriously bad at it – divorcing Wife just ain’t gonna happen.  For all the reasons I explained to you in my last post.  I told Debbie that if I did agree to her terms, then that is the point at which she should break it off, because it would mean that I was faithless and cruel.

She was just sad and quiet.  We both were.  Because it was clear to both of us that this meant it was over.

Finally I asked her, “Didn’t I tell you all of this before, months ago?”

“Yes, you did. Back when we first got together.”

“Well then … what did you think I was going to say now?”

“I didn’t know.”

“How could you not know?”

“I just didn’t.”

“If I thought you were that devious, I’d think you did this on purpose so you could find a way to break up with me that would be face-saving on both sides.”

“I understand why it could look like bait-and-switch to you. I’m sorry. But I think we both have to be true to ourselves.”

I still don’t know what that means.  I still don’t get why a woman who has had two husbands and well over a handful of lovers – a woman who has lived abroad in a dozen countries and is starting her third career – can be so intimidated by “social norms”.  I just don’t get it.

We finished dinner and dessert.  We cleared the table.  She gave me back her copy of the key to my apartment.  I gave her back my copy of the key to her condo.  We both said that we wanted to keep the friendship, but that we were both too sad to trust our emotions right now to figure out how to do that.  We kissed – a long, torrid, passionate kiss that went on and on.

And then she left.

I feel numb.  I have no idea how I’ll feel tomorrow, or next week.  I don’t even really want to drink, though I’ve had just a little bourbon to sip as I write this.

I just don’t get it.