The Myth of the Different Man
Date posted: December 1, 2006
I was getting worried; my deadline was approaching and I had nothing to write about the coming issue; I was happy and stable, and nothing upset me enough to get my pen rolling. I met him and I was no longer angry at men. I had nothing more to ask Santa; he finally found my perfect gift. I was flying somewhere between cloud nine and heaven. My moods depended on him. I did not want to waste a waking moment without being with him. Waking up in the morning felt great, going to bed at night felt warm, and life altogether felt different. I cherished his SMSes, added him to all my msn aliases, saved all our chats and emails, treasured every word he said to me, and passionately surrendered to him. There was always the ominous thought of a crash lurking at the back of my mind and ruining my best moments with him. I resisted my gut feeling and ignored my collective experience with "his type of men". I decided that this was a different man.
I would like to proudly announce that "The Different Man" is a myth! He is a bigger myth than Santa Claus. There might be a Santa but there is no different man; they are all the same. Their names change, their faces change, their voices change, their bodies change, their geographic locations change, and their hunting styles change. But their hollow words, their void promises, and their bitter aftertaste are the same. I am at a point in my life now where I can safely assume that all men are the same; each man is an upgraded version of one of ten ancient models; Mr. Big, Mr. Smartass, Mr. Caveman, Mr. Jerk, the looser, the soother, the double-faced cheater, the dreamer, the miser, and, of course, the mismatched pair of sneakers. Do not let their categories confuse you; they are ALL the same; they are ALL evil.
No matter how advanced or enhanced their software seems, they still share the same basic functions and maneuvers. My relationship with men has become synonymous with knowing how a movie ends 15 minutes after it starts. My relationships have become painfully boring; just as boring as movie scripts nowadays. I told him that I have seen the movie "Pay It Forward" at least five times; I know exactly how it ends. Yet every time I watch it, the silly girl in me still hopes for a different ending. It is prewritten but still I hope that some divine intervention will change the ending. I wanted him to prove me wrong. I wanted him to give me the different ending. But who was I fooling? I am a very consistent person; "no man is to stay with you for a month" said the witch, "before the month is over, it has to be over too" she added as she pointed a nasty finger at me. What a curse! I wanted him to break the spell. I tried to help him free me from the clutches of my curse. I wanted him to last till Christmas; I did not want another Christmas alone. But Alas! It is over!
I have reached a point where I got so familiar with the colors of sadness and madness. People say that each feeling is associated with a color. It is quite known that red is the color of anger, blue of sadness, and yellow of bitterness. For some reason, these three feelings for me are all wrapped in a big brownish ball. Yes, the color of human waste – shit! This is the color that seals all my relationships; this is the word that echoes in the empty walls of what is left of my mind. I am sick of the color, the smell, the taste, and the feeling of deep shit! My heart is sinking, my soul is sulking, and a vicious crab is playing xo on my guts with its cutting edges. I am just sad; unfulfilled fantasies have a way of turning into nightmares just as my prince charming turned into a frog. I know the drill by heart; sinking, sulking, aching, hitting rock bottom, then bottling it up, pushing it down, locking it in my black box with my other black memories, and then climbing my way up the tunnel.
Do I blame him? No. Am I angry at him? No. Do I want to smother him with the shit that is allover me now? No. I can't blame him. He said he would not hurt me, he said he was different, he said that I could trust him, he said that he felt at home when he was with me, he said so many things – but don't they all! Haven't I heard it all before? Why would that one be any different? Why would the ending change this time? Why did I believe this nonsense? I am at fault all the way; I was too spontaneous, very expressive, quite sincere, and literally blind. I did not make him earn my trust, I just handed it to him. I did not make him work for my company, I was at his command. I changed the way I did things hoping that the end of the story would change; I put my games, tricks, and spells aside when I should have kept them at an arms length.
This was not my only mistake. My biggest mistake was going after a man who was in a relationship – a crashing relationship. I sat there like an ugly black crow waiting to prey on the remains of her heart. I thought I was a different girl. I thought he saw me as a different girl. What a deluded creature I am. I turned from the inspiration to the burden; from the muse to the block; from the comfort to the pressure; from the real thing to the distraction; from the relationship to the rebound. Yesterday night he was missing me, liking me, leaning on me, and allover me; this morning he wanted a break! I hated him then I hated myself; I was not sure whether to cry for his pain or mine; I decided to let go. I broke my fingers, twisted my wrists, and hurt my arms trying to hold on to people who "had to" or "needed to" go away. I do not have the supernatural power of breathing life in dead relationships or people. I have been there and done that before – it is just another crash and it will pass. I deleted him from all my contact lists along with all our emails, our saved chats, and our messages.
I am trying to turn my back to the horrible feeling of being used; of being taken advantage of; of being taken for a quick ride; of being someone's pain killer. I want to close my eyes and not think of the intensity of the past few weeks. I want to wake up in the morning and remember nothing of him – or what could have been us. He was just another man among many others; another chapter in my book; another month in my life; another Christmas without a gift. I know now what the picture on his wall was telling me; the first time I looked at it, I was happy and warm with passion. I saw angels saving lost souls from a burning hell. I guess that was what I was expecting of him. The last time I saw it, I felt the end coming. I saw butterflies attracted to the glazing fire, only to fall and burn. There is no different man just as much as there will not be a different ending.