part one
I spent this past new year’s eve celebrations with an ex — or that’s what I’d refer to him as, sometimes “former lover” purely for shock value and my own entertainment. In truth, Im not sure if he’d consider me an ex. Yes another one of those a-will-they-won’t-they, we’re hanging out but are we dating, we’re sleeping together but am I the only one, are these real feelings or just my anxiety-situationship from ten years prior.
This one was particularly arduous, I was twenty when we met — and I had not yet mastered the skillful art of talking about my feelings without throwing up. At this point, I felt strongly against asking for help, showing emotion, and equated vulnerability to weakness. For anyone reading these articles and have commended me on my vulnerability and openness just know that it was a process, took a lot of work and personal growth and yes I did have feelings for a boy once and did in fact throw up on him because of said feelings instead of talking about them— so as you can imagine, I’ve come a long way.
There are many parts to this story; it’s hard to condense roughly 13 years of friendship and occasional situationship that happen to overlap with the most formative and traumatizing years of your life into one coherent plot line. Admittedly, I’ve always wondered how I would approach writing about Ten, because wowza! – it sure did a number on me but also because I reluctantly admit, he’s one of my best friends now. I’m torn between retelling our story authentically whilst facing the reality that he’s still in my life (and would like it to remain that way), and how I choose to express myself here could potentially influence that. If anyone didn’t believe this work was performance art, I assure it is, with the added threat of ruining all the relationships I hold dear.
In this version however, we’re going to gloss some of the details but what is relevant to know is that the situationship of sorts didn’t end well, for me really, and I was very hurt and angry about it for a long time. What’s interesting to know, is that while I candidly joke about most of my shitty break-up stories but this one still held a tender spot in my heart even though more than enough time has passed — so as a curious masochist, I’ve decided to explore it.
It was what I would think, an unusual friendship: I was an extremely gregarious, excitable, and spontaneous rocket that wore little electro outfits, and went by Dangercat. He was… well, the complete opposite. I remember interpreting his curt responses and lack of reciprocated enthusiasm in our early interactions as this guy must fucking hate me. I’m not sure how we moved past that, but there is a solid chance I ignored all social cues, steamrolled his boundaries and eventually grew on him.
One very early morning , Ten and I were at a staff afterparty when I accidentally did cocaine for the first time, and upon realizing that simply announced to him I was sleeping over so he could make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. (Like, I said — I was twenty, possibly overdramatic and knew nothing about cocaine clearly). The second time we had a sleepover, I pleaded him to stay the night. It had been a year to the day my dad died, and I didn’t want to sleep alone. It somehow became a usual thing, a night out after copious amounts of drinking and drugs would end in either one of our beds, cuddling the sketchiness away.
As much as I was hurt, I was just as embarrassed. Burdened with the shame of thinking I had no grounds to be upset, we weren’t dating, that conversation was never really had, as we all know how I feel about the “what are we” talk, so I blamed myself for having misinterpreted the signs, the lingering looks, the grazing of the knees, the holding of the hands exaggerating these gestures in my mind to promote my own desires. How dare I let myself get so hurt for whatever the fuck this was? It became easier with time to convince myself the concoction of mood destabilizing drugs, a long winter and allure of companionship had collectively conjured this fantasy and I allowed myself to get carried away in the midst.
I genuinely believed this to be true for quite some time — I see now it was a survival technique. I needed to believe that I was just butthurt about a boy than face the reality I was not equipped to handle. I’ve written a multitude of versions of this article because it’s so difficult and I don’t even know if this one will make the cut. I’ve have had a few panic attacks in the process, as I relived this incredibly dark and challenging time in my life : I was living in the basement room of a house, my roommates (and once my best friends) didn’t speak to me for reasons of which are still unclear, I was on academic probation because my dad died the year prior and despite my best efforts I was incapable of absorbing any of the material while processing my grief. I stepped into the role of decision-maker of my family whilst still being a teenager, and took on more responsibility than a nineteen-year old should nor did I have any idea where my life was headed. I was unbelievably scared, sad and alone trying my very best to keep it together.
Similarly, during a very difficult time this past year I found myself falling apart in front of him and I remembered how we became friends, long before I realized I had feelings for him; he made me feel safe. When I was scared and needed him, he’d come through.
Knowing what I know now, I’ve developed a much deeper empathy for my twenty-year old self. I believed like most adults I had an average childhood, and I mostly did but now discovering surprise easter eggs of residual issues that are presenting themselves in my current life. Through therapy I realized that I experienced emotional neglect as a child, leading me to take charge of my emotional well-being my entire life. And for a brief moment, I had found safety in a source outside of myself and by golly, it was nice. What I had in fact mistaken for lingering heartbreak, was genuine loss of security. The person that unknowingly kept me afloat wasn’t there in the same way, and it really fucking sucked.
In the better part of the past decade, we’ve mended this friendship and hung out occasionally, carefully avoiding conversations involving she-who-must-not-be-named. Well, he did rather — I just consciously waited to see if he’d have the audacity to bring her up. He did not.
We’d meet up for drinks at breweries, eat mushrooms and go to the island, take acid and go on bike rides around the city. It was in one of these adventures on mushrooms, that I casually joked about being autistic — and felt my face rearrange itself as the realization fully sank in that I probably was. (It has been confirmed sometime last year).
And maybe that’s why I felt safe – he provided a space that I felt comfortable to unmask. I’m a lot to take in as a person, I’m aware of that and yet he never makes me feel like I’m too much. He appreciates my candour and secretly loves my cheeky antics. There is a unique intimacy of being seen authentically, for who you are and all your intricacies and for me, a very nuanced individual with a raging inner demon, I’ve learned that it happens so very rarely and despite everything, I’m very grateful for it.
Sometimes I’d look at him, mid-adventure and wonder if he also recognized that we did more date-like things as friends than when we did “date”, the irony of that was not entirely lost on me. It was really never my intention but I did find it very amusing. I had decided a while ago that I’d be open to sleeping with him, curious as to whether it’d be different, or the same — but I’ll be damned to initiate it.
A lesser woman would strategically work her angles, and use her influence to seduce him. Not I, I have very little understanding of how to manipulate my own sexual prowess but thankfully my innate charisma and effortless charm come naturally. He did love my brazen (sometimes unfounded) confidence. We did and still share a distinctive rapport, a seemingly rehearsed quick wit, a clever conversational back-and-forth that a sapiosexual could only describe as foreplay.
Yet something has shifted; his face lights up when he sees me, his eyes get sparkly like an enamoured anime character. He finds subtle ways of acknowledging my emotions and demonstrates he’s listening to the (albeit sometimes mundane) things I’ve said. A new love language of his I suspect. Up until recently I would’ve dismissed these observations, but knowing I’m autistic has brought me new certainty in my ability to read patterns. It’s come in quite handy, as Ten is still quite difficult to read. Truth be told, I’m not even sure if he finds me attractive as I have no evidence to support it either way, except that I know he once did want to jump my bones and I’ve only grown more desirable.
Lately when we have a night out, it’s more a less a given he’ll end up sleeping over. Perhaps it would be more significant if it wasn’t how we started hanging out to begin with. We don’t cuddle anymore; maybe because we are platonic, or maybe because his tell-tale heart would give away his intentions, beating wildly in his chest like it did when I used to rest my head there. I could never be sure if it was because he was scared of me, in love with me or aroused by me but had hoped that it was a delightful combination of all three.
Ten and I have spent a few NYE evenings together, the first as friends, second as lovers: both memorable in their own ways and both in Guelph. The first a clusterfuck of characters in chaos, and the second we had some of our best sex on a friends couch. The third? Well, I was curious to see if he’d have the courage to follow that up. He did not.
What really tickles me is, he didn’t want to date me ten years ago, when my needs were simple : text me sometimes, fuck and cuddle. And would you look at us now, with the emotional baggage and trust I’ve bestowed upon him, of a much more complex and traumatized woman, yet he still sleeps in my bed without experiencing the benefits of the tasty tricks I learned during my sexual exploits – that’s far more intimate than dating, my boy.
i’ve got you under my spell.
