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What they don't tell you...

after you touch Juliet's boob

sunny 10 °C

I have been a very foolish little girl. For a very, very long time. So foolish I am almost embarassed to keep writing.

You know how this blog is supposed to document the adventures of an anonymous me, wandering the world and turning it inside out to live it inside out. All these words that describe experiences, feelings, adventures, food, plans, etc. It's all words. In fact, if you really think about it, it all means nothing. It's calculated sentences that put together an idea, one after the other, and rarely does it ever really mean much. It means what I want it to mean - for you. Not for me. Because for me the experience is on another level.

And so, for almost a year now, I believe I have been fed words. Words of love and adoration. Words that include plans to be with me and share life's experiences with me. Plans for the future. Plans to meet my family. Plans to take me to a hometown. Plans for nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have been lied to. Right in the face. Bullshitted to no end.

It's come upon me very recently, these very days as I am here in Italy. I came back to do another short course in Italian and to see the status of my relations with one man. Which seemingly, quite clearly, do not exist. So many words. So many lies. So much crap for nothing. Useless, wasteful air containing words. I suppose it's okay. Because it means I can clear my time for other things, like cinema and classical music concerts which I have been so yearning to see with him together. How many times can you take a girl out for dinner. I don't want drinks. I don't want dinner. I want the real thing. I want to share a life with someone and I've been wanting to share it with someone who just can't and won't and doesn't want to. Quite clearly.

Remember when we had friends whose guys used to say "I'll call you" and they never did. And we always said "babe, he's just not that into you. He's playing with you. He's keeping you where he wants you." I have no idea how I got to be in that very chair. I took control of the situation two months ago, made the call and spilled the beans in a mature manner, making sure I was understood. I thought so. And that idiot in the chair is me today. The idiot who keeps believing 'no, it can't be', 'he really cares, he just doesn't have time right now', 'he's going through a bad period so give it space and have faith'. And without asking for anything at all, not even 30 minutes for coffee time, I am being promised things beyond the possible, beyond the desire, beyond the imagination and beyond reality. You wouldn't believe it at all.

And then I wonder, is it something that I've done and said to make these empty promises be said on his end? After all, I expect nothing. I told him I don't expect anything, that I just want him to hear me out. That I know he has priorities right now and there is no room for me in his life at this point in time. So he is proving my point very right. So clearly, I must have done something. And then comes blaming oneself. It's all by the book and according to every script. Just open another tab in your window and you'll find it. We all know it. But when we love and when we think we want something, we don't believe it.

They've told me to beware of Italian men. I knew they were right but I thought I could do it. Thought I met someone different. The foolish little girl inside still believes that she met someone different. Someone smack her. She's already been across the world and experienced this once before. But she does it over and over again.

I am writing truth though - nothing here is fake.
But it is sugar coated because if I have to say what I *really* am feeling right now, it would not be appropriate.

Know this though; I wake up, brush my teeth, color my face, get dressed like a proper, classic Italian lady and my heartbreak is out there, nestled out in the cold Milanese air, looking for warmth and to be hugged. I miss a hug. I really feel like I need a big, warm genuine hug. And it is nowhere to be found. Not out of self pity at all. Just a yearning for something real from someone who really cares. Someone who thinks you are wonderful.

He clearly doesn't.
I'm not *that* wonderful or intriguing or important to him; and now safe to say, unloved I suppose. Ouch.

Every day the slap across my face gets more sore so I'm understanding that its more real and one day maybe I will wake up all clear of everything.
I can not believe that this is what it's coming down to. I can't accept that this is the situation just yet. It seems so far and disillusioned from the recent events of my life when he showed up in Paris just like that. And spent the weekend in my home, in my bed, in my corner of the world, my refuge from him and everyone else, among my own friends. In my life, without any early warning. I tried to protect myself but it was just too fast and I needed to see where things could do, if there was still something there.

I passed a lovely park on the way to the library today. I went inside and sat on a bench to soak up some sun and I released my hands from one another to try and relax. And I reran the script of my life, starting from when I was a kid, and my dad used to tell me to jump into the pool when I still couldn't swim so well and I didn't trust that he would catch me. I thought he would turn around and disappear in the pool, or just forget one second later. I really was scared though that he wouldn't catch me. And he would get mad because I didn't believe him. So I pooped the party. I almost never jumped. I walked casually to the stairs that lead the way into the water and chose the safe route. I've done that many times since.
So it started with 'dad', the first so-called 'man' of my life. I ended up doing much of the same with others, in real guy-girl relationships. I looked back and saw that in almost every situation I have done the same thing: of not being able to trust, not believing I deserve more, shutting up and going with the flow, now asking for what I want, being unable to say NO or walk away from situations that did not make me happy because I just didn't know how to. And I still don't. Don't know how to let things go. And don't know how to let this guy go now. Because I still haven't said what it is I need to say. And if I look further, the only way I was able to tell my 7-year ex that I loved him was in a Valentine's card. Afterwards it was easier, but I have never said it to anyone else. Ever. Even when I was in love with every cell of my being.

I'm afraid to say 'I love you' and then you'll just disappear. Like my dad did. 13 years ago. He dropped me off at my friend's house one night, touched my cheek, said "I love you. Take care of yourself, have fun and be happy." and I ignorantly got out of the car thinking 'damn he's weird'. He was saying goodbye. He died the next day playing soccer - collapsed after 10 minutes and gave way to a severe cardiac arrest.

Apart from my ex, he is the only other 'man' that has ever loved me I believe.

So you see, psychology is right here. I solved it right here, right now. I just realized this by writing.

And voila, here I am. Winter. Italy. Which only means *even* *more* pastas, aperitivos, risotos and pizzas. How absurd that I can barely bring myself to eat at all. I've found myself cutting pieces of bread to smaller pieces so I could at least swallow them. My sadness and disappointment over this love affair is far greater than it should be or has any right to be. You can be sure that he is not suffering or thinking at all.

I'm working from the famous Sormani Library, full of people reading newspapers as if their life depended on it but nice to see the Italian population so interested in their national news. Seems that for once, many more are engaged in the events of this country recently, or actually in the last two decades almost since Berlusconi appeared. And yes, culture and art and nightlife are all somewhat a part of my time spent here, but I can not bring myself to share at the moment. I will when I'm ready. Give me time. I just needed a place to vent right now as I sit in this library, supposed to be working but consumed. But I realized something important sharing this with you.

And for the record, what they don't say after you touch Juliet's boob in Verona is that afterwards, things can get a bit...sore.

Posted by enoura 05:42 Archived in Italy Tagged winter culture travel life love italian pizza milan course memory pasta

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