on becoming Tricia
*This may be a trigger for more sensitive readers.
It’s been awhile, I know.
Summer is slowly leaving, and I wish it would move quicker. I want the comfort of the longer nights, lower humidity, days without sunshine, and the hissing of my radiators. I want to spend Sundays in my flannel pajamas.
At some point I finally admitted that I do not like summer. It’s like I can’t breathe. Humidity kills me and sunny days are quite overrated.
Now that the temperatures are becoming bearable, my brain is more alert and I’ve been doing some work on my inner self. I’ve had a few dreams that were a bit odd but thanks to a comment made on one of my photos, it all became crystal clear. Funny how that happens sometimes.
Twenty-two years ago I met a man on Match.com. My first foray into online dating and he was definitely a catch. G was a Brit, living in the south-west of France. He was hoping to meet a woman in France, England, or the U.S. Actually, he was officially separated. She was moving out while he was in Milwaukee on an extended business trip. Life was good. Then he returned to France and his wife hadn’t moved out. And so began my unconsummated affair with a married man. We’d email, he’d call, and he never let me stop hoping. He’d complain about his wife and their marriage and I listened. I’m a very good listener. He eventually met another woman. But we were still communicating.
During this time, I’d also met a man on Lavalife.com that was very exciting, a Canadian doctor from Montréal currently in Nepal. More on him momentarily.
When G told me he was marrying that other woman, I decided to be bold and forget about my pride. I told him to choose me instead. Marry me. He kindly said no but asked why I hadn’t said anything sooner.
So I dove headfirst into the Canadian, R. Things were very good, even though he was on the other side of the planet. We wrote erotic stories to each other. He or I would begin; the other would continue the tale. I was extremely libidinous at this time and pleasured myself several times a day. I’d never been so satisfied as I was with this virtual lover.
Then, one evening on a call, we got disconnected, and I panicked. He came back in a few days, claiming high winds had knocked out their satellite connection. This was the first of those little bells one hears, only I didn’t realize it. We continued this folie à deux.
Finally, in 2012, after six years, R told me everything. In an email. We still had not met, you see. He was married. Or had been. His wife had died recently from a rare syndrome. He was not a doctor. He had not been in Nepal but in Montréal the entire time.
But I was not angry. I was relieved he finally was honest. And I did verify what he told me. She was a radio personality on CBC so much of her life, and his, could be found online. I thought that him telling me everything meant more than it did, but it was just his guilt for “cheating” on his ill wife.
During this time I was planning my relocation to New Orleans. Early in 2014, G emailed me to ask if I wanted to go to NYC with him. He knew I was moving in April, but maybe I could squeeze a weekend in. I thought I could swing it. Of course, he then decided to take the wife.
R and I had been in contact a lot during this time. I listened without judgment. At the end of 2014, he called and said he was coming to New Orleans and that we’d finally meet. I was over the moon. He arrived 15 January. I picked him up at the airport and I received one of the best hugs of my life. We drove back to my place, I gave him a quick tour of my home, and we went to dinner at Felix’s in the quarter. After we finished, I wanted to take him to the river, but he wanted to go back to my place.
Now, he had a cat back home, but for some reason I had to keep Mollie and Madeleine out of the bedroom while he was there. They did not like that one bit, nor did I. We had some very disappointing sex. In the morning we had more disappointing sex and then he said he was checking into a hotel. Okay. Still I remained hopeful. After he checked in, we took the streetcar to the garden district and wandered around. We spent the next two days together, but no more nights and no more sex, which, honestly, was a relief. Then he emailed and said it was over. He was still in New Orleans for another three days. He blocked me on Facebook and Flickr. I called and wanted an explanation. He said it just wouldn’t work. I’m still miffed that he was so rude. Not that it was over, but that he was rude.
I spent nine years in a “relationship” that was unreal from the get go. I felt like such a fool. I’m not an idiot, why did I let R do this, even when I heard all those little bells loud and clear?
G and I were still in contact and I’d listen to him complain about wife #2. Did I mention I'm a good listener?
Fast forward to this last spring. We, G and I, started messaging on WhatsApp. And then he’d call and we’d talk for hours, but only when he was in England seeing to his mum and her house.
We both agreed the conversations were very good, how we’d both gotten older and there wasn’t any pressure. Of course after the calls were over I’d wonder what they meant. I do tend to overthink at times.
He says the same things about #2 as he said about #1. Maybe not exactly, but I am hearing similar stories. I asked why he married #2 and he said it was the path of least resistance to get where he wanted to be. But now he needed a Plan B to stay in America. (He has dual residency here and in the U.K.) I blurted out that I’d be his Plan B. We talked some more and he asked if I’d move to England. I said of course!
The thing is, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN PLAN A. I am not Plan B material.
Did my incestuous step-father and damaged mother fuck me up so badly that I couldn’t see this years ago? Yes. But when G stayed with wife #1, that should have been the end. When R and I got disconnected that first time, I should have listened to the bells. And to my friends.
It just felt so good, maybe safe, too, because it wasn’t really real. Except my heart thought it was. I can blame part of this on perimenopause because the hormones are crazier than when one is twelve or thirteen.
But mostly it’s on me. I didn’t listen to my inner voices, even when they screamed. They screamed so loudly. I’m smart about people. I give good advice to others. I’m a good judge of character. But twice I refused to listen and as a result, twenty-two years have passed, wasted on fairytales.
Some of you reading this may be shocked, or you may find me pathetic or needy or just plain stupid. But maybe some of you can relate or at least understand. I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time. And now, I’ve finally found my voice and my words.
As of today, I am reclaiming who I was at twelve, before I was thirteen and gang-raped, before the molestation by my stepfather began, before my mother chose my stepfather over her children. I am reclaiming Tricia and Pattie and all my hopes and dreams and all my unstoppable courage and attitude. I am reclaiming the strength I inherited from my great-grandmother and her daughter. I am reclaiming the wisdom I’ve learned over these past sixty-eight years. I am reclaiming my Plan A status.
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