On Saturday night, while I was at Jessie’s party, I kept wondering what Daniel was doing. And longing for him. Imagining him with Robin. I got a bit drunk, and as I walked to the subway station I even cried a little. Thinking: I have to end it.
Subsequent thinking has confirmed the idea. There’s no way around this: we have no future together, since I want two kids and he wants a vasectomy. And even if we did, he doesn’t want a relationship. And even if he did, that’s not to say he would want one with me. But he doesn’t want one. He’s twenty six, and recently out of a three year relationship. And, you know, I don’t want a relationship either. I want to keep sleeping with Jefferson (and whomever he might choose for me to sleep with!). I just don’t want Daniel to sleep with other women. Men, OK. Women, no. Robin? NO.
Which is ridiculous – there’s no reason here. Just jealousy. This can only end in tears: mine.
Anyway, all day Sunday I couldn’t find my way around the idea, and I got a session with my therapist Caroline specifically to bend her ear about it. She agreed with me. “I think he’s dangerous for you,” she said, after I’d outlined all the problems. The thought of Sweetheart Daniel (as we call him in my apartment, because me -- and my roommates -- all agree that he’s a sweetheart) –lanky, geeky, gentle Daniel as dangerous, felt awful. And of course, she’s right.
The other thing Caroline said was that the worst thing about the way our sexual mores have changed is that it makes us ashamed to have feelings. And she’s right about that, too. I have no qualms writing about deep throating Jefferson, but I was originally not planning to post the brief entries (here and here) in which I’d moaned about how jealous I was of the fact that Daniel went to Atlantic City with Robin and not me. That sort of information, to me, seemed to shameful to reveal. It negated my hard-won perception of myself as emotionally carefree, sexually liberated and in charge. It showed me to be just another girl who’d gotten in over her head. It seemed to signify that I had not matured at all since Michael left me in a puddle of misery back in 2002, or even since I was a lonely and self-pitying teenager, nursing crushes on unavailable boys. But, Caroline said, there isn’t anything to be ashamed of. And she’s right. I love Caroline.
Daniel emailed me last night, saying he wanted to get together soon, as well as this weekend. I ruminated all day, getting used to the idea. Finally emailed him to say I was busy this week, but we should go out on Saturday night. When I guess we’ll go to the Flatiron Lounge, site of our first, gorgeous and fantastic date, and tell him I can’t see him anymore. Because I just can’t. If I continue to see him yes, it will in part be a power issue, because ‘the more loving one’ will be me, and I’ll be consumed with envy and longing. But also it will hurt, and it will be better to end it now than in three months, when I’ll have to admit that I love him. Please God, let him at least seem a tiny bit downcast when I tell him I can’t see him anymore.
I wish it weren’t like this. I wish I were a less emotional person. I’ve always been vulnerable like this. I wish I had a thicker skin. I wish I didn’t like Daniel so much. It’s ironic: I can’t see him anymore because I’m so crazy about him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.