What is self-destruction?

As usual, this was a question that came to me while talking to a friend. Mr K, in this instance. Am I self-destructing by hiding my feelings from Mr D? Seeing him going through women like we’re an endangered species, while dying a little every time I see the overcrowded notches on his bedpost? Would it be better if I just blurted it out, let him deal with the daunting prospect of our relationship never being the same again? A part of me is sorely tempted to do just that. After all, it’s at least half his fault that I’m so hopelessly in love with him. Why should he not have to deal with all the baggage that comes with an impossible love like this one?

Another part, the one that’s completely at the mercy of my pride and ego, won’t let me say it. How can I possibly let something as ephemeral as an emotion get the better of me? That’s the part that believes that licking your wounds in private is infinitely better than having to ask someone for balm. This part of me would die, actually die, if I ever get around to saying ‘I love you’ without a 100 per cent guarantee that the sentiment will be reciprocated. With more intensity than I put into it. And so I suffer. Not quietly, as many of my friends, particularly Ms N, will attest to. But I do. And I continue to meet him. Every fucking time he wants to. Again, a saner and smarter person would probably remove themselves from the presence of their torturer. But not me. I’ll dig my heels in and stand taller. Is that self-destructive? Mr B thinks so.

Mr B also thinks I have a disgusting propensity to seek disaster. He says I’m one of those dumb idiots who’ll cut off their noses to spite their faces. Not surprisingly, his declarations are followed by icy glares and long silences on my part and rolling of eyes from his. But every time he holds up the not-so-flattering mirror and forces me to look into it, I have no option but to confront the disconcerting thought--am I self-destructive? Maybe I am. Okay, truth be told, there’s no maybe about it. I am an idiot. Consider Exhibit A: He’s well-read, well-dressed, well-educated, well everything. He’s environmentally conscious, sensitive, perceptive and great in bed. Check, check, check and OMG, check. He’s the forever kind of guy. The Jacob Black of the boy world. And sadly, like Jake, he’s always going to be an option, not a priority.

So what is he doing wasting his time with me? My guess is as good as anybody’s. Slumming it out, I suppose. Or he’s just as much of an idiot as I am. Ms N and I have dedicated many BBM hours wondering how such a guy hasn’t been lapped up by the very hungry, very deprived and very predatory population of intelligent single girls in the city. And after I’m done feeling pathetic and guilty as hell for kicking around a guy as great as him, Ms N and I just decide that it’s one of those rare strokes of luck. The few things that get past Mr Murphy’s radar and happen to you. Although deep down, you feel like you just don’t deserve it. And deeper down, you know you don’t. Which is why you should stop at the second electric blue iced tea. The minute you order the third, you’re in trouble. Because that’s the one that will take you past your ridiculously happy reality and into the scary, dark place where all these uncomfortable truths lie dormant. But that’s besides the point. Coming back to Exhibit A. I was with him last night, helping him pack for London, when the differences between him and Mr D became so startlingly obvious, I wanted to yank my heart out of the rib cage and smack it against the wall till it was ready to listen to reason.

Mr D is messy, selfish, obnoxious and always broke. Which would have been okay if he was a student. Except he’s not. And hasn’t been one for a while. He’s Barney Stinson. But without the money. And yet, every time he calls, every time he messages, I light up. It doesn’t matter whether I talk to him for 15 minutes or 1 hour 15, but talk to him, I must. Everyday. I try to pretend that it doesn’t matter, that he’s just any other friend that I’m happy to talk to at whatever time of the day or night, and that I don’t torture myself with thoughts of who he’s serenading on the nights he doesn’t call me, but I know that that’s not true. For someone who’s always had more pride than needed, it’s a rather large helping of humble pie to digest in one go. I’ve broken pretty much all my dating-dance rules for him. Except one: I simply will not call him. No matter how much I want to hear his voice or see his face, I will never ask him to meet me. The ego won’t allow me to become one of those needy, clingy women that come with the ‘Fragile. Handle with care’ signs screaming from their foreheads. So he has no idea that I wait for his calls with a longing that borders on desperation. Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?

A week ago, after 3 days of not having heard a word from Mr D, I called up Mr B in a stinking, foul mood. I hated him for what he was doing to my head and I hated myself for letting him do it. Except, since he had no idea, in all fairness, his behaviour was completely in character. Mr B heard me rave, rant and bitch. And then calmly told me to stop behaving like a 16-year-old girl with raging hormones. That hurt. Big time. And so I decided to give him the silent treatment. But in the way that only your very closest friends can say the nastiest things to you to jolt you back to reality and get away with it, I realised that Mr B was right. I really did need to make a decision about this idiotic situation and see it through.

I had two options: either tell Mr D what’s going on and see where that leads, or, if I was convinced that nothing could be gained by going down that road; to cut him off, wait till I stopped feeling quite so much and then get back to our friendship. And if I was brutally honest with myself, if I did go cold turkey, Mr D would probably just be surprised, maybe ask me why I was being weird and then decide that I would come around eventually. He’d probably just get on with it, onto the next girl and onto the next level of his grand seduction game. So where does that leave me? Exactly where I started. In the middle of a mess of my own making.

I hadn’t decided what I was going to do, and then something else happened. A few of us friends were out for dinner a couple of nights ago. One amongst us really wanted to meet the current flame. They’re in that strange space where you’re intimate enough to know that friendship is a milestone you crossed a long time ago, but you haven’t quite reached the relationship stage yet. Now if you’re both happy enough to be in the middle ground, this no man’s land of the dating game, it’s fine. But if one of you wants to move in one direction while the other wants to stay put, it’s a problem. A big one. And in this case, until that night, I was under the impression that this friend wanted a relationship while the boy was happy to be in no man‘s land. Which is why I kept ignoring her fidgetiness and distractedness over dinner. I was not going to encourage her to go meet him because I thought it was going to screw her up eventually. Yes, talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But then again, it’s always easier to hit on the solutions when the problem is someone else’s. But as I ignored her restlessness, another friend, who knew exactly what was going on as well, decided that self-destructive or not, if she wanted to, she should go and meet the boy. Now this guy hates the boy’s guts, for whatever reason, but he still held our friend by the hand and took her to meet him. All because that’s what she wanted. It might not have made sense, and he’s probably going to be the shoulder she’s going to cry on if, or when, she realises that she’s in deeper than she thought, but he still did it. And although we had a mini-argument about him sending her off, I couldn’t help but thinking that maybe I’d be better off if I didn’t have quite so many rules, if I didn’t stop myself every time I wanted to pick up the phone and ask Mr D to meet me.

Maybe, at the end of this road there is heartbreak. But it’s not like my cup is overflowing right now, anyway. If it’s my lot in life to be miserable in love, wouldn’t I rather be miserable with him than without? Because cliché as it is, pride really is a very cold bedfellow. And I know that despite all his you-have-to-grow-up speeches, when the chips are down, Mr B will be around to help pick up the pieces. Because he’s used to me not listening to him and landing in trouble. And after the fifth I-told-you-so, he’ll forget about being angry with me for being an emotional pushover.

Yesterday, Mr D asked me to go away with him for a mini-vacation. I think he needs a break from all the sex he’s been having. Do I want to go? Hell, yeah. Will I actually go? I think I just might.

So yes, I most certainly am self-destructive. But if I wasn’t, I’d hardly be me.