Freudian Slip

"Is love all we know to write about?" she asked, referring to my most recent blog entry. At first I felt a little offended as if she were cynically downing such a powerful emotion. Afterall, don't we live, eat, breathe, and evn write because someONE loved us, and still does? Although through love I've seen the depths of despair, and continually suffer the bitterness of its aftertaste, I've also climbed its heights to euphoria and would by no means make a mockery of its presence in my life. Which beings me to the events of this last week:

I've found myself becoming ever more smitten with a certain male counterpart, of whom I've known for nearly a year. In an attempt to protect his anominity I'm not going to elaborate any further on the many facets of his character, but feel it would be sufficient to say that he's quite "amazing."

Of course, I know this all sounds so wonderful and storybook, but you see this story would not be complete unless there was a hitch. Not only is he unavailable, but I am becoming ever more convinced that I'm not his type, which I'm not even really sure what that translates to. I suppose some would say that he's too good for me or vice versa. But really its more than that. Maybe what it really boils down to is my gut feeling that even if he was unattached and intriqued, and despite the intensity of my feelings for him, I don't picture us together. Which in and of itself is enough to break my heart.

Yet this past week I found myself in a fit of worriment as I was informed that he had fallen extremely and seriously ill. Since most of the significant details were omitted, I was left with the little bits and pieces of data that only fit together forming a horrible nightmare-ish situation. This lack of information and my wild imagination made for a rather toxic combination, so much so that I ventured a phone call to inquire about his condition. Such an idea, in and of itself was poisoness, considering that I've already been rather sloppy with the discretion of my feelings. Yet I found a quiet corner at work and proceeded to make the call.

One year, in celebration, Bryce presented Dolly with an Amaryllis bulb in a pot, to which I replied, "Nothing says 'I love you' like a potted plant." It is just this week that I have formulated a very similar saying that is applicable to myself: Nothing says I love you like an incomprehensible voicemail message.

As fate would have it I was not able to speak directly to the patient himself, but was granted the privilege of speaking to a machine, which of course is why I called in the first place! As I lamented his sudden decline in health, I stuttered and hesitated to express myself, not quite sure what I wanted to say. Maybe I ought to have rehearsed it beforehand. Yet just as I was about to hang up I nearly uttered those undeniably powerful three little words. It came so naturally until I stopped myself. I hung up and sat stunned. A Freudian slip if I'd ever heard one, or not heard one.

Did I mean it? Did I genuinely have those feelings? Freud would reply with an emphatic, "Yes!" I don't consider myself to be one of those people who says what they really don't mean. Experience has taught me that it's just too painful to be the receipient of emotions that are not truly heartfelt. Why would I do that to someone else? Was it just a repetitous mixup? Something that I'm so used to saying that it was just another phrase, void of meaning? Of this I'm still not sure. The only thing that is clear is my relief. I've decided that none of it is worth ruining our friendship, which I value to its utmost. Yet that still does not validate my feelings.

Sister you were right - what a soul haveth I. . .sigh . . . . . . .