Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
brandxbear
visitor
- Joined
- Jan 13, 2018
- Messages
- 4
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Hello, All. This is my first post. I have a problem which I've allowed to grow completely out of control, and has become a major detriment to my happiness and progress. If it is possible to become addicted to a person similarly to how one might become addicted to drugs, then I believe that sums up the issue.
Two and a half years ago, I met "Tom" and at first I did not think much of him: He was a friend of a friend, and as it turned out, his profession and means of support were under a cloud for a time. Well, not for us, but for the world, yes. But as the weeks progressed, and he expressed more and more interest in spending time with me, I found myself looking forward more and more to our evenings together.
A few weeks later, I was surprised to find myself completely head-over-heels infatuated with him. I am a grown man in my 40s in a fairly high-profile career with some serious fiduciary responsibilities, and here I was getting all twitterpated over a 30-something artist--he showed me programs from some gallery shows that had run in another town years previously--who was supplementing his income with some relatively innocuous but not strictly above-board business dealings.
Right.
Because of my position I felt I could help generate some publicity for his art, once he started painting again. I was under the impression that we had a romantic relationship, because we had been intimate a couple times when he spent the night at my place when it was too late to drive 80 km to his home in a neighboring county.
When he sublet a room in my town, I thought it a good omen. Of course, it also meant his business dealings began taking up more of his time, and we weren't spending evenings at my place anymore. We would spend all our time at his, where there were a lot of people coming and going. I began to grow frustrated and I despaired that we'd ever find time alone together. When I brought up these concerns, he reassured me that he was just busy and had a lot on his mind.
This is the first time I've written this account as a narrative, and as I look at the preceding paragraph, I realize with horror just how ridiculous I am. I can't really say why I didn't realize that there was something seriously amiss. He is very charming and manipulative, and, I mean, every time I was to see him, I would get butterflies in my stomach 20 minutes before.
I never thought at my age I'd experience that again. It seemed miraculous. Later, it seemed much less so, because I think we forget how wonderful love isn't when things go wrong.
It may help clarify my cluelessness a bit if I explain that at this time, I had just recovered from a serious illness that required chemotherapy. For about 18 months, I had been bald, emaciated, sickly-looking with no eyebrows and my weekly schedule was filled with doctor appointments and followups. There is a sort of unreality that sets in during an experience like this, and it lingered through what became a brisk recovery: My hair had grown back, and I had gained back only a portion of my previous weight--to tell the truth, I had seldom looked better in my life. People would compliment me on my appearance and ask my secret. "Cancer," became my customary blithe reply, but inside i was glowing and I was getting a promotion at work and things were really going my way.
This is exactly the point at which Tom materialized in my life. He seemed very attentive and it was really the first time in my life I had felt genuinely attractive. Also, I was determined to live the rest of my life differently, to open myself up to new experiences, unbound by the chains of convention--and so, when a new roommate materialized, a much younger man in his 20s, and Tom was forced to share not just his single room but his bed with this unfortunate soul who was on hard times, I took it in stride. We became the Three Musketeers, and I believed Tom when he told me he was not even attracted to immature men like that--"But give 'im about 10 years and watch out"--like me, Tom preferred the more mature type, and the only drawback was that now there was really no possibility for intimacy between Tom and me.
One rare morning, the roommate (of the room) as well as the roommate (of the flat) were both out, and I found myself alone with Tom. So, seizing the opportunity, I cornered him on the balcony and drew him into my embrace with what I hoped was a passionate and sexy confidence, while he ... sort of ... just went limp and ... he didn't pull away, exactly, but my ardent embrace was not returned and I began to feel a bit ashamed and more than a bit humiliated, and he finally sort of extracted himself, ducking first under one arm and then the other--and that's when we had The Talk.
It was the first of many similar talks, and it was probably the most civil, though for me not the least painful and frustrating.
He explained that he was going through a celibate period in order to assist his spiritual development and ultimately his art. I believed him.I asked if this meant we were never going to be together, and he assured me it did not. It was just a matter of a few weeks, months at most; he had learned the technique from a mystic, he said and it really helped his creativity flourish.
"Oh, so you're doing kundalini yoga?" I asked.
"Huh? What's that?"
I explained how some said it was beneficial to build up the root chakra libido so that the serpent awakened, ascending the spine, and--
"Oh, yeah, it's something like that."
uch:
Then some roommate or other arrived home and, seeing us on the balcony, came out to investigate.
I made my excuses and a hasty retreat but did not make it all the way to my car before hot tears of frustration began to spill. What had I gotten myself into?
At this point, I'm going to omit the following two chapters of what's bound to be a substantial portion of my memoir and jump ahead two years. During that time, I developed a full-fledged obsession over Tom. For a few months, he lived in my guest room, and then I helped him move into a place of his own because I didn't want the foot traffic at my house.
It was some time before I fully realized just how much of a sucker I have been.
Still, there is a part of me that continues, despite all evidence that I am the biggest fool of them all, and that I have been played well and good, and several times, and rather hard, and both my personal life and my career have suffered because of it--to hold out hope. The fact is I can't look at him without melting. I believed for a year that he was my soul-mate.
A gentleman my own age whom I dated years and years ago came back into my life briefly last year, and it might have turned into something quite serious, except I was unable to come to terms with Tom, and I'm not proud of my behavior by a long shot.
Over this time, I have cast the coins hundreds of times with respect to Tom and some new indignity or other, and the Yi seems determined to answer my question on those terms, even sometimes seeming to humor me about the fact of Tom's and my "relationship" but never pulling punches when it comes time to predict that it will all end in tears, as it often does with Tom, and they're never his tears.
At this point I'm told I've been reduced to something of a laughing stock, and he has a houseful of doubtful types constantly crashing there, and I believe he's building an army of homeless people or something like that--I'm not really sure, he hardly talks to me when I'm over there.
He hasn't returned a text or a phone call except to brusquely order a car or to argue violently with me since September 2016.
I am such an old fool; I will be 50 this year, and this can't go on. The ****er ought to be jailed as far as I'm concerned. But I cannot seem to extricate myself from his clutches for more than a few weeks or a couple months at a time. When Emily Dickinson wrote that "Hope is the thing with feathers," I think she meant that hope is a bloody piss-poor and uncomfortable object to have lodged in one's belly for so long.
I realized today that I had only ever consulted the Yi regarding the specifics of some particular situation or other with regard to Tom, and so today I asked:
Why did Tom come into my life? What lesson is there to learn that could possibly make all this worthwhile?
And I received 47.1 > 58
I have become accustomed to think of Tom and myself in terms of predator and victim, and I have developed a kind of learned helplessness; I have been wracked with self-doubt because I have allowed him to define who I am, and that is an unattractive old dude (note: I'm seven years his senior, and we're both Gen-X) who is kind of a fool and sometimes you have to listen to his stories but he can usually be counted on for a ride and some cash when necessary.
And, needless to say, the sexual component of our "relationship" never did resume. I know now that he's basically flogging it all over town. And I'm determined to be nonjudgmental and it's even rather exciting that he's so unconventional, but I've been reduced to hoping for a little bit on the side now and then, which I’ve been summarily denied, and whenever the subject comes up, he acts horrified like I'm some kind of sex maniac, and I suffer humiliation the likes of which I would never wish upon anyone, and he still expects me to believe that he lives a sanitary rather saintly existence helping all of these men and women “get back on their feet” while he enjoys temporary arrangements in various combinations and permutations which always exclude me.
I've had enough and I need to learn my lesson so I can close the chapter on this a**hole.
Any thoughts?
tl;dr: I got taken for a fool by a scoundrel and I can't seem to get over it.
Two and a half years ago, I met "Tom" and at first I did not think much of him: He was a friend of a friend, and as it turned out, his profession and means of support were under a cloud for a time. Well, not for us, but for the world, yes. But as the weeks progressed, and he expressed more and more interest in spending time with me, I found myself looking forward more and more to our evenings together.
A few weeks later, I was surprised to find myself completely head-over-heels infatuated with him. I am a grown man in my 40s in a fairly high-profile career with some serious fiduciary responsibilities, and here I was getting all twitterpated over a 30-something artist--he showed me programs from some gallery shows that had run in another town years previously--who was supplementing his income with some relatively innocuous but not strictly above-board business dealings.
Right.Because of my position I felt I could help generate some publicity for his art, once he started painting again. I was under the impression that we had a romantic relationship, because we had been intimate a couple times when he spent the night at my place when it was too late to drive 80 km to his home in a neighboring county.
When he sublet a room in my town, I thought it a good omen. Of course, it also meant his business dealings began taking up more of his time, and we weren't spending evenings at my place anymore. We would spend all our time at his, where there were a lot of people coming and going. I began to grow frustrated and I despaired that we'd ever find time alone together. When I brought up these concerns, he reassured me that he was just busy and had a lot on his mind.
This is the first time I've written this account as a narrative, and as I look at the preceding paragraph, I realize with horror just how ridiculous I am. I can't really say why I didn't realize that there was something seriously amiss. He is very charming and manipulative, and, I mean, every time I was to see him, I would get butterflies in my stomach 20 minutes before.
I never thought at my age I'd experience that again. It seemed miraculous. Later, it seemed much less so, because I think we forget how wonderful love isn't when things go wrong.
It may help clarify my cluelessness a bit if I explain that at this time, I had just recovered from a serious illness that required chemotherapy. For about 18 months, I had been bald, emaciated, sickly-looking with no eyebrows and my weekly schedule was filled with doctor appointments and followups. There is a sort of unreality that sets in during an experience like this, and it lingered through what became a brisk recovery: My hair had grown back, and I had gained back only a portion of my previous weight--to tell the truth, I had seldom looked better in my life. People would compliment me on my appearance and ask my secret. "Cancer," became my customary blithe reply, but inside i was glowing and I was getting a promotion at work and things were really going my way.
This is exactly the point at which Tom materialized in my life. He seemed very attentive and it was really the first time in my life I had felt genuinely attractive. Also, I was determined to live the rest of my life differently, to open myself up to new experiences, unbound by the chains of convention--and so, when a new roommate materialized, a much younger man in his 20s, and Tom was forced to share not just his single room but his bed with this unfortunate soul who was on hard times, I took it in stride. We became the Three Musketeers, and I believed Tom when he told me he was not even attracted to immature men like that--"But give 'im about 10 years and watch out"--like me, Tom preferred the more mature type, and the only drawback was that now there was really no possibility for intimacy between Tom and me.
One rare morning, the roommate (of the room) as well as the roommate (of the flat) were both out, and I found myself alone with Tom. So, seizing the opportunity, I cornered him on the balcony and drew him into my embrace with what I hoped was a passionate and sexy confidence, while he ... sort of ... just went limp and ... he didn't pull away, exactly, but my ardent embrace was not returned and I began to feel a bit ashamed and more than a bit humiliated, and he finally sort of extracted himself, ducking first under one arm and then the other--and that's when we had The Talk.
It was the first of many similar talks, and it was probably the most civil, though for me not the least painful and frustrating.
He explained that he was going through a celibate period in order to assist his spiritual development and ultimately his art. I believed him.I asked if this meant we were never going to be together, and he assured me it did not. It was just a matter of a few weeks, months at most; he had learned the technique from a mystic, he said and it really helped his creativity flourish.
"Oh, so you're doing kundalini yoga?" I asked.
"Huh? What's that?"
I explained how some said it was beneficial to build up the root chakra libido so that the serpent awakened, ascending the spine, and--
"Oh, yeah, it's something like that."
uch:Then some roommate or other arrived home and, seeing us on the balcony, came out to investigate.
I made my excuses and a hasty retreat but did not make it all the way to my car before hot tears of frustration began to spill. What had I gotten myself into?
At this point, I'm going to omit the following two chapters of what's bound to be a substantial portion of my memoir and jump ahead two years. During that time, I developed a full-fledged obsession over Tom. For a few months, he lived in my guest room, and then I helped him move into a place of his own because I didn't want the foot traffic at my house.
It was some time before I fully realized just how much of a sucker I have been.
Still, there is a part of me that continues, despite all evidence that I am the biggest fool of them all, and that I have been played well and good, and several times, and rather hard, and both my personal life and my career have suffered because of it--to hold out hope. The fact is I can't look at him without melting. I believed for a year that he was my soul-mate.
A gentleman my own age whom I dated years and years ago came back into my life briefly last year, and it might have turned into something quite serious, except I was unable to come to terms with Tom, and I'm not proud of my behavior by a long shot.
Over this time, I have cast the coins hundreds of times with respect to Tom and some new indignity or other, and the Yi seems determined to answer my question on those terms, even sometimes seeming to humor me about the fact of Tom's and my "relationship" but never pulling punches when it comes time to predict that it will all end in tears, as it often does with Tom, and they're never his tears.
At this point I'm told I've been reduced to something of a laughing stock, and he has a houseful of doubtful types constantly crashing there, and I believe he's building an army of homeless people or something like that--I'm not really sure, he hardly talks to me when I'm over there.
He hasn't returned a text or a phone call except to brusquely order a car or to argue violently with me since September 2016.
I am such an old fool; I will be 50 this year, and this can't go on. The ****er ought to be jailed as far as I'm concerned. But I cannot seem to extricate myself from his clutches for more than a few weeks or a couple months at a time. When Emily Dickinson wrote that "Hope is the thing with feathers," I think she meant that hope is a bloody piss-poor and uncomfortable object to have lodged in one's belly for so long.
I realized today that I had only ever consulted the Yi regarding the specifics of some particular situation or other with regard to Tom, and so today I asked:
Why did Tom come into my life? What lesson is there to learn that could possibly make all this worthwhile?
And I received 47.1 > 58
I have become accustomed to think of Tom and myself in terms of predator and victim, and I have developed a kind of learned helplessness; I have been wracked with self-doubt because I have allowed him to define who I am, and that is an unattractive old dude (note: I'm seven years his senior, and we're both Gen-X) who is kind of a fool and sometimes you have to listen to his stories but he can usually be counted on for a ride and some cash when necessary.
And, needless to say, the sexual component of our "relationship" never did resume. I know now that he's basically flogging it all over town. And I'm determined to be nonjudgmental and it's even rather exciting that he's so unconventional, but I've been reduced to hoping for a little bit on the side now and then, which I’ve been summarily denied, and whenever the subject comes up, he acts horrified like I'm some kind of sex maniac, and I suffer humiliation the likes of which I would never wish upon anyone, and he still expects me to believe that he lives a sanitary rather saintly existence helping all of these men and women “get back on their feet” while he enjoys temporary arrangements in various combinations and permutations which always exclude me.
I've had enough and I need to learn my lesson so I can close the chapter on this a**hole.
Any thoughts?
tl;dr: I got taken for a fool by a scoundrel and I can't seem to get over it.
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