I like that, whenever I fall in love, it's almost a sure sign that distaster is looming. I have this proclivity -- a talent, if you will -- for deep, hopeless affections towards completely the wrong person. Or, at least, I'm completely wrong for her. I'm tempted to say that I have this thing about unobtainable people, but that's such an easy answer in comparison to the thought that I'm just not all that appealing. And that's such a woefully self-deprecating thought that I can't believe I'd even allow myself to say it. I think what's really the issue at hand is that love isn't perfect, and sometimes I'll feel strongly for someone who returns my affection, but many times in life, we shall all discover that it is the case that this affection cannot be returned, through no fault of our own. Our hearts belong to ourselves, and there is no predicting or controlling where they might lead.

I'm not going to provide a name, or even a pseudonym. I just don't feel the details are that important to my dissection of the matter. Suffice it to say, about a month ago, I met someone. Someone wonderful. A friend, an instant friend -- a person with whom I felt an immediate kinship, a person with whom I felt no need for even smalltalk. We leapt promptly past the "you can sniff my hand and that means you can trust me" phase of our association towards this powerful (but fun), meaningful (yet light) sense of comfort which was often accompanied by hysterical giggling and conspiratory glances. I love meeting new people, but especially in that random way which naturally occurs as a result of living my life -- as opposed to forced introductions, although I admit that quite often I meet people because of my other friends, instead of just through them. In any case, our friendship was limited at first, even though it was so comfortable, but we didn't see each other outside of a certain context, which was at school. We would hang out on campus, and talk, and laugh, and gradually discover more and more about one another -- but in particular, I would learn more about her, and the amazingly tough life she has so far endured, and prospered in spite of. I learned disturbing things about her having nothing but a bag of clothes, escaping an intolerable family at home, surviving depression and a (sincere) suicide attempt, and eventually triumphing over it all with the life she has now. I have come to admire her strongly and openly for the fact that she has lived a life that has left most of the people she knew then either dead or destroyed, and yet now has a job, a life, the beginnings of a very promising and enriching education, a home, and an optimism and faith in humanity which usually only comes from the smugness of having "found God," but instead originates within the depths of strength, intelligence, and goodness, which have so far kept her alive, sane, and (as reasonably as one can expect) happy.

Of course, she has doubts about herself, in that way we all do. I mean, I'd certainly feel self-conscious about myself if I tried on lingerie, and similarly, in this situation, it came out that she doesn't like her legs. That sort of thing. There are times, too, when she gets discouraged in life, not receiving enough support from the people around her -- for instance, there aren't enough people who encourage her to persevere in her university studies, and the point nearly came during mid-terms when she was ready to give up on herself, but for the intervention of myself, Broken, and her desire to achieve the noble goal of a degree in linguistics. All in all, however, this is a person who really believes in herself, and I find that inspirational and amazing.

Ok, that's moving and inspirational. But, we're friends -- fast friends, close friends -- right now for reasons beyond my naive admiration. Call it chemistry, call it a spark, call it whatever it is that draws two friends together from the randomness of the world (well, we met at a party, but forgot about one another until about a month later, on campus, when we chanced to meet again in a class), but I immediately liked her. I felt nervous, in the way that I just naturally feel nervous in the presence of someone I find interesting (because all I want is for that person to feel the same way, and I start to over-analyze my words, my thoughts, and my actions), but we quickly discovered how easy it was to share some difficult details with one another -- be that problems with friends, fears about school, troubled pasts, or silly things such as vomit horror stories from times long ago. Very quickly she became the reason I enjoyed the class we shared, and as quickly I was her reason for dutifully persisting. Just understand that it was a dull, dry subject that agonized helpless students time and time again for three hours each week, and we presented one another with a clear reason for regularly attending. We could pass notes, or even brazenly have conversations at lulls throughout the professor's lecture, would share candy, drink coffee (I've fallen into the habit of bringing two cups to class with me), hug or pat one another as deserving bouts of drudgery-borne pouting presented themselves, and as time went on, we even conspired to hang out outside of school.

The first time, she came over to our house for dinner, and for a study session in preparation for an upcoming mid-term. She came over late, though, after work, and after dinner we lay in Broken's giant king-sized bed, succombing to the torpor of exhaustion and a tasty meal and watching cable television, which our friend did not otherwise have access to (and you know how it is when you go without cable for six or seven months, and then suddenly Duckman or Deep Space Nine or any of the shining brilliance of A&E or the Learning Channel are in front of you), so we three stretched out and enjoyed the comforts of good company and a large, soft bed. Then we fell asleep with nary a bit of studying accomplished. I was awakened by the croaking of my frogs, who were either particularly upset or tremendously pleased about something, all the way from my room (they can be quite, quite loud), so I got up to check on them, and make sure everything was turned off and that no kittens had snuck into my closet. When I got back into Broken's room, I turned off the lights, and crawled into bed once more. I noticed that at some point in the night, our friend had taken her glasses off to get more comfortable, and it was on looking upon her face that I realized how beautiful she was, with her face composed in the relaxed, peaceful act of being asleep. I tend to notice how people look when they are asleep; it gives you an unusual glance into a part of them that is almost never revealed by the waking world. People always carry themselves with a certain mixture of emotions, insecurities (in rare, obnoxious cases, a complete lack of insecurity), and attitudes that affects the muscles of their faces, their posture, their gait -- and you almost always see their eyes; their expressive, loaded eyes. When asleep, all that remains is a person's "true" face; a face lacking any of the feelings we hang our smiles and frowns on in consciousness. A face that reveals only the innocent peace hidden by the day. In my case, I just really, truly liked what I saw -- but of course, let me say, I didn't stare or anything. I'm not a weirdo. I expound upon it now, but at the time I was merely sleepy, and it was simply the last thing I was aware of before I happily fell asleep between my two friends.

So, I came to acknowledge that I had a crush on this person. Of course, as crushes go, the more time we spent together, and the more we learned about one another, the stronger my feelings for her became -- and as well, I became increasingly aware of precisely how unrealistic and futile these growing feelings are. Of course, if you've ever had a crush on somebody, you know this hopelessness and emptiness is accompanied by an ever-resolving sense of need and desperation that quietly sets out tearing you apart from the inside. The worse it gets, the worse you feel, and although you get the point, the last thing you want to do is to let go of your feelings for someone so special and wonderful.

You see, she is in love with someone else. She recently admitted these feelings to me, although at the time I found the confession so obvious as to be completely unnecessary.

The opposite of love is not hate.

I have not spent enough time yet thinking of a better term, so for the moment just consider it love's opposite, or anti-love, or whatever fits this description for you. While love, when inside you, inspires a feeling of warmth, completeness, fullness, excitement, and hope -- this opposite of love leaves you feeling only empty, and cold, and hopeless, and so very terribly alone.

This feeling comes when the person you secretly love talks about how much he or she loves someone else. It's that feeling of falling asleep in a knee-deep pool of water because it's raining and the wind is knocking you over and you've lost too much blood.

This opposite of love stabs at you suddenly. "Jealously" is entirely the wrong word because it says nothing of the way you feel about yourself, in the way that being in love says so much about your joy and hope and ecstasy. Sometimes you feel it before your love even realizes his or her feelings for that other person. There's simply a pure quality of affection observed in the way that name is mentioned. You know before it's even said how much he or she loves this person -- and not you -- by the very things which are said; the silly or cute habits which are spoken of, the concerns for their well-being, the frustrations at their inability to return the affection. Oh, what a bitter thing that is to swallow, because it's the very way you talked about them.

It's the repellant force beating your breaking heart back with a fuzzy pink stick. Only gunshots spoil a wonderful conversation faster.

And, yes, that above diatribe shall be an independent piece someday, so no swiping.

The most disgusting thing is the way in which he absolutely illustrates his lack of affection for her. He gives her just enough to keep her friendship, but pulls away when he feels she is taking him, and their friendship, too seriously. He won't tell her he loves her. In the entire span of their friendship he has never said it, in any way. He won't kiss her. He'll take her to bed, but he won't kiss her. He says, "Kissing is too much of a thing that 'people in love', or couples, do." When she is feeling affectionate or amorous, she is often pushed away, but his inclinations are, of course, paramount. He is always chasing after other women, will cancel their plans on a whim, but pouts and sulks like a small child if she dares disappoint him with respect to any pre-arranged minutiae. He disgusts me. She is realistic about this, but remains drawn to him, and is kind to the point of being excessively forgiving of his flaws, errors, contemptible deeds and general acts of maggotry. Even after she has just finished ranting angrily about some latest atrocity of his. She actually returned all the Christmas presents she bought him after his latest insulting choice of behavioural aberrations, but allowed him to patch things up to some extent.
I would never want you to walk away with this committment as evidence some sense of weakness on her part. If you've ever loved a loser, you know what you do. You make excuses for them. You justify their bizarre, often embarrassing behaviour to your friends, more as a way of justifying it to yourself than to the people who care about you (their minds already having been made up). You like to think that they will change, and that the purity of your affection will bring this change into the light. There's nothing naive about it -- it's just a result of the goodness and hope that love inspires within you.

Myself, I just do not know what to do. I can't tell this person how much I care about her -- I'm smart enough to see the consequences, if stupid enough to remain so infatuated. I do not love her, but as our friendship grows, my affection does, and I find myself all the more miserable and angry when she talks about this person who treats her so awfully. From the perspective of somebody who does care about you, it is exceedingly... difficult to hear you talk about so sweetly about somebody who does not. I don't see as I can really do anything, but where does that leave me?. Either I talk to her about my feelings, and jeopardize a beautiful friendship that has barely even begun given how it has blossomed over such a short time, or I say nothing, and let myself grow more and more wretched as I worry more and more about her own happiness.

When I'm with this person, I'm drawn to do anything I can to make her happy. This is just the way I naturally behave with my friends; I like caring for them, and taking care of them, and doing things to make them smile. I love being hugged by her. I love feeling important. I love it when she wants to spend time with me. I love that I am almost always there for her when she needs somebody to believe in her, or to give her chocolate, or remind her that she is wonderful.

But I still do not know what I am going to do.

While I was having one of the most stressful nights of my life, hosting my sister's 17th birthday party at my mother's house the other night, I called Rob at home, to touch base and get some sympathy and sanity. What does my beloved tell me?

"Broken, you know that [Cezanne] picture [of 'fruit et biscotti'] you put up on the wall beside the fridge?"

"Yeah..."

"Someone punched a hole in the wall, right through it."

"WHAT?!"

"It's a big hole. Tore right through the picture. Fist sized."

"WHO?"

"No one's fessing up to it."

"WHAT?! Find them! I'm going to hurt someone unless I find out who did it!"

Well. Well. Well. Well. Crap! Do you know how Rob found out about the hole in the wall? One of our roomates, let's call him Kincaid, knocked on his door and asked, "Hey, did either you or Broken have a bad day, because there's a big hole in the wall in the kitchen." The very nerve. As if Rob or I would go around punching holes in the walls, period -- who would believe we'd wreck the walls of a suite that we rent from a company that acts swiftly with punishment for any slight againt their policies? Anyway, our alibis are pretty damned airtight. We left the house together at noon to meet a friend for lunch, then toured the market buying candy and treats for which I still have receipts. We then took the same bus together, and Rob went to work, while I went to my mothers. Rob didn't get home till after the hole was discovered, and I didn't get home till 3 in the morning. And anyway... If either Rob or I had put a hole in the wall, we'd confess it pretty damned quick to everyone in the house for several reasons:

1. You just can't hide a damned hole in the wall!

2. Out of respect for my flatmates, I'd own up to my actions.

3. SOMEONE has got to pay for the repairs to the wall, and if I broke the wall, then that someone has to be me. My mates don't deserve to pay an out of pocket expense to cover MY mistakes.

Okay - let's put aside my love for that Cezanne print - which, I may add, was included in an inherited package of supplies and art from a very nice man who was himself an artist, and is now dead - and let me reason a few things out. Why was my picture punched? I don't think anyone had an overwhelming dislike for Cezanne. I asked people before I put those kitchen prints up if it would be okay, and promised to take them down if anyone disliked them. Now, could the puncher have thought that paper would shield the wall from his blow? Yeah...Right. I think my picture was just used as a random punching target for someone's agression, because it happend to be placed at a good height. And, yes, I think I will get upset at my own loss for a minute. Those pictures in the kitchen may not mean much to anyone else, but they mean something to me. Though they were received from a dead artist I knew (let's call him Soul), I thought they were pretty and would help make the house feel like a home. I put them up for everyone's enjoyment as well as my own. That was my property which was punched through. That's disrespectful in the extreme. I don't go around destroying other people's things. I can't afford to replace that Cezanne physically, and I'll never be able to replace the actually print that meant something to Soul. If it had been one of my $40.00 Klimt prints, or Rosetti prints or Waterhouse prints, on which I had spent my own money, for the sole purpose of beautifying the house, I'd be insisting on financial compensation right now. But I don't want the money for another Cezanne print - it wouldn't mean the same to me. I want an apology.

Now, who would punch that particular wall in the kitchen, especially since the roomate who discovered the hole shares that wall with his room? Wouldn't they be worried that he might hear them and come out to see what all the noise is? Punching holes in walls makes noise. Who would take that risk? I think that if anyone were going to do something physically damaging to the house, they'd do it in the privacy of their own rooms. Which makes me wonder about the interior of everyone's room. Anyone got any fist sized holes or other puncture wounds in there?

I'm thinking back to that day in October when I was sent home early due to a severe reaction to a prescription, and climbed the stairs to our suite only to find a scrawled note on the door that said, "Knob broken. Use deadbolt." And lo, the doorknob with the first lock in it was broken. When I got into the kitchen, my roomies Kincaid and Pixiegirl, and Pixiegirl's boyfriend Sasha were there. I asked what happend to the door. Kincaid said he came home and the lock mechanism of the knob, and then the knob itself fell to bits as he was opening it. But it was okay, because he collected the bits and reassembled the knob -- at least to the point of looking like a doorknob again. I was presented with the pieces of the lock mechanism in a little tupperware container for inspection. There was all kind of speculation. The door was forced open. The door wasn't forced open, the knob was just old. Someone was trying to break in. Well, fuck.

If someone was trying to break in, they would have had the good sense to smash a window, wouldn't they? If someone is intent on breaking into your home, they're probably going to succeed. Nothing was missing, and nothing has since been reported missing. I doubt highly that robbery was a motive. I'm sure the knob wasn't 'just old.' It's not like we were hard on it. We had the lock replaced when we moved in - so, there's no good reason for that to fall to bits. One night, Rob and I and a friend knowledgable in such things inspected the knob, the door frame and the remaining bits of the lock for bending, splitting, and score marks. Of which there were ample examples on everything to demonstrate that someone had tried to force the door open. Simple entry looks like the motive. It seems to suggest that someone forgot their keys, actually, and just twisted the knob while pounding their big monster horns against the door to get it open. That's just as annoying as the damned hole in the wall - because nobody fessed up to that either.

This all just knocks me down, incredulous. Each of us have violent tendencies, to be sure, and two or three of us have histories of violent tendencies directed outwards, versus inwards. Four of us sometimes direct those violent tendencies against our own bodies in times of stress. ALL of us should have an interest in not getting our asses evicted before our lease is up. It's one thing to have a problem with aggression - that's okay. Hundreds of thousands of people have a problem expressing aggression in appropriate ways. But it's just cowardly not to admit to any injury that results from your behaviour. And the longer it sits in the pit of someone's stomach, the more s/he will be unable to admit their fault, even though they might want to. It's completely unfair and insulting to the rest of us. All it does it add to the air of mistrust and hostility in the house. This place is increasingly becoming more and more intolerable, as none of us can be comfortable in it.

I want to know who did it. If I knew who did it, I could at least come to terms with it. Walls don't mysteriously open up fist shaped holes... Yet the fact is, there's a big hole in our wall, and it has to be repaired. Like the rest of us here, I've got absolutely zero free cash for anything right now. If whoever put the hole in the wall can't afford to fix it either, and needs help from everyone, then the rest of us are at least owed the courtesy of knowing who did it. Actually, we're owed that courtesy anyway. Living with other people entails responsibility.

Half a year more in this lease, moppets. Half a year more. I'm starting my packing today. What keeps you going, Mr. Holiday? "I just keep telling myself, 'less and less every day, Mary. Less and less every day.'"

-xo Broken.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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