Versions of Me
by Pat Foran
My support group told me to ignore whatever’s happening, or appears to be happening, in the three-dimensional world, or what seems to be in front of me, or what seems — you not seeming to be in love with me, for instance.
They told me to know (not hope, not believe — know) good things were coming my way. To embody the state of the wish fulfilled, as it were. That whatever I desire was already mine. Including you, say.
Do not chase or even give the appearance of chasing the one you desire, they told me. It’ll make you look needy. Besides, if you already have what you desire, you don’t need her, they said.
Do not shimmy, do not falter, they told me: Be absolutely certain the one you desire is yours. Because she is, they said. Focus instead on being the best version of you. It’ll make you even more attractive as a person to, say, you, they told me.
OK, I told them. I’ll do these things. Or try to.
And I have. For the most part.
I’ve been pretty good at ignoring, or looking past, or maybe through, the 3D world. Being busy with work helps. So does spending more time with my passions, although some of them (reading, writing, singing, laughing, living in present tense, living in my imagination, living in the moments between waking and sleeping, living as if I knew what it means to be alive) are connected to you in ways I’m not sure I’ll ever fully grasp.
I’ve always had trouble knowing the difference between what’s real and what isn’t to most people. But I’ve always known what’s real to me. You, for example. You, with your senses working overtime and your emotional intelligence working even harder, harder and longer, are multidimensionally real to me. Which is why I’ve arguably shimmied, and sometimes faltered, at times, when I think, and subsequently disappoint my support group — even for a fleeting flash of a moment — that you don’t love me (i.e., the one I desire isn’t mine). That I might not even mean all that much to you.
Me, who you kept breathing when I was uncomfortably numb and slip-sliding into the deepest of sleeps. Me, who knows more about your beautiful heart, galactic hurt and kinetic soul than maybe anyone ever.
I’m much better about it than I used to be, but I can’t help slipping now and again into the 3D world, where I seem to barely exist to you for long stretches. How easy it can be to think those stretches could mean something.
As for good things coming my way: They have and they are. I’m in a better financial place, for one thing. I’ve made new friends (good ones). Fred, my hamster, last month finished third in the Animal Olympics (Cricetidae Division). I’d like a bit more good to come my way, I’ll admit. Like — and this isn’t shimmying, this isn’t faltering, not to me, I’m just being honest — you being a bigger part of my life. That would be a really good thing.
But this “the one I desire is mine” thing is where things get tricky.
I get what my support group’s saying. I get the mindset, the creepy “mine” (possession) thing notwithstanding. Knowing something, knowing it for certain and living accordingly, can be powerful stuff. Especially in present tense.
But for the most part, as of now, in this now, you’re “present” in my life because I love you.
You’re present in my life because I miss you, and missing is the answer to the riddle: What gets old but never ages?
You’re present in my life because I reach out to you when I know you’re lonely. When I know you’re hurting. When I know because you’ve said so. A lot.
Sounds noble and all, and it might make you feel good, but it looks like you’re coming from a place of lack, my support group told me. Sounds like you’re chasing, like you’re shimmying, they said. Sounds like neediness. Nobody desires a needy person, they told me. You’ll push her away.
I wonder: Are you uncomfortable with me reaching out? Do you think I’m needy? Am I pushing you (even farther) away?
I’ll say this: I’m needy sometimes, when I’m missing you something fierce, the way I can. But mostly I reach out because I care about you. Because that’s what the best version of me would do, if I loved someone. The best version of me — and I’m working on it — would not shimmy, would not falter. The best version of me — I’m getting there, I am — wouldn’t think or not think you’re in love with me. The best version of me — my wish fulfilled, say — would love you regardless of whether you loved me at all. The best version of me — maybe you’d know him? — would desire, but not have, desire and not expect. The best version of me would know not the 3D world’s seems. The best version of me would just know. Like I think I might.
The version of Pat Foran who wrote this story is a used car salesman in Bakersfield, California. His work has appeared in various journals, including trampset, Tahoma Literary Review and Wigleaf. Find him at neutralspaces.co/patforan/ and on Twitter at @pdforan.
COLD SIGNAL 