To Be "Ghosted"

Millennials call it "ghosting," but back in my days, we just called it being ignored for some allotted amount of time that we could never comprehend.

"I hate being ignored," my friend Rosa told me once. It's a truism for all women. We hate it. We like talking, we like to think that talking helps, we talk to bond, we talk to alienate other people, we talk because someone, somewhere down the line, fathers of psychotherapy, taught us that talking helps. Talking heals. If you can't solve a problem, talk about it. Eventually, under some proverbial rock, we will talk ourselves into some solution.

Elijah is quite the talker, or he was. He would send me random txt-messages that said nothing except a detail of his day. He would leave me five to 10 (sometimes more) txt-messages on my phone for me when I woke up. Most of these messages, I didn't understand, but I like the idea that when someone can't sleep, he/she immediately thinks of me and wants to talk to me.  Elijah isn't much of a sleeper. He is often await until past three am. He knows that after about nine pm, I'm drowsy from my meds, and, as he once told me, slurring my words.

He has a mean streak that reminds me of my mother. What he has over my mother is the fact that usually by the night, he has insight into his own behavior, and more or less apologizes.

Some things he just doesn't quite understand, a quality I blame on his youth (he's 23). When he sped away from the ranch gate that day, driving drunk, the women working the gate were so startled that they called the cops. I tried to explain to him that he scared me too, that I could see him in an accident, and he dismissed my concerns callously. Of course, Morpheus never learned the lesson of not to drive drunk, he's still doing it in his forties.

Biologically, younger people take more risks because their brains aren't fully formed yet.

I tried as best I could to get Elijah to pull over and let me drive (I asked if I could drive as we were leaving the restaurant), and he ignored my concerns. If Elijah would have crashed in those hills between the ranch gate and town, I would have forever blamed myself.

Being "ghosted," it's hard for me to comprehend why. He doesn't like opioids, so perhaps in turn he decided that he doesn't like me.

I've considered the option that he's just depressed over something (or perhaps over nothing) and doesn't want to talk. I've ignored my friends for months at a time when depressed, and I suppose it's possible for the same to happen to someone else. Maybe a taste of my own medicine.

Poetry and Wisdom

"Then I knew that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration, they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to be much in the same cases; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise."

--Plato

What We Deserve (Absolutely Nothing)

"Well, I wish we could have worked through it...I won't contact you again." (Me, yesterday)

"Good, I deserve it." (Elijah)

"What do you deserve?" (Me)

"Absolutely nothing." (Elijah)

The Dangers of People and the Dangers of Opioids (About Elijah) [UPDATED]

I don't know what makes people disappear from our lives. In Morpheus' case, he had a whole family he was trying to hide from me.

It's strange, but I usually find constantly answering my TXT-messages as a pain in the ass, especially if you're playing the game with someone on Tinder or Bumble. With Elijah, I never care. I was interested in the conversation, and I didn't want it to stop.

But it did. It did stop.

The last argument we got into before he left was when he accused me of being an opioid addict.

"I don't deserve to be criticized on something you just don't understand." (Me)

"You're right. You deserve a handful of hydrocodone and a little more fucking arrogance." (Elijah)

"If you want to be an asshole, be an asshole, but I don't deserve being treated this way." (Me)

"I told you my motive here three times. Whatever. Squander the beauty of life stuck on the couch." (Elijah)

The irony of all of this is the fact that Stanford Pain Management is highly motivated to titrate me down to the lowest dose of Tylenol #4 possible, perhaps ending the therapy when I get only a few pill every month for times when the pain is especially bad. Another possibility that has been brought up is putting me on the Butrans patch.


"Ay, if you can't handle honesty you won't be my friend for long." (Elijah)

"Your 'honesty' can be wrong, you know, You're not a doctor, I'm not your patient....If you insist on judging me for using pain meds when I'm in pain, well, then, I don't want to be your friend either." (me)

___

"I know drug using people." (Elijah)
"I don't need you passing judgment on me." (me)
"I'm not. And you keep lying to yourself." (Elijah)

___

Elijah Part VIV

Earlier on, he told me he loved me, but not to get too excited because he loved  a lot of people.

At the end of one phone call conversation, he say, "I love you."

I say the most natural rhythm back, "I love you too."

Common Themes

These past few weeks I've been in contact with Elijah has been very anxiety inducing. It reminded me why I never get into romantic relationships, the constant worry about "I'm a coming on too fast" or "Am I not coming at all?" What happens when we have sex? Will we ever seen each other again?

Elijah Part VIII

Elijah is too smart, his brain must work in extraordinary ways because he's constantly trying to escape it--him. When I was manic and drinking, I felt similarly. I wanted to hide, but alcohol made soothed the voices and the racing thoughts, and with just the right amount of vodka, and I could make it home (by walking) before throwing up.

He denies using drugs in that matter, but I want to tell him that he's just fine without all of that stuff.

I'm supposed to be a good influence on young Elijah, but I miss alcohol.

Once, I drove over to see him, and he took me to a rocky trail to the ocean. From there, we found a nice sandy place, secluded by the rocks. He takes his pants off, and I suck on him to the point that he almost comes. Then I stop. He tastes good. Mild and salty.

He's never seen me naked.