Le Péché Originel

I had a long and elaborate dream this morning in which I was infatuated with House.

Yes, House, the cavalier character played by Hugh Laurie. Not the actor. The fictional character.

I knew that I was drawn to the character the year I watched nothing on TV but the weather portion of the morning news on Channel 2, and House.

I am not drawn to bad boys per se. But someone who's deeply troubled, someone who's been hurt and fucked up... Sign me up!

I had this notion that my love could heal these troubled souls.

During my dream this morning, as I tried time and again to win House's love, to no avail, I realized it was not about House. It was about...

What's his name? It would take me from dawn till dusk to remember: Matt*.

Once I realized it was about Matt, Matt took over in my dream. I can see the parallel: both House and Matt are lean and have eyes that peer into your soul. Both are brilliant, unattainable, and can be obnoxious.

I woke up profoundly reliving sadness and hurt.

I was shocked. Are you kidding me? We barely dated. We didn't even sleep together.

Well, we literally did sleep together. But we didn't fuck.

I used to refer to him as "Older Guy" when I talked to Denisse about him. The man I was crushing on at Merrie Lore where I worked.

How much older? 13 years? 14? I could have told you exactly back then. I could have told you the birth dates of his three kids. I was always a bit obsessed with numbers. OCD, Autistic and INFJ - the best of all worlds.

I was in my mid thirties and everybody age 50 and over was, well. old.

My then friend Rob warned me about Matt. Matt was shallow, Rob said. Matt had a type: bombshell blonde with large boobs. And I clearly did not fit the profile.

But Matt had that mystique, a wicked sense of humor (even if it could be cruel at times) with mischief in his piercing blue eyes, and just the right touch of vulnerability (or so I thought I saw when we were alone just the two of us), a killer combo that I found irresistible.

Never mind that it was against company policy to date interdepartmentally. I found every excuse to get closer, sought opportunities outside of work, gave him every "in" to ask me out. And... nothing. Except his heartfelt appreciation for the work I was doing. He sang my praises with my boss ALL the time. It was embarrassing.

Until one day, months later, out of nowhere, he suggested an outing, in the weekend, just us.

He told me everything about his life over the course of an evening at his house over a game of billiard, including that he'd been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. His ex-wife used to tease at times, "Will the good Matt come out and play?"

There was pain in his eyes. I couldn't be more intrigued, and moved.

I later half-joked with Denisse that the gigantic crucifix in the hallway leading from the foyer to the living space of his house should have sent me running for the hills.

I left my earrings on his nightstand as I got some shut eye for a couple of hours before taking off. That was my M.O. then. I never stayed the night.

I wondered which Matt had kissed me on the lips before mumbling "We don't have to have sex" and dozing off that night.

And I never got a third date. It would take me 6 months to get my earrings back.

One day at work, after I had long transferred out of Matt's branch, out of the blue, I spotted him in the parking lot with his arm around some blonde chick's waist. She fit the bill: long golden locks, well dressed, voluptuous.

It was like time had slowed down and I watched the two of them in slo-mo as they approached his car. He was grinning from ear to ear. He looked so happy.

I thought I'd forgotten about him but I felt my heart broke then. It broke so loud, I could hear it. All muffled up in my chest.

That night I had a good crying session over Brian McKnight on repeat. (Sounds comical now.)

That was nearly 12 years ago. Are you shitting me I am not over that?

The takeaway may be... I have not learned to heal from all the incidents of hurt in my life. It's almost like my brain likes to hold on to the pain even though the episode and the person involved should no longer mean a thing today. I have moved on. Why hasn't my brain? Does this even make sense...

It could be that my brains mistakes pain for romance, the two have been so intertwined in my past. After all, is it even a good story if a few tears have not been shed?

I once imagined that my love had the power to heal any broken soul. It hasn't healed my own.

Toward the last scene in Call Me by Your Name, the father of Chalamet's character gave one of the best pep talks in cinematic history (I can only paraphrase): about how it's okay to allow yourself to feel even if it means to feel pain fully because...

What is the alternative? Not feeling. That's just no way to live.


*Not his real name