The Nomadic Life

Chapter 37

A Chance Meeting

Right smack dab in the middle of an existential crisis, the last thing I expect, or need, is more complications and conflicting emotions. But life never works that way for me.

Lately, I have been spending my days tangled in thoughts about tomorrow. Where will I be in ten years. Why it is that I can have a “good time,” but I can never make a relationship stick. Brian, a friend who lives a few doors down from Bill, hands me a book. He is a nurse, and he thinks a chapter on borderline personality disorder might shed light on what’s tearing me up inside.

First of all, I am not fond of reading medical text. Second, I think it is pretty damn rude of Brian to psychoanalyze me. His degree is in bariatric nursing, not psychology. But I know his heart is in the right place, so I read. And honestly? I immediately disagree with every word.

I did not like what I was reading. The chapter starts with statistics, recording that, though by far the percentage of people diagnosed with borderline personality disorder are female, men have also been afflicted with the disorder.

It goes on to report that fewer men with borderline personality disorder are diagnosed, the author claims the number could be higher as men are experts at avoidance. We do not talk. We do not share. We "work through things" until we are drowning in our own silence.

The worst part? The description fits, hitting a little too close to home.

It says people with BPD sabotage their own happiness. That when things start to feel good, too good, they destroy it. They do not believe they deserve love, contentment or peaceful co-existence. So, they push people away, spiral into self-pity and blame the world for their misery, never taking full responsibility.

I throw the book across the room.

How dare Brian suggest I am anything like that. I already know I am bipolar, but now he wants to pile this on top? How dare he?

But of course… he is right.

That is the thing about Brian. If he cares for you, he does it completely. No half-measures. At the time, I cannot see that clearly, my pride gets in the way. I take it as a personal attack instead of what it really is: an act of love.

Now, this revelation just adds fuel to the war inside me. But maybe it can be the spark which helps push me toward the decision that has been haunting me: Do I stay? Or do I go?

The book warns me: My personal demons will follow me everywhere I go, so no matter how far I travel, I cannot run away from…me.

So, it seems, I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

Self-reflection leaves me tired, and thirsty. It is the weekend, so I head to the Exile for a few beers. Alcohol does little to solve anything, but it helps me forget, at least for a little while.

And then he walks in.

Short, bald, glasses. He is wearing a red plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, left unbuttoned enough to tease the onlooker.

A Daddy Bear. A pocket bear. And not bad looking, either.

He does not walk in like he owns the place, but something about him says, I’m here. With me, you’re safe.

I have never seen him before. Must be from out of town. Of course. All the good ones are.

I want to talk to him, but I need a few more beers to work up the nerve.

Eventually, nature calls. On my way to the restroom, I see him leaning against the wall near the bathrooms. Perfect, I can say something when I pass by.

I am not drunk, not even tipsy, but I am still nervous as hell. As I pass, I say, “Now, there’s a Daddy bear.”

No response.

The line is rather long, so I wait my turn, and find myself a little upset that the pocket bear from out of town either did not hear, or plain out ignored my comment.

After I do the deed, while washing my hands, I decide instead of another comment I would just shoot the man a dirty look.

Exiting the bathroom, the little man holding up the wall was no longer there.

Rats, he thwarts my plans yet again.

I briefly scan the room and do not immediately see him.

Lying to myself I think, Oh, well, he left. No big loss.

I order another beer and walk around the bar again. I see no available stools at the bar and all tables are taken as well. There is a leather clad gentleman strapping some kid to the St. Anderew’s cross. Looks like a flogging demo is about to start. More of a doer and not a watcher, I walk by, I already have the art of flogging down pat.

I am bored, though not ready to leave. I peruse the landscape one more time, not looking for anyone in particular, just looking.

I place my beer on an old wine barrel used as a table and adjust myself. Picking up the lukewarm bottle nearly gagging on the tepid liquid, I wipe my mouth with the bar napkin I have been using as a coaster and head to the bar for a cold beer.

And there he is.

Right in front of me.

And this time, he speaks first.

He could have said anything. I saw you from across the bar, You’re hot. You’re cute. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a bar like this? any one of those tired lines. But he does not.

Instead, he is direct.

“Hi, Jack.”

“They call me Trapper,” I respond.

I learn he is from Cincinnati. His partner, David, is a roller coaster enthusiast and stayed behind at the hotel to rest up for an early event the next day. The pocket bear and I talk for a while. It is an easy, natural flowing conversation. It feels like we have done this before.

Eventually, he checks the time, saying he should head out and is about to ask the bartender to call a cab.

I know what tonight brings to me is nothing more than a conversation. He has a partner. A commitment. But I want more time. Just to know him a little better. I offer him a ride.

I have been living in Columbus for over a year, yet I barely know my way around. I do not remember how I got to the hotel and even get lost on the way back. Maybe it was not the streets which I lose sight of, but the effortless connection we enjoyed that distracts me.

My mind replays our conversation. He works for a local government agency. He and his partner have been together for almost seven years. They celebrate their anniversary at the end of this month.

He is articulate. Thoughtful. Gentle. And above all, respectful. He never flirts. Never makes a move. And at first, I wonder, am I not even worth a grope?

But the truth is, his restraint makes him even more attractive. He is a gentleman and makes me feel like one too.

He does not offer a phone number, just a good by hug and soft peck on the lips.

It is the most emotionally fulfilling night I have had in years.

There is something about him. I do not know what it is exactly, but I feel like I have known him all my life.

And honestly? I’m grateful nothing more transpired. Because if it had, I would be writing a much more awkward and painful chapter right now.