On wishing someone would come back.

I used to have this fantasy where I was in a somewhat serious car crash (stay with me), which landed me in the hospital. To be clear, I did not die. It was the kind of accident that required me, though, to be in the hospital for quite some time, hooked up to various machines, a broken bone or two making it difficult to get in and out of the bed on my own, a face full of scratches. There was definitely a patch of gauze covering one eye.

That’s not really the focus of the fantasy, though.

The fantasy really begins with an ex of mine, making his way down the quiet, dim hallway of the hospital. Yellowed walls, weathered linoleum and aging fluorescent lights. My mom is seated in a chair outside the room, her eyes wet with tears, her Kindle in her hands. She’s been there now for a few days. It was a friend who’d alerted him of the accident, but she’s relieved to see him and directs him towards my room. 

While I’d been sleeping before I’m now somewhat conscious. I crack an eye and as much of a smile as I can muster, which makes his face scrunch in an attempt to stop from losing it.

In this part of the fantasy I am him. I embody his thoughts and feelings. A wave of regret, so massive, washes over him, as if every cell in his body is screaming, “You fucked up. You missed out. And now it’s too late.” 

I used to run this fantasy over and over in my brain, not really considering the roots of it. Why did it feel so good? Why was it so easy for me to entertain being in a car crash to create this situation with him? Why said narrative versus another way in which this ex (or any, for that matter) might have realized his grave error in not fighting more for our relationship?

Often clients will say to me, “I still can’t drop so and so. I keep thinking or feeling like it’s never going to be like that again with anyone else. I keep thinking I gave up on something amazing.” Their brains conveniently (like mine), erase all fallacies and errors. All the things that made them say to that very person, “I can’t do this anymore.” And yet, they can’t shake the feeling that their decision to end things was a huge mistake. That decision usually fueled by the fact they needed more from that person. More time, more attention, more communication. More.

So for that person to realize their error— to see how they actually do want to give more, be more, do more— and now it’s too late, is the ultimate fantasy. It’s the ultimate fantasy, if you don’t think you’re enough. If you’re dependent on external sources to make you whole.

In that way, my car crash is perfect. If I am not enough and the return of said person will fill me once again, much like whatever machines I’m attached to (to keep my heart and vitals in tact), he, too, is a form of life support. Filling me up, making me feel whole and bringing me back to life.

The car crash is the catalyst. The thing that knocks his “wits” back into place. His “truth,” that he really does, still, love me and want me is also part of the fantasy. Another story I must keep in tact in order to feel ok. Washing over the fantasy, envisioning this person giving to me the very thing I’m unable to source within myself, feels so good.

The other thing the fantasy does, is it helps curb the pain of the loss—that this person simply isn’t going to be in my life anymore. That I made a choice around that. That while there were problems, it wasn’t all bad. I have to face losing that, too. I have to face the unpredictable nature of life.

There wasn’t an exact point when I saw this mental dance for what it was and decided I had to source those feelings from within. It was a several year long process of coming into myself (circa age 33 to 37). One I couldn’t begin to map out on a page, because it wasn’t definitive or structured. It was a matter of time, other relationships, a mix of life experiences….the general process of aging, with a consistent eye towards making more of a home within myself. Sourcing that ok-ness, that wholeness, that feel good-ness from within.

I’ll still, occasionally, conjure up fantasies like the above. While they’re less extreme in nature (no hospital beds), they’re still with the same hope— that I’ll be able to control how someone sees me. How someone feels about me. That I’ll be able to get someone’s pity or forgiveness, to wash away the feelings of sadness and shame in me, versus dealing with them myself. I’m a lot gentler with myself when I realize what I’m doing. In many ways I see a little girl, hoping to be loved and accepted, fearful she’s inherently bad or not enough. We’re all carrying that to some extent.

If the above pattern resonates—if you have your own version of said fantasy, or you dance over the day in your mind when someone comes back to you—I hope you’re gentle with yourself. I hope you give yourself the space to get curious and consider the root fear and hunger.