You're Wrong For Me, But I Still Miss You

In the fall of 2017, the slow trickle of what would later become a great unraveling of my life, started to take shape. In November I was still somewhat in denial, so I decided to get on Bumble to help mask the discomfort I was feeling in others areas of my life. I swiped, I matched (you know the drill).

Dylan was one of the matches. When I first spotted his face, beyond the hostess stand of the restaurant where we were meeting, I was disappointed. He wasn't as attractive as I thought he would be. He was a little shorter, a little squatter, a little more mild looking than I wanted him to be. Or perhaps, needed him to be. I can now see how that reaction was just a projection. I, myself, was like a ship lost at sea and all I wanted (in a man, in a job...) was someone to scoop me up, to save me, to batten down the hatches, to secure everything and make sure I was ok and I'd forever be ok. Dylan didn't seem like a likely candidate at first.

It's very easy to say "Oh I don't expect a man or relationship to save me!" And then these internal feelings bubble up that are, well, nothing short of that desire. 

Despite my initial reaction, Dylan ended up being that port (let's go with this ship analogy) for a few months. He was sweet and kind in sort of an old fashioned way (he was 47 and I was 32). He had a darling accent and the way he barked at the news made me laugh. His apartment felt like a Nora Ephron set. That place became my haven. He'd light a Diptyque candle, put on HBO and make me English Breakfast tea. Occasionally he'd fuss over his plants, which was adorable to watch.

The second time we met I actually went to his apartment. But not in the planned or drunken post-dinner/drinks way we assume. I'd just taken a hot yoga class in his neighborhood. I was stinky and tired. It was a Tuesday. I think I called him to say I was nearby, to which he responded "Come over." And so I did. I told him about the rough stuff I was going through at work. He said a lot of comforting things that night, but the thing that stayed with me most (and still stays with me) was when he said this, "Know your worth, Clara. Know.your.worth."

Of all the people I've dated or been in a relationship with, Dylan said my name out loud the most. I recently read that when someone says your name out loud, your brain registers it as: someone is paying attention to me. Someone cares about me. I am important to them. Yes, yes and yes.

Dylan made me feel important. Even though he didn't want a family as much as I did and was hesitant about getting married again, I felt so held by him, so cared for, so seen, during a period where I had little to no resources to create that feeling within myself.

I'm not in the same place as I was back then, but the nature of the pandemic, and my emotional reaction to it, definitely has recurring themes. And with that, a longing for a Dylan and the way he made me feel. My mind has drifted to places like "Well maybe we could make this work? Maybe he'd be alright with just one kid? I mean, we did have such a connection....". Ultimately I was the one to end it, but maybe I could backpedal? It doesn't help that he's the kind of guy that I could call at any point, any time of the day or night, and he'd pick up.

But I'm conflating a "connection" with Dylan for the way he made me feel about myself and the world—safe, secure, held. And in a time when I don't feel safe or secure or held by anything, of course Dylan would come to mind. How could he not?

To miss an ex—especially right now—is to miss the way that person made you feel about yourself and the world around you.

A handful of friends and clients have said the same. That these hungry feelings for old flings, crushes and partners are coming on strong. It's laden with guilt and confusion and a whole lot of "Why the hell am I feeling this way!??!!?"

But it's all normal. So.incredibly.normal. Much in the same way a handful of chocolate chips gives my body a short high and quells my loneliness, a text from Dylan can do the same. But then it creeps back in (in the case of the chips, accompanied by a stomachache). Older and wiser, I know better than to deal with my loneliness than by phoning Dylan and melting, virtually, into his arms. But it doesn't mean it's not tempting.

And like clockwork, Dylan reached out as the pandemic was picking up speed. He wanted to make sure I was ok (of course he did). But for the first time, I took it as an opportunity to let him know my complicated feelings. That my emotional attachment to him was like a brushfire. That it could ignite very easily, and once lit, would roar like wildfire. A blinding fire, that would take me further and further from myself and what I actually wanted.

He got it. And ironically, telling him and essentially cutting him off, made me feel a lot less lonely. I think I'm starting to feel the very good company of those internal resources that were nonexistent three years ago.

Originally published via my newsletter and on my old website.