Julian and Natalie Go to the Aquarium
This was their fourth time rescheduling the date. The word ‘date’ gave Julian pause, but it was his idea to use it. The word ‘date’ made Natalie smile, and she spent her morning sending pictures of her outfit options to her mom and sister to get their opinions.
Julian didn’t even brush his teeth. Insurance so he wouldn’t let himself even consider kissing her. Julian already knew he just wanted to be friends for now. It made him feel broken. Later on the date, he told Natalie he felt like a machine with a part missing – and he didn’t know if he even wanted to find it. He journaled obsessively to determine whether his spark of interest was social conditioning or a calling from within. He pondered the difference between logic and intuition, between fear and peace.
After he recovered from the date, Julian made it to his serving shift three minutes late. Another romantic tune droned from the playlist. While he carefully laid out the emerald green napkins and topped them with couples of silverware, he groaned. “Everything is about love,” he muttered to himself. After he lit the last candle, he stood near the bar, feet planted, one palm pressing firmly on his chest. He told his friends that he was still self-soothing. They asked how the date went, and he quickly explained that it actually went really well – which is why he felt upset.
Earlier that week, Julian interviewed with a production team who was casting a reality dating show about people like him.
“So, Julian, what are you looking for?”
“What is your age range?”
“What are your deal breakers?”
He could write essays, or even books on each question. In fact, he already had. But still. The questions made him glitch. How do you sum up your trauma to explain that you have to explain your answers? Or that it drives you mad trying to find a solution to something you’ve spent years (or a lifetime??) investigating already?
On the way to the aquarium, Natalie asked if she could hold his arm while they walked. This was after they sat in separate chairs at his studio apartment. With a table in between them. And a tray. And tea cups. In retrospect, the perfect boundaries to keep her away. They walked 1.5 blocks to the museum, with her hand squeezing his bicep the whole time. At one point, he placed his hand over hers to see how it felt. Plus he felt obligated to do something – something other than the nutcracker march he was doing. He was pretty sure he looked like a proud grandson. “This feels nice,” he said. He didn’t really mean it. It actually felt weird. At the same time, it did feel somewhat safe.
Receiving safe touch, care, and nurturing energy was something Julian wanted. But he hardly believed it existed without consequence. In fact, he didn’t. If someone expresses care, they want something back, right? They want his time, his energy, his input, his eye contact. They want him to make decisions, or let them make decisions. They want him to ask questions, they want to answer questions. They want compliments, they want to compliment him.
“I never thought hearing someone talk about politics could be so sexy.”
That was a real quote. Something Natalie actually said. He laughed charmingly, ached inside, and quickly changed the subject after remarking, “I don’t know how to receive that, but thanks.”
Thanks.
Thanks for the compliment, and now I owe you one back. He quickly filed that transaction into an urgent folder, starred with an outstanding task, so he wouldn’t forget.
Of course, he didn’t forget. He told her later that she was gorgeous and beautiful. In two separate sentences. When he friendzoned her. This happened at the end of the date, after she continued to squish her body up to his at every stop, at every single tank. He sat down and told her the truth. He knew he hadn’t processed everything yet. He knew he was feeling performative and unmasked at the same time. He knew he felt at ease in her presence and uncomfortable at the same time. He bravely initiated this conversation, knowing he would struggle. She was, of course, wonderful and gracious and patient and kind and honest. She was a great listener. Her actions aligned with her words.
This pained him.
After he walked Natalie to her car, Julian basically bolted around the corner into an alley that led to his apartment. He couldn’t wait to be back inside, alone. For her car to move further and further away from his radius. He inhaled his vape and exhaled his nutcracker boyfriend character. He hated feeling like an actor off the stage.
“We’re filming a romcom right now,” he told her in one of the Modern Art rooms on the South wing. It wasn’t a joke. Julian observes himself from afar and compares almost every experience to either a movie scene or an actual scene from his life. There is always either an unwelcome memory playing on his internal screen, or he can replace it with something fictional. He often makes new associations with objects and foods and locations and situations and outfits when he takes in new content. He can turn up the volume when there’s a scene that he likes. He tries to only watch movies with scenes he likes.
After he soared up the stairs, feeling free and feeling trapped, he emerged into unit 209. He wanted to stay there forever. To lock the door and sit down next to an empty chair and rotate his vision, scanning every wall and every belonging, absorbing the lack of noise, and knowing that no one else would show up uninvited. That he wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone while he was here by himself.
As soon as he took off his shoes and neatly planted his zebra-print puffer onto the coat rack, the feelings hit. Not so much emotions as physical symptoms. He could feel his body. An aching moan emerged from his center. Only his vision moved, as his insides flailed about the apartment. The clock was ticking, so Julian allotted 16 minutes to becoming more ok.
He popped in his earbuds, set up his resting space gently and swiftly, selected a self-guided meditation, and yanked his sleeping mask over his eyes. Two more hits of his pineapple ice vape. He couldn’t decide where to place his hands on his body. One on his heart, one on his belly? Which one? Over the blanket or under the blanket? Should his hands be on his skin? Why are his ribs in the way? Can he arrange his arms better so his shoulders release? Why can’t his shoulders release? IT’S CALLED GRAVITY, he screamed to himself internally.
This visceral response to feeling loved and seen — and thus the impending fear of being hooked, the overwhelming doom – got worse before it got better. He opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and crossed his eyes to exhale. Lion’s breath. Make it weird.
Eventually, he felt 1-2% better. Seven minutes left to get up and eat. He did it. He was sick to his stomach, but he did it.
He locked the door behind him.
Julian didn’t even brush his teeth. Insurance so he wouldn’t let himself even consider kissing her. Julian already knew he just wanted to be friends for now. It made him feel broken. Later on the date, he told Natalie he felt like a machine with a part missing – and he didn’t know if he even wanted to find it. He journaled obsessively to determine whether his spark of interest was social conditioning or a calling from within. He pondered the difference between logic and intuition, between fear and peace.
After he recovered from the date, Julian made it to his serving shift three minutes late. Another romantic tune droned from the playlist. While he carefully laid out the emerald green napkins and topped them with couples of silverware, he groaned. “Everything is about love,” he muttered to himself. After he lit the last candle, he stood near the bar, feet planted, one palm pressing firmly on his chest. He told his friends that he was still self-soothing. They asked how the date went, and he quickly explained that it actually went really well – which is why he felt upset.
Earlier that week, Julian interviewed with a production team who was casting a reality dating show about people like him.
“So, Julian, what are you looking for?”
“What is your age range?”
“What are your deal breakers?”
He could write essays, or even books on each question. In fact, he already had. But still. The questions made him glitch. How do you sum up your trauma to explain that you have to explain your answers? Or that it drives you mad trying to find a solution to something you’ve spent years (or a lifetime??) investigating already?
On the way to the aquarium, Natalie asked if she could hold his arm while they walked. This was after they sat in separate chairs at his studio apartment. With a table in between them. And a tray. And tea cups. In retrospect, the perfect boundaries to keep her away. They walked 1.5 blocks to the museum, with her hand squeezing his bicep the whole time. At one point, he placed his hand over hers to see how it felt. Plus he felt obligated to do something – something other than the nutcracker march he was doing. He was pretty sure he looked like a proud grandson. “This feels nice,” he said. He didn’t really mean it. It actually felt weird. At the same time, it did feel somewhat safe.
Receiving safe touch, care, and nurturing energy was something Julian wanted. But he hardly believed it existed without consequence. In fact, he didn’t. If someone expresses care, they want something back, right? They want his time, his energy, his input, his eye contact. They want him to make decisions, or let them make decisions. They want him to ask questions, they want to answer questions. They want compliments, they want to compliment him.
“I never thought hearing someone talk about politics could be so sexy.”
That was a real quote. Something Natalie actually said. He laughed charmingly, ached inside, and quickly changed the subject after remarking, “I don’t know how to receive that, but thanks.”
Thanks.
Thanks for the compliment, and now I owe you one back. He quickly filed that transaction into an urgent folder, starred with an outstanding task, so he wouldn’t forget.
Of course, he didn’t forget. He told her later that she was gorgeous and beautiful. In two separate sentences. When he friendzoned her. This happened at the end of the date, after she continued to squish her body up to his at every stop, at every single tank. He sat down and told her the truth. He knew he hadn’t processed everything yet. He knew he was feeling performative and unmasked at the same time. He knew he felt at ease in her presence and uncomfortable at the same time. He bravely initiated this conversation, knowing he would struggle. She was, of course, wonderful and gracious and patient and kind and honest. She was a great listener. Her actions aligned with her words.
This pained him.
After he walked Natalie to her car, Julian basically bolted around the corner into an alley that led to his apartment. He couldn’t wait to be back inside, alone. For her car to move further and further away from his radius. He inhaled his vape and exhaled his nutcracker boyfriend character. He hated feeling like an actor off the stage.
“We’re filming a romcom right now,” he told her in one of the Modern Art rooms on the South wing. It wasn’t a joke. Julian observes himself from afar and compares almost every experience to either a movie scene or an actual scene from his life. There is always either an unwelcome memory playing on his internal screen, or he can replace it with something fictional. He often makes new associations with objects and foods and locations and situations and outfits when he takes in new content. He can turn up the volume when there’s a scene that he likes. He tries to only watch movies with scenes he likes.
After he soared up the stairs, feeling free and feeling trapped, he emerged into unit 209. He wanted to stay there forever. To lock the door and sit down next to an empty chair and rotate his vision, scanning every wall and every belonging, absorbing the lack of noise, and knowing that no one else would show up uninvited. That he wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone while he was here by himself.
As soon as he took off his shoes and neatly planted his zebra-print puffer onto the coat rack, the feelings hit. Not so much emotions as physical symptoms. He could feel his body. An aching moan emerged from his center. Only his vision moved, as his insides flailed about the apartment. The clock was ticking, so Julian allotted 16 minutes to becoming more ok.
He popped in his earbuds, set up his resting space gently and swiftly, selected a self-guided meditation, and yanked his sleeping mask over his eyes. Two more hits of his pineapple ice vape. He couldn’t decide where to place his hands on his body. One on his heart, one on his belly? Which one? Over the blanket or under the blanket? Should his hands be on his skin? Why are his ribs in the way? Can he arrange his arms better so his shoulders release? Why can’t his shoulders release? IT’S CALLED GRAVITY, he screamed to himself internally.
This visceral response to feeling loved and seen — and thus the impending fear of being hooked, the overwhelming doom – got worse before it got better. He opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and crossed his eyes to exhale. Lion’s breath. Make it weird.
Eventually, he felt 1-2% better. Seven minutes left to get up and eat. He did it. He was sick to his stomach, but he did it.
He locked the door behind him.
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