It’s the day I go for an ultrasound. A weird request from my doctor, who knows what it will show. Another expense I don’t have to worry about when I’m dead. Will a person go to hell for unpaid medical bills? If anyone can, it’s me.
I recently screwed up. A friend and neighbor half my age is giving me the silent routine and I deserve it.
Last summer she was very active. She went paddle boarding, went camping and hiking, and, me being a knife connoisseur, showed her a switchblade I had. It was a big boy switchblade, and she said it was too big for her.
But women who go camping especially in Appalachian country, need to know that predators monitor access points and various foul weather shelters along the trails. Those are men who will make sure no evidence is found and your disappearance will never be solved.
If you think I’m trying to scare the shit out of you, you’re goddamn right I am. Risking your life in a world increasingly hostile to women is reckless. I get it: you don’t need a man. But a mixed group is far safer than two or three women alone.
I worry about women, especially now. I have urged them in the past to buy self defense weapons and carry them. In some states, even pepper spray is illegal, and that makes no sense. As far as I’m concerned, it’s aimed at disarming women.
The alpha right-wing he men want their women submissive. Their women are forced to carry and deliver babies conceived of rape and incestuous rape. That’s so degrading and traumatic that nobody can describe what it’s like. There are no words for that kind of hell. Even I know that.
Well, I was shopping for the new switchblade.
Then I came across the most remarkable and affordable Bowie knives, and I thought of my friend. A Bowie is an essential tool for camping, but also a formidable weapon. Some states and dealers consider the Bowie to be a machete, which I think is dumb. But for campers and hikers, it can help clear brush, cut dry wood for fires, cut Paracord for hanging your food from a branch, open cans, and a thousand other things. It’s a tool, not really a weapon. It can do the work of a hatchet and is easier to sharpen.
Well, I snagged a good one, 9cr13 steel, which is Chinese and prized for its sharpness retention and corrosion resistance. I even got a bottle of knife oil for long storage times, and the blade is full tang. For the price, it’s a steal, no pun intended.
I messaged her that I had bought her a gift. She read the message and didn’t respond. That was a sign that I should have just kept it, but I put the box in a bag on her porch. Never heard back. No messages, nor have I seen her. She ghosted the following message I sent, I fucked up. Big time.
She probably thinks I’m a creep who crossed a line and invaded her space. She’s never invited me to visit with her, so our conversations have been of the sidewalk variety. I committed a grave sin. She may think I expect something back. I never had that thought until someone told me.
So often I’ve had good intentions and ended up losing a friend. This is why I’m a runner, usually sabotaging or walking away from potential friends before they could hurt me. It’s a defense but one borne of dysfunction because I had been betrayed very early by my own parents. Every time I thought things would be okay, they’d pull the rug out from under me. I’ve been fighting for survival since I was four years old.
I never learned the intricacies of relationships that are normal. So I keep fucking up.
I’m not romantically interested in her. But maybe she thinks so and was repulsed by the thought. That would explain ghosting an old geezer.
But I’ve lost a friend who was a treasure to me. My heart breaks yet again, and I wonder, how many times a heart has to break before it can finally stop and rest forever.
Sometimes I am resolved: I have no regrets.
A lie. I have tons of regret and the guilt that rightfully goes with it. I hurt people I love without meaning to. I drew my own lines in the sand decades ago, and though that was a natural defense, I’ve fought hard to overcome it. It was a wasted effort. I can’t reach out anymore because I’ll fuck it up.
Along with the regret, guilt and heartbreak, I’m all too aware of my mortality. Which will kill me first, heart, liver, lungs, the untreated aneurysms (2 aortic, 2 iliac), or my kidneys? Or will it happen when I’m crossing the street? I don’t know. I just hope I’m alone when I go. The last indignity would be having someone watch that shit.
Men are stupid just in general, but I take the prize when it comes to the interactions I have with others. I feel very comfortable with women but have a low opinion of men. They deserve it, too. So many women die from domestic violence that we’ve proven what I said earlier: this country (USA) is hostile to women.
I will try to keep writing until I can’t manage it anymore, and if you care to finish the story with me, I’ll be honored to have you here.
You should never regret a kind act. Unless it’s perceived as creepy or even stalker behavior. Now I can never talk to her again. If I even greet her, it will only reinforce that feeling in her.
Farewell, Kid.
But I don’t stalk. I’ve been stalked, many times. It’s terrifying. I would kill myself if I knew I had terrorized anyone else that way.
Months ago I said I had people to apologize to and say goodbye to before I go. I found out that nobody is receptive to that; I was gone from their lives, then I showed up and brought back bad memories. I had to see for myself how selfish that was. Because hurting people isn’t cathartic to me. It just makes everything worse.
Mistakes are something we all make. Humans are weak, fallible and make terrible decisions.
Writing about it isn’t fun. It no longer helps me to cope. The end, I find, can’t come soon enough for me.
Soon I will check into the Hotel California, where I can check out any time I want, but can never leave.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 