There are times when I feel ageless, or when we encourage each other to be ageless, and that’s when it comes to loving. We recite that trite old saying about loving like we’ve never been hurt before and we believe it when someone pops in and we recognize, somehow, our twin flame has found us.
I realize I’m speaking in generic terms, but that’s because I’m not the only one who has been on this particular ride. You instantly know that you’ve met the person that you want to be better for, who is going to make you a better person, who isn’t going to judge you for your past number of sexual partners or your weird preference of consuming all of your food in bite-size pieces or smaller (think M&M’s or Cap’n Crunch).
And more often than not, your twin flame starts off far away. It doesn’t have to stay that way; you can choose to move closer, but it’s bound to start with a great number of miles separating the two of you.
And it doesn’t have to be a romantic relationship, but if it is, then it is, and it’s intense.
I met this person purely by chance. We didn’t have to talk, but we did, and once we started talking, we didn’t stop. We talked every day. We talked for hours. We traded text messages and talked on the phone. He was the first person and last person I talked to every day. I shared things with him, and the most things. I think it was the same for him, or at least, that was what he told me. I think he was being truthful.
We discussed the concept of the twin flame and decided that it must apply to us because of our physical and emotional/mental bond. It’s not just a soul mate.
We share some of the same personality traits. We demand perfection. We are our own worst critics, too. He and I are both intrinsically drawn to soft and tender things, and would discuss what damaged our relationships in the past, and what we hoped would happen in the future, including how we wanted to treat each other. I am an unapologetically sexual woman, and because he was my twin flame, I swore there were times when I could physically feel him – his hand on my skin, his breath on my cheek, his leg tangled up with mine. If I closed my eyes, I could see his eyes, blinking at me. There were times when he would send me a message, asking if I was okay. At the very moment I would be struggling with news from a doctor’s appointment and possibly even crying, and somehow across the miles, he would know. Sometimes I could tune into him and feel him breathing. There were so many times that this happened that we stopped saying “wow” and just rolled with it. It was just us.
After some time, he started being “busy.” His phone calls became less, his messages shorter. I was no longer his first morning message or his last goodnight. In a car full of strangers, I ended up having a text conversation with him that was meant to clear the air – and it did, for a bit, but he claimed that he truly was busy, and nothing had changed. I had asked him point blank if he thought that I was okay to fuck, but not relationship material. He gave me the impression that he was shocked that I had come to that conclusion and assured me that he did not think that I was stupid.
Still, though, I felt the ground rearrange. It was mostly in the way that he was speaking to me. I could tell that he had lost respect for me. He started to pick apart everything that I was saying. Early on, when we were getting to know each other, he had said that this was a warning sign that he was done with a relationship, and I had said that it was for me as well (and I remembered). As soon as this happens for me, there is no turning back – when the pedestal is yanked out, one can’t just jump back on. So he chose to focus on phrases I was saying by repeating them, and demanding, “What is that?? What is that all about? Why are you saying it that way?”
Our last phone conversation didn’t go well. We hadn’t spoken for a few weeks and he called out of the blue. He asked how everything was progressing for housing (I am in the process of getting into subsidized housing through the city where I live and it’s a complete nightmare), and he also asked me about my most recent doctor visits. I had let him know about being rejected by the most recent neurosurgeon. He told me that I clearly hadn’t done enough to advocate for myself. As I explained to him later, it’s really hard for me to hear that. Throughout all of this, I’m the only person who has kept me alive. I have been the singular person pushing to get help. I have joked, yelled, cried, organized, corrected, called, complained, assisted, demonstrated, all while I’m incredibly sick, just to try to get help – any help at all. Gah – even typing that sentence makes me cry. I think about all of the doctors who have mocked me to my face or have written false and sometimes horrendous stuff in my files…and it almost sounds too crazy to me. Almost.
The next time we talked, I tried to very gently ask that we not discuss my housing or my interactions with my doctors. Quite frankly, I didn’t feel up to the criticism. At first he was very defensive, but then he thanked me for asking in that manner, because he would respond positively to it.
But then the next time we talked, he asked me if I was ready for my next appointment. Then he said again that I should be doing more – that I should write a letter to the doctor, something along the lines of outlining what my symptoms are without showing any emotions, because doctors want facts but they don’t want emotions, and then he suggested I look up the doctor’s published work. I started to explain that the letter-writing campaign didn’t/doesn’t work because when the doctors get a heads-up that I’m coming, then the doctor will ask me to fax over records and then I’m fucked, so I’ve tried that route and it hasn’t worked in the past. Then I asked him to have faith in me that I know how to handle myself. He said that what I was doing wasn’t working so he was looking for solutions for me. I told him that the fact that I have seen 57 doctors didn’t have anything to do with what I was doing wrong but rather had to do with the fact that I had a scary rare disease that no one knew how to treat. I also have moved across the U.S. on my own 4 times and I get shit done, so I’m not just throwing my hands up and not doing anything. He said he didn’t say I was doing something wrong, just don’t paint myself into a corner. I asked him to explain that, but he didn’t, not fully.
The thing that really got me, and that I had a really good cry over, was his refusal to have faith in me and my ability to figure this shit out. I’m coming up on 7 years of this. He’s disgusted with me because I can’t make others do my bidding. (I invited him to physically join me. That was a big, fat NOPE.) Since that conversation, we’ve barely talked at all, except to rehash his work.
So where does that leave me? Well, I’m working on becoming a stranger. It really is difficult. Our human burdens – my depression and anxiety, his demands for perfection – win this lifetime. I know he’s left me already because I can’t tune into him. If he does send me a message, he tells me how wonderful and caring everyone else is. He no longer sees this quality in me because he has picked me apart. I already know that he has written me off as being too negative. [Show me anyone who has gone through anything remotely similar where even their primary care doctor is telling them to give up, and it would be impossible to be cheerful all of the time. 80% of the time that we were on the phone, I was upbeat.]
Now I have to work on severing and remembering that I was probably lucky to have made it this far. Every other week I add his name in a meditation circle for healing of the soul.
And I’m sad. Sometimes I wonder if he is too.