Snow...Fall

I sit, looking out my window, watching the thick snowflakes lazily make their descent to the earth. My apartment is small and warm, but for some reason, the space feels to large for me, which is ridiculous, as I can see all 500 square feet of my abode while sitting on my bed, without needing to turn around.

Suddenly restless, I flip through a few magazines only to abandon them in a heap next to my bed. I pick up a book, and re-read the same sentences over and over again before giving up and staring at my ceiling.

I want to stop myself from waiting for a call that is not coming, but I find I cannot. Hours pass, and I continue to wait, thinking of ridiculous excuses, putting off errands to be run, waiting for that one word, that one sign, that you are thinking of me.

It is no wonder why some people would rather run from love than to embrace a feeling they cannot control.

I want to rage, to break something, to do anything to ease the pressure that is rapidly mounting inside of me. I've pounded out 40 minutes of pressure on the treadmill at the gym, on a higher level than usual, hoping that the driving guitar rifts from my Ipod and the sound of my body gasping for air would drown out the sound of the phone not ringing.

The gym completed, I again sat in my apartment and stared at the ceiling. Moments later, I am up again, lacing up my sneakers, choosing to walk to the grocery store and do some shopping. Two miles, $60 in groceries, and two miles later, I'm back in my apartment. Unpacking takes 10 minutes.

The phone still hasn't rung.

I fix lunch. That takes 10 minutes. I eat lunch, while flipping through a book I've read dozens of times before. I put away my lunch dishes. Put in a load of clothes. Take out the trash. 40 minutes have passed, and still the phone refuses to negotiate.

I contemplate calling again before rejecting the idea. I called in the morning, sent a text message around noon, and called again at two. Any other action from my end would be admitting my desperation. Unfortunately, I am desperate. My emotions are at war: one faction wants to call and call and call until I get through, and demand an explanation for the last 48 hours of non-contact. The other faction feels like every single phone call transfer to voice mail is another tiny rejection, chipping away at my already fragile wall of dignity and self-control.

The second faction wins. I resume staring at the ceiling.

Apparently, these kind of feelings are not unique to me.

In Helen Fisher's epic thesis, Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love, she dedicates an entire chapter to the unraveling of an affair. Entitled “Lost Love: Rejection, Despair, and Rage,” the chapter delves into the feels and emotions that accompany the involuntary end of romance. Fisher writes “Almost no one in the world escapes the feelings of emptiness, hopelessness, fear, and fury that rejection can create.” She then goes on to quote Emily Dickinson, who wrote “Parting is all we need to know of hell.”

In the section dedicated to separation anxiety, Fisher outlines the chemical reactions that take place within the brain in response to being away from an important loved one. She closes the section with these words - “How ironic: as the adored one slips away, the very chemicals that contribute to feelings of romance grow even more potent, intensifying ardent passion, fear, and anxiety, and impelling us to protest and try with all our strength to secure our reward: the departing loved one.”

We are genetically wired to become panicked when the thought of our loved one leaving us crosses our minds. This is an especially difficult process, especially if one of the parties involved has been hurt before. Having experienced the pain of withdrawal, we do everything in our power not to experience that set of emotions again.

Some people refuse to let a love go: they continue to call, write, stalk shared locations hoping for a glimpse of the loved one. They ignore all the missed calls and the nights alone, and throw their whole selves into convincing the other person that they are making a mistake, that the need is a mutual one, that the experience they have is worth fighting for.

Others, choose to run away – they bleed their insecurities, and would rather work on a new conquest, or receive the quick gratification of inspiring desire in another person. It's just another way to cope.

I switch my MP3 playlist to one that better reflects my mood, opting for the sounds of frustrated rage that categorizes the group Atmosphere. The lyricist, Slug, has made an entire career out of romantic rejection, spilling his anger and sorrow onto track after track, making albums that are essentially an audio graveyard for deceased relationships.

I let Slug's voice lubricate my thoughts as I fight off the urge to do something, anything, to alleviate the pressure. Should I call the guy that almost was? No, no...that's too much of a distraction, and in my current mood, would create more problems than it would solve.

I would call a friend, hit the town, distract myself for a few moments – but I feel it would be unfair to my friend to become my entertainment for the evening, knowing that they would just be a fun means to kill a few hours before returning to the anxiety I am trying to leave behind.

My hands itch to dial the number again, but something inside me will not allow my hand to move toward the phone.

I inhale deeply, and continue to fight a war with myself.

Luckily, the snow is still falling. It is more interesting to watch than my ceiling.