Have you ever watched yourself do things and thought "I can see what you're doing, but this looks a little crazy to me", whilst at the same time feeling compelled to carry on? I guess you must have, most of us must do at some point. So why do we carry on? Surely we could stop if we really wanted to. Yes, I think we always have that choice. I also think we don't because carrying on feels like the only thing that makes life bearable at that moment.
So what am I doing that's so crazy? I'm getting into Poker. Ah, gambling addiction, you may think! Actually no, I'm not even playing for real money.
Although from a card-playing family, I wasn't even interested in Poker. Even when I fell in love with a Poker player I wasn't that interested - other than in the enjoyment of his enthusiasm and dedication. It was a complicated "relationship", I'm not sure I can even call it that. We were both married to other people, we were swinging, we never wanted to have a relationship. But still, we had crazy chemistry, fiercely kinky sex and I was very much in love with him. I don't know for sure what he felt for me - he gave such a jumble of mixed messages. And he was a fantastically difficult person to read - great poker player. Eventually it all ended in an appalling mess. It turned out he hadn't been entirely straight with his pregnant wife (or to some degree with me) about our meetings and of course she eventually found out. I made the promise never to have so much as a word of contact with him ever again.
When I made the promise I felt I had little choice - I didn't want his marriage to be threatened any more than it already was, but hell, am I finding it hard. We'd met at a really tough time in my life. My 4 year infertility saga had hit an all time low, as I'd found out that there was more wrong with me than I'd thought and none of the previous four years' attempts at treatment would ever have worked - even if they had actually had had any beneficial effect on my cycle, which they hadn't. Inside I was wailing.
Meeting him changed things: my whole dirty, expressive, kinky, joyful self came out of years of stuckness and frustration and decided to play. Call it escapism, call it rebellion, you can even call me a sad infertile woman - call me anything you want, there won't be anything I haven't already called myself at some point! Say what you want, but it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Yes, it was also difficult. The rest of my life felt pretty pale in comparison, and the discontent I'd felt at work for years was transformed into complete indifference. I stopped being so driven by wanting to do well for people and just went with what I enjoyed. Long overdue, but tricky. Fortunately, the relationship with my husband actually blossomed. He was loving the new, wild, more high maintenance girl he was married to. I struggled for a while with the fact that he didn't treat me like my lover did, but then understood how different they were and that I could enjoy each of them on his own merit.
So now it's over. It's over and I understand how very much in love I was, how much the last year fell neatly into to parts - time with him and the time in between. I don't want to be back in the in between time, that old life doesn't fit me any more. I'm scared to fall back into that deadness. I keep telling myself that I can still be wild, this doesn't have to be the end of things and an on the whole when I venture out, it's great and I feel better. But it's still not him! He was my best friend, my partner in crime. I'm realising how much I need mutual inspiration in all areas of my life. I'm finally accepting that it's not a dysfunctional thing, it's just the joy of the connection, the exponential bounce of enthusiasm from one to the other. I'm seeking to fill that need with other people and they're lovely, but they're not him. In some ways, this is worse than if he had suddenly died. Because he's still there, but never for me again, not even for a talk among friends.
In a different age, there would be nothing I could do now than go about the painful business of letting him go. But in this age, most of us are ever present in the virtual world. Perhaps few people more so than online poker players. Poker seems to be all that there's left of him for me, some bizarre way he can still be part of my life without even knowing it. It started with him inviting me to read his poker blog and me barely understanding half of it. So on one of those low days, when my heart was aching and my mind obsessively analysing all that had happened, I taught myself Poker instead. I then realised that I could actually watch him play online, if I wanted to. Actually, it's long and tiring to watch a Poker tournament and not what I was hoping for (although seeing him knocked out elicited some emotion and probably hurt me more than him). Then eventually I found his video tutorial and spent a comforting 45 minutes listening to his voice. It is the tenderest, warmest, calmest voice in the world, matched in depth and softness only by his skin, and the part of him I've always loved the most. So now I'm learning how to play - imagining him teaching me, just like he taught me erotic skills. My aptitude for Poker is considerably worse than my aptitude for erotic play, but that doesn't matter.
See, I know that this is sad and probably wrong and just a little crazy. I know I will have to let go. Maybe I need to tackle the pain of the loss and the fear of dropping into the in between time head on, but not yet. I can't yet. It's too raw, too hard, the fear of the deadness to great, especially with IVF treatment just around the corner. I'm hoping this is just part of the process and as the pain fades with time, I'll be able to let go of the last wisps of his presence in my life.
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