I am addicted to my cat Leon. He’s the big love of my life. I’m a single broken old stay-at-home man with no family. Duh, I have huge love for my cat. So I pick him up and we cuddle. Soon I’m wheezing, my eyes get a little itchy and the skin on my shoulder where he’s perched is a rash. I’m allergic to my love and it seems like our relationship is the perfect metaphor for life.
A dear and long-time friend mentioned I was no fun any more last week. It was an honest observation about a change in our relationship and I am profoundly grateful to him for saying so because, also this week, I had lunch with a person I’d met only once before.
I saw Peter at a gallery opening I went to a couple of weeks ago. I went up to him to say hello because I had such pleasant memories of having talked with him before and we arranged to have the lunch we had this week. (We’d met when we were both on a panel at Emily Carr University in the early twenty-naughts).
At the lunch and in a follow-up email he overtly stated his desire to get together again soon. One friend may be moving away but a new one comes along. And I realize that’s the flow of life.
So now I’m thinking of this emergence of C-PTSD as kind of second puberty—a massive change in my physical and emotional being that impacts my social life. You win some; you lose some. And sometimes you’re allergic to what you win.