Once again, work becomes just work. Who's worth getting to know at work that will let me? Who would open up to me? Who would share more than facts and anecdotes? Who would come closer than arm's length? No one. That's why it's safe for people ill-attuned to and distrustful of their feelings to get along with people they don't actually care about. That's how they can without conscience ask someone how they are and hope they don't get an honest reply. Serial killers can be just as polite, and no more forthcomong with their feelings--until they kill you.
I've written the email. It was not difficult to write, though it lost about two-thirds its original bulk by completion. In the first draft I let the anger flow, but did not make a specific accusation. The second draft retained much of that, because I was concerned that she might refuse the invitation, at which point I would be left high and dry with my emotions, that she wouldn't know how much she's hurt me. Here's what I finally wrote:
I would like to talk to you about your disclosure to Julie of my blog. I would like you to tell me, in person, honestly, how you came to know about the blog, why you felt it necessary for Julie to know about it, and what you thought would be accomplished by the disclosure.I couldn't keep out the hurt entirely. It just wouldn't leave; plus, it should appeal to both her conscience and her pride and impress upon her the importance of this matter to me.
I have talked to Tammy about this, and she has offered her office and her presence to help facilitate this meeting. I would like to do this at our earliest mutual convenience. I want to resolve what's not already irreparable, regain some respect for you, and get back to work.
*****
What if I'd never been told? If someone who cares about me hadn't warned me, would I have been better off, blissfully ignorant? Questions Julie could ask herself, as well. How little the wiser either of us had to be! I was better off with the devil I already knew, and Julie could have (I hope) easily continued tolerating my attentions, which would have diminished to nothing eventually on their own. Funny, I was so close to that up to the time the fuss broke out that I had nearly convinced myself that it would run its course and disappear. Then, one indiscretion kicked again and again, until the sleeping lab became a snarling rottweiler.
Was there not a time when writing of unrequited affection was a noble art form? Now it's creepy and scary. I always thought I was living in the wrong time, where art is sequestered in it's playroom while the grownups do the important stuff like kill and destroy. Thank god I was found out--and just in time! Do you think it was wise to let me off without at least disabling my hands? They had to know I would write again. Think of the damage I could do, the feelings I might express!
There's no doubt of what Julie thinks of me now: I can't spin endearment from attempted censure--not unless I'm OBSESSED. But where is my shrine to her? or so much as a picture of her in my home? Julie's action my have been prompted by a visceral reaction, but we can't deny that emotion contains truth we can't come by rationally. The truth here is, "Dion?! Eughh!"
*****
I logged onto the work email here, to invite Jennifer to talk, when I saw a message at the top of the list from Julie. There was no message line, and the preview pane took forever to load. It was sent at four-thirty Friday.
For another day, at least, I will hold off on sending Jennifer's invitation.
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