Love Sickness

After a few days of semi-lethargic behavior due to intestinal congestion issues and the end of the sweet and sour relationship with the love of my life, I felt a bit energized this morning. It may be due to the mild mood stimulant the instant coffee instigated after I drank it to induce a shakeup of the abdominal region. It’s been just about six days since I began to experience irregular bowel movements and severe constipation, tinged with searing hemorrhoidal discomfort. The other night I ingested a mild laxative called Senade which encouraged the intestines to expel the toxins that have been building up there. I have swallowed nearly 10 tablets in the last five days but I had not seen any tangible benefits until yesterday when I went to the toilet five times, three times in the afternoon during work hours. In fact I left work a few hours early to go home and rest, feeling exhausted. The ongoing problem may be attributed to some frankfurters I gorged on laden with extra spicy mustard last week. This afternoon I will go to the pharmacy to buy some Epsom salts as they seem to do the trick. Regrettably while working their wonders they induce diarrhea, thus compelling me to sit on the porcelain throne of misfortune several times an hour.

The woman in question who will remain nameless in this text entered my life late last September. My love is a delicately petite, sensually graceful maiden with almond-toned skin and lustrous henna-tinged carob-colored hair. In the beginning we met several times as friends, going to an Indian restaurant where we pondered the mysteries of the Indigo people, the clairvoyant, and the nuances of Indian culture. I was well stocked with beedi cigarettes at the time which we smoked ritually while chatting. She enjoys long walks as do I, so we strolled about at mid-evening before I walked her home. My love by nature is a charming woman and nearly always had something fascinating to talk about with me, usually spiritually-related topics and musings of her past. Then my friend Ara from Boston decided to visit Armenia and I invited him to stay with me. The second week after his arrival and dozens of bottles of downed wine later we decided to have a dinner party. The main course of the meal was to be a traditional dish made from a mash of slowly-cooked lentils, white onions, and some other mysterious ingredient topped with chopped parsley and served cold, not necessarily the best accompaniment to wine but at that point it mattered very little. I had purchased some choice beef cuts to prepare something, I can’t remember what. Then she arrived for the first time, examined the meat and seasonings, having brought her own Indian spices, and went to work without any persuasion on my part—she just started cooking. She stayed later than her curfew but I walked her home to ensure she arrived safely. For several nights she returned, invigorating us with her charm and grace, staying late each time. She and Ara played a game where a player chooses four digits which the opponent has to guess when given coded hints—she excelled at it. My love is perhaps the most laid back, down-to-earth, least uptight, selfless and sublime woman I have ever met in this country, or perhaps anywhere. In my experience most women nearly always have something to gripe about and are rather conservative; there is something always holding them back from being carefree. For the most part women in Armenia don’t even kiss men on the lips or hardly kiss at all while they are being courted. They may seem happy during the first few meetings but after some time passes the fussiness sets in coupled with mild dyspepsia. With her there was none of that, she was not afraid to speak her mind and share her thoughts with me, no matter how private they were; there were no inhibitions. She made me want to be a better man, and she tamed the heart fire. We met frequently, almost ever night, apart only when she worked through the late evening. Our friendship fortified, and our mutual trust began to bind. In a natural transformation out of our own control, the friendship metamorphosed into a blossoming, fragrant romance which became increasingly intense as the days went on. I had to fly to Boston during the holidays, and she was there to greet me upon my return at the airport after the two-week lapse, with indigo blue contact lenses disguising her luscious, chocolate eyes. She was ravishing, beaming with her love for me, and it was at that very moment when I realized I was madly in love with her. Plans for the future were made, plans for our life and travels together. She gave me gifts—for my birthday she presented me with a gorgeous Japanese tea set. I remember for my birthday party we served dolma, or rolled grape leaves stuffed with ground beef and rice, which we made together. We were doing everything as a dynamic duo, life was grand, we were unstoppable. The romance continued unabated for another six weeks until things began to deteriorate quite drastically, without reason. The love once ceaselessly emanating from her abruptly died overnight. There was no explanation—no other lover, no habits of mine which disturbed her, nothing I said troubled her, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. The love was simply dead, and no matter what I tried to do through words or actions I could not revive it. At first we both thought it was some kind of temporary ailment of the soul, that some kind of fear had gripped her. I was sure that was the case. I tried explaining to her that her very fear of our romance dying interrupted our united lives. She had once hinted that she feared our relationship would end later than sooner, and it would be too much of a burden to take. It is as if she shut down emotionally so that she would not bear the burden of a possible future breakup that more than likely would never have happened had our relationship progressed as it had, undeterred. Towards the onset of the slowdown we had been seeing each other daily, we were always together while not working, but one day the bliss started to unravel and we met infrequently, often at a loss for words. Several weeks went by as things between us teetered on the edge of oblivion. We decided to end it once and for all last weekend.

The effects have been devastating for me. I question my future with women as I have been burned several times before. Women do not last very long with me before other interests impede our relations or their love wanes unexpectedly. With my ex-wife it was her career and ego that dominated her priorities in life which ultimately ripped the marriage apart. And with this last relationship, which was much more dear to me in many ways as it was the most satisfying I have had with a woman, it was love that betrayed me, or rather betrayed us. Actually I am convinced that the evil eye was at play here, that someone perhaps both of us know who is envious of our love cast some kind of curse, undoubtedly someone with bad karma. There is of course the probability of love being renewed between us, assuming that the evil eye is destroyed—anything is possible in this life as I often jest. Yet the unpredictable, foiling fluids of love that ravage possibly every human being on the planet instilled this vague, wavering malaise I experience now. How long it will linger is anyone’s guess, certainly not mine.

While I write these words lying on my couch of refuge resting my entrails I am compelled to seek the dispersion of the malevolent spirits that infest my body. Life will go on. Although I have just recently declared war on womankind I will undoubtedly love once again, and foolishly I should add. But I am not in any rush. 

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