It just occurred to me that it’s almost February (seriously – where did this month go?) and I never did give you the full update on my New Years Eve!
I was so caught up in the story of the boy, that I managed to skimp on the details of that night.
To be fair – my memory is pretty foggy on said details.
It’s possible (probable) that I had far too much to drink – although, I continue to maintain that it wasn’t my fault and that I was in fact roofied.
For the record – I’m 99% positive I wasn’t actually roofied. That did happen to me once in my life, and it was a bad, bad situation; so I’m really not trying to make light of something that I do get is actually quite serious. I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened here. I just got WAY more drunk off FAR less booze than I normally would have. Likely because I starved myself for the entire week prior in order to look perfect in my New Year’s Dress.
And so far, the situation I’m describing is just sounding more and more unhealthy… But seriously, that dress hugged every single curve on my body! I did not want any extra bloat or chub going on that night!
I suppose I should start at the beginning…
It was a few weeks before New Year’s when I was with Dee and her husband and another set of friends. We were discussing New Year’s, and what we should plan to do – what with Dee and Lindsey both knocked up (Mrs. King was already planning on being in Hawaii with her family). It wound up turning out that Lindsey and her husband Blue had long-standing plans at her parent’s cabin, but me being single and still looking – that simply wasn't going to do.
I wanted to get hot and dolled up and find myself a man.
I still hadn’t been with anyone since the boy pulled his epic disappearing act months before.
OK, so that’s not entirely true. There was one guy; a man I’d met when I first moved to Alaska who I was ridiculously attracted to, but then never saw again after that initial meeting. I remember him telling me about having lived in Australia, and I had been instantly smitten.
It’s fair to note that he also happens to be one of the most attractive men I’ve ever actually seen in real life. The epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
So when I went out with some girlfriends in November to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show (such a blast!) and spotted him in a bar after, I walked right up and staked my claim.
Liquid courage contributing to my being far more aggressive than usual.
Let’s just say… I brought him home.
In my defense, I was heartbroken and the boy had left me feeling pretty crappy about myself. Nabbing this gorgeous man was a win I needed!
And to be fair – I stood firm in ensuring that all activities that evening remained above the belt.
The next morning, we went to breakfast and then a movie with some of his friends. He was sweet and attentive and charming the entire day.
I kind of loved it.
A few days later I flew home for Thanksgiving, and when I came back – he had a ton going on. We talked for a couple of weeks, and attempted to make plans (plans that kept falling through) and then… we just kind of stopped.
Nothing came of it, and at this point – I’ve been telling people he died.
So not counting that one very brief dalliance that turned into nothing, there had been no other men in my life.
And I was determined to go out on New Year’s Eve and find myself one.
Dee and her husband both seemed open to going out, and we decided it would be fun to get a big group of people together for dinner that night and then head out to the bars just before midnight.
And a few other friends as well. There were 9 of us total.
We had a blast. Big dinners like that are pretty much one of my favorite things ever. I love ordering a ton of food and picking off everyone’s plates, laughing and talking and drinking the night away.
But I can for sure say that at least at dinner, I really did not have that much to drink.
Still… I left already tipsy as we found our way to one of my favorite bars in town.
And that is where the fun began.
If you ever see me out in a group sober, you likely won’t notice me. I tend to get uncomfortable around people I don’t know, and blend into crowds as best as possible. I can be shy, and standoffish, and awkward without ever really meaning to be.
But get a few drinks in me, and suddenly – I am the life of the party.
The happiest most loving drunk you have ever met.
I talk to everyone, and always (I mean – always) have an eye out for the next man in my life.
And I have no qualms at all about going up to him myself once I spot him.
Again, something I would never do sober!
This was one of those nights though. I really don’t think I had all that much to drink, but I suppose I must have had a few. I spotted a guy across the bar who seemed marginally cute, but one of the friends we were with said he knew him from high school and that he had a less than desirable STD.
He also told me the guy was only 22.
I immediately began looking elsewhere.
It was maybe 15 minutes later when I got up to get myself another drink, and the next thing I knew – this guy had come up behind me and put his finger in my mouth.
He said he was fish-hooking me.
I was horrified.
And not even because I had just heard what was very likely only speculation about his sexual history.
No, I was horrified because some stranger had just put his finger in my mouth.
That’s disgusting!
I had no idea where that finger had been!
So I expressed to him my revulsion.
And he expressed to me a desire to get my next drink.
Which is when my lack of a filter combined with my less than sober state, and wanting only to get this guy out of my line of sight I blurted out “I heard you have herpes.”
Bad S.I.F.!
He looked at me for a second before saying “Where did you hear that from?”
Which is when I pointed to our table and said “That guy told me so just 15 minutes ago.”
I said it completely matter of factly, like this was normal bar fodder.
BAD S.I.F.!
Somehow (and I’m still not sure how), this managed to not turn into a fight.
But the guy did leave less than 10 minutes later.
And then we spent the rest of the night making fun of him and his fish hooking.
I mean, really; who does that?
I wish I could say that was the worst of my shenanigans that night, but really; it went from bad to worse.
About the time when Dee and her husband took off for the night (making it until almost one, which officially makes Dee a rock star pregnant woman in my book!) I decided to intensify the search for my next boyfriend.
In a bar, while wasted, on New Year’s Eve.
Midnight had already passed, and sadly; no one had kissed me.
But I wasn’t about to let that stop me from my quest.
I’m pretty sure I became that girl.
Wandering around a bar pathetically introducing herself to every available man she could spot.
I swear, I’ve never been that bad before. I just think… there was a lot going on for me. A lot of residual hurt from the boy that I just wanted to shove away with a new guy. And here it was, New Year’s Eve; the night we had met a year before.
He was definitely on my mind.
And I didn’t want him to be.
So, I was looking for his replacement.
In all the wrong places.
And failing desperately.
Likely because by this point, I was pretty damn sloppy.
I wound up running into a girl I’ve met only once (and briefly at that) and immediately declared myself her best friend.
When the roommate and her boyfriend decided it was time to go – I decided I should stay behind with my new friend.
This is something I do. Pretty much any time I have too much to drink. I make friends and insist my real friends leave me behind when they decide it’s time to go.
I’ve been doing this for years.
Like I said, get a few drinks in me and suddenly; I become the life of the party.
Somehow it has always worked out just fine for me. But that still doesn’t mean I think for even one second that it’s safe.
I’m so convincing though. It’s not like my friends are bad friends (they’re not!), it’s that I’m a 28 year old woman, and when I tell them I’m fine and want to stay – what are they going to say?
For the record, I have since told them all that it’s OK to push me to come with them. I know myself, and I would never put up much of a fight. Even drunk. If they said it was time to go, I would go.
Which really is preferable to me continuing to hang out in bars drunk and by myself.
Technically though, in this case, I wasn’t by myself. I did know the girl I had latched on to.
Barely.
But… latching on to her made me the invariable 5th wheel.
She kept saying it was no big deal, but waking up the next morning – I was embarrassed.
Especially because, when it came time to head home, none of us could find cabs.
At all.
We wound up hanging out in the lobby of a local downtown hotel, goofing off and taking pictures:
(Yes, my shoe is unzipped. Also, I’m fairly sure that rather than just
being elegantly posed, I had actually fallen.
Classy-class.)
We stayed there until almost 4 in the morning, when the guys finally opted to buy out an hour of the hotel’s limo service to get us home.
They didn’t make me pay a cent. And when we got to their house, they made sure the driver was good to take me home as well.
So there I was, 4 in the morning on New Year’s, pulling up in front of my house in a limo.
By myself.
Drunk, and sloppy, and… with some sort of nastiness all over the front of my dress.
I swear, it looked like I had hugged a sappy tree.
I joked the next day that if someone had roofied and later attempted to molest me – it was definitely the stain which looked far too much like chew on my dress that stopped them.
Which could possibly be a new motto for Spanx: Slowing down lazy rapists one woman at a time.
Regardless; I was a mess.
I crawled up the steps and needed to bang on the door to get my roommate to let me in, because I couldn’t find my key (it was definitely tucked right into my purse).
I immediately stripped down and crawled into bed, before violently jerking up 15 minutes later when I remembered my list.
The list I had absolutely forgotten to burn at midnight.
It was freezing outside, and I had no intention of getting dressed again (I’m not even sure I could have at this point), so instead I dug the list and a lighter out of my purse and went to the bathroom.
I burned my 14 words over a toilet, so drunk that I was resting my head on the seat as I did it.
Classy-class.
Even then, I was pretty sure that all symbolism in this act was pretty effectively ruined.
I began composing a novel for the boy. Until 7 in the morning, when I finally saved it to my drafts and passed out.
Needless to say, it was the next morning (whilst recovering from a pretty horrific hangover) that I declared myself off the cock and booze.
I haven’t had a drink, or a man, since.
I realized that in the months prior, I had been nursing a pretty gnarly heartbreak. And trying with all my might to pretend as though I wasn’t.
Which didn’t exactly seem to be working.
Finding another man wasn’t going to fix this.
And neither was drinking myself into embarrassing stupidity.
So instead, I pledged myself to a few months of taking care of me. To writing my book, and training for a half marathon, and not cluttering my mind with alcohol or boys at all.
Not until my other goals have been reached.
It turned out to be the best thing I ever could have done for myself.
The thing I needed to do in order to finally feel refreshed, and excited, and well taken care of once again.
It just so happens that, I’m the one doing the caring.
For me.
Which for the record: Is something I highly recommend.
And the next time I put that dress on (because yes, I did somehow manage to save that thing after many washes), I vow:
I will not ruin its supreme sexiness with my own supreme sloppiness.
I’ve always been pretty lucky this way. No matter where I’ve been, I’ve always managed to find myself surround by incredible friends.
And I’ve got to say, near or far, the same is still true today.
Still, this morning when one of those incredible friends sent me a link to an article that was suspiciously of the self help variety; I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
This is the same friend who has vowed to ride my ass until my book has reached completion. So I immediately fired back to her that I remembered asking for an editor, not a life coach.
I was kidding of course. Ribbing her for sending me such a lame link.
But then, I opened it.
And not only did I immediately know why she had sent it, I also immediately loved her for doing so.
As much as you can possibly love a person who you already feel pretty damn grateful to know.
She highlighted this particular number for me:
Start giving your ideas and dreams a chance. – In life, it’s rarely about getting a chance; it’s about taking a chance. You’ll never be 100% sure it will work, but you can always be 100% sure doing nothing won’t work. Most of the time you just have to go for it! And no matter how it turns out, it always ends up just the way it should be. Either you succeed or you learn something. Win-Win.
Playing up her role as my top encourager in this journey to finish a book.
But you know which ones stood out to me?
This one:
Start spending time with the right people. – These are the people you enjoy, who love and appreciate you, and who encourage you to improve in healthy and exciting ways. They are the ones who make you feel more alive, and not only embrace who you are now, but also embrace and embody who you want to be, unconditionally.
And this one:
Start actively nurturing your most important relationships. – Bring real, honest joy into your life and the lives of those you love by simply telling them how much they mean to you on a regular basis. You can’t be everything to everyone, but you can be everything to a few people. Decide who these people are in your life and treat them like royalty. Remember, you don’t need a certain number of friends, just a number of friends you can be certain of.
Life is short, and I would rather spend every single day focusing on those I can count on, rather than lamenting those I can’t.
Because really, I’m pretty damn lucky.
So I wanted to share the article with you as well.
When I was a little girl and my dad would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had two answers: An actress and a writer.
I was convinced I could do both. And well.
In grade school I won all the writing awards. I still remember being so proud of a story contest my 7th grade class had where our names were removed from our submissions and the class voted on the best one without knowing who had written what.
Mine was by far the longest (real shocker there) and I was convinced for that fact alone that it wouldn’t win.
But then… it did. Some dramatic tale about a pre-teen who had a falling out with her group of friends and had to face their torment until the day her brother died of cancer.
Morbid, right?
I may or may not have been in the middle of a fight with my circle of friends at the time.
It’s also possible I was wishing cancer upon my brother.
One can’t really be sure.
I was 12 years old after all.
But the point is, there were a lot of things like that. The district wide poetry contest I swept. The first time a magazine published something I had written, and my grandma made me give her the $10 check they sent me so that she could frame it. The teachers who were constantly sending notes home to rave about my creative writing. The time when, upon graduating from 8th grade, I composed a 30 page manifesto for all my friends detailing our friendships from early childhood.
I named it “Friends Forever” and presented it to everyone with all kinds of flourish.
This was something I was good at though. One of the few things that came naturally to me from a young age.
The acting was always there as well. I was involved in all the plays in high school, and nabbed a couple leads for myself before being named most likely to be famous my senior year.
But that was something that quickly faded away once I started college. I had loved acting, but the truth was – I had no interest in being famous.
I wanted kids and a family someday. Not a decade or more of trying to “break-in” to a difficult business, followed by a lifetime of being hounded by the paparazzi and marrying men bound to cheat on me in the end.
Because let’s face it; I was pretty sure I was going to make it. Confident in the future in a way that only a teenager could be.
So yeah, the acting became a dream of the past.
But the writing… well the writing stayed.
And I still dreamed of one day having my name on a published book.
Of making a career out of putting words on paper.
I never had quite as much confidence in this though. I knew I loved writing, and that I could pound out 2000 words on just about any subject in my sleep, but… I wasn’t sure I had what it would take to really make that dream a reality.
And then I started writing this blog. If only because I needed a place to get out all my thoughts and feelings regarding infertility.
And it was safe. Not nearly as scary. Because there is instant gratification that comes from writing a blog post and knowing immediately whether or not it has been well received.
A far cry from committing up to a year of one’s life to completing a novel, only to have it go nowhere.
I have honestly had nightmares about putting so much of myself into a book and then not being able to get an agent to read past the first chapter.
Failure has always been a pretty big fear of mine.
In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret – I don’t do anything unless I know I can do it well. Ever. And if I do try something new and I’m not instantly good at it, I’ve been known to immediately give it up.
I’m pretty sure that’s a giant character flaw on my part.
The truth is though, in my adult life I’ve only ever really had 2 dreams.
Which is perhaps why I’ve been so resistant to pursuing the second.
The thought of failing at that too literally makes me sick.
The truth is though, I have more than one partially finished novel on my laptop.
I always get to a certain point, and then I give up.
I freak out.
I walk away from whatever I’ve been working on, telling myself it’s just not good enough. That it can’t possibly go anywhere. That no one will want to read it, and I’ll end up feeling like a massive failure in the end.
Let’s face it; a girl can only take so much failure.
But something happened when I started writing about the boy. Or rather, a lot of things happened all at once.
Beginning with a very close friend of mine getting on my ass and pledging to hold me to deadlines along the way if that’s what it would take for me to finish a novel. Encouraging me if only because she knew I would never be truly content until I at least tried.
Knowing me well enough to realize... this was the only thing I'd ever been really passionate about.
Her pushing coincided perfectly with the excitement I felt in throwing so much of myself into this story. This overwhelming desire I suddenly had to spend every spare moment writing.
Which culminated in the realization that, I could do this. I mean, I practically composed an entire novel in under a month. Coming up with the words was not an issue for me.
I just needed to have the confidence in myself to try.
And for some reason, writing out the whole story gave me that confidence.
I suppose one day, I may have to thank the boy for being my muse.
Which brings us to where we are now.
I’m going to write a novel.
Or rather, finish a novel I began working on years ago.
I don’t really want to get into the details just yet, because I’m afraid I’ll talk myself out of it.
But one way or another, I am going to finish a book this year.
I’ve designed a writing calendar for myself that has me completing the entire project in 12 weeks.
I already met the first deadline this weekend.
The goal is to have a completed novel (albeit, one likely still in need of revisions and editing) by my birthday – April 11th.
I want to turn 29 being able to say that I’ve written a book.
And in a perfect world, I would turn 30 being able to say that it’s been published.
While my friends are busy pushing out new additions to their families this year, this is going to be my baby.
My big accomplishment.
My leap.
I’m still terrified of failing.
Terrified of putting so much of myself into something, and having to watch as it goes nowhere.
Thinking about the point in time when I’ll have to send this off to agents knots my stomach up like you wouldn't believe.
But I’m going to do it.
I’m going to try.
If for no other reason, than so that I can stop talking about it.
Once and for all.
I’ll know whether or not I have what it takes.
And if I don’t, well… someone better get me a drink.
Because failing at two major lifetime goals in such a short period of time, might just send me over the edge!
The only reason I’m mentioning anything here now though, is because turning my attention towards a novel is going to mean turning it away from this space.
For at least a few months anyway.
It was over a year ago when the devirginator told me that I needed to do this. When he pointed out the fact that if I spent as much time working on a book as I did working on my blog, I could have it done in no time.
I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him and said he had way too much faith in me.
But he was right. I do a lot of writing here, and if I shift that focus even just a few days a week – it won’t be long before I find myself typing “the end”.
So while I will still be around (updating a few times a week I’m sure) I am going to be more absent than I’ve been in the past.
And I’m guessing the posts I do leave you with will be shorter in length than ever before.
Don’t worry, I won’t keep anything exciting from you.
But I also won’t likely be penning any lengthy dissections of the inner workings of my mind in the near future.
I’ll save that for the point in time when I’m lamenting not hearing back from agents!
I’m hopeful though.
More hopeful than I’ve been in a long time.
Determined to spend these next few months focused on myself.
Focused on my book.
And also, focused on training for a half marathon this summer.
You know – just for good measure.
I figure as long as I’m committed to being “off the cock” (a commitment that I plan on keeping in place until I finish this novel of mine - because boys have a way of being distracting), I should probably find a way to channel all that excess energy I typically dedicate to dating.
I’ve gotten up at 5:30 every morning for the last 2 weeks to work out.
This could get interesting.
Either way though, I’m committed right now.
To myself.
To my book.
And to conquering some old fears.
While hopefully making one of my dreams come true.
If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.
When we got off the phone that night, I was sure it was the last I would hear from him.
So of course, it was only a few hours before I received a text.
Or rather, a series of texts. The contents of which need to be shared, if only so that you can see how truly drunk he must have been in sending them.
Text 1: “You’re right. I am an a”
Text 2: “I am truly sorry for treating u like shit. U were really good to me and I took that for granite. Yes, I am a fucking asshole.”
Text 3: “You didn’t deserve this. I am really really sorry.”
Text 4: “Goodbye.”
They came in one right after another. A little past 2 in the morning, when the bars must have kicked him out.
It was the last one that probably irked me the most.
“Goodbye.”
It just felt so dramatic.
I didn’t respond. I knew he was drunk, and I was sleeping when I got them anyway. And by the following morning, I had other things to worry about.
I figured if he really wanted to apologize, he would call me sober.
The funny thing was that not long after (or before?) he sent those texts, he also forwarded me an e-mail he had sent to his mom earlier in the week. It was full of pictures from a wedding he had just attended in Texas. We had discussed his going when he'd booked the ticket a few months before, so it wasn't something I was completely oblivious about. But the only message to me in the e-mail was “Thought you might like to see these.”
I couldn’t figure it out. Why was he sending me these photos now?
And what on earth made him suddenly think I wanted to see them?
OK, so I did... But that's not really the point.
The point is, it made no sense for him to send them to my whilst also apparently telling me "goodbye".
A snippet from the night before popped into my mind. A moment when (at the height of his defensiveness) he had said to me “You’re the one who chose to get involved with someone who was mentally unstable.”
It was one of those moments when I would have laughed, if I hadn’t already been so angry.
Was he seriously blaming me? For caring about him?
And did he honestly just call himself mentally unstable?
I mean, I couldn’t argue with him. The roller coaster he had put me on was a clear indication that things were not all right in his head. And he was correct; I had entered into this knowing full well that it wouldn’t be easy. That he was broken, and that I may not be enough to heal him.
Even though so many times it felt like he was depending on me to do just that.
I had entered this mess fully aware that it was exactly that - a mess.
But still… I cared about him, and tried to be there for him (to be a friend and support him as best I knew how) and he turns around and basically tells me that I deserved to get hurt because I made the stupid choice to trust him in the first place?
It reminded me a bit of that old fable. The one about the farmer who helps the snake, only to have the snake turn around and bite him as soon as it's gotten what it needs.
The moral of the story being – a snake is still just a snake in the end.
The thing was though; I had never before seen the boy as a snake.
I had seen him as broken, and wounded, and in need of time and patience; but never as a snake.
I had never believed, even for a second, that in the end he would take me and my feelings so monumentally for granted.
I had always believed that no matter what, we would find a way to at least be friends.
I thought he had believed that too.
I never responded to the e-mail either. I mean, what was I supposed to say in response to that? I couldn’t figure out why he had sent it in the first place.
Over the next few weeks though, I began agonizing over what had happened between us. I sifted through the details like an excavator. Searching for what went wrong.
Not because I wanted to fix things, but because... I needed to understand. I needed to know how it was possible that after everything, he could just so casually discard me and walk away.
I was determined to find the answers.
To figure out which man he had been. The one I’d loved and believed loved me back, or the one who had pummeled me with almost no concern for my well-being at all.
I rationalized, and defended.
I grew angry, and indignant.
I turned it all into a joke, poking fun at myself and embracing the fact that I really had only ever been a rebound to him.
(Oh yes, that happened)
But I still couldn’t figure it out.
And as hard as I tried, I still wasn’t over it.
Over what he’d done. How callously he had treated me. And how easily he had walked away.
I couldn’t get him out of my head. His birthday came and went, and I lamented the gift I’d intentionally put so much thought into getting him weeks before. The one that was now sitting in my closet with nowhere to go.
For a split second, I considered throwing it through the window of his truck.
But then I remembered that he drove a company vehicle. And that he wouldn’t suffer the consequences of my justifiable action on that one.
So instead it remained in my closet.
Now a blatant reminder that I had cared so much more for him than he had me.
The weeks continued passing though, and I found myself beginning to wonder if he’d ever actually cared at all.
Had I really just been a rebound?
Had it been so easy for him to fool me into thinking he cared?
So easy for him to leave me?
Which is when I received another e-mail from him. It was early November now, a little after 8 on a Sunday night.
He was forwarding me pictures of a friend’s baby. All the message said was “Thought you’d like these pics. You may have seen them already. Hope you’re doing well.”
The funny thing was, these were friends I had my own connection to. People I was friends with on Facebook and had seen fairly recently as well.
He knew this. Or at least, he knew I had ties to them. I couldn’t figure out why he had felt the need to forward this on to me at all.
Unless he had just been looking for an “in”. A way to see if those doors of communication were still closed.
Which had to mean he was at least thinking of me a little bit, right? That on some level, he had actually cared?
I can’t tell you how much that question haunted me. Not whether or not he had loved me, but whether or not he had cared. At all.
Thinking he hadn’t, tore me up inside.
It ate away at me.
Because at its root, it made me feel stupid.
Used, unwanted, and abandoned.
Still, while this e-mail allowed me a moment of thinking that maybe he had cared, I knew it wasn’t enough.
Not to open up those lines of communication.
Not to even respond back at all.
He couldn’t just sneak back into my life (even as only just a friend), without first giving me what I needed.
An explanation.
An apology.
A sober acknowledgement of what he’d done.
And even with that, I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to forgive.
Except… I knew I wanted to. I wanted this to be past us. I wanted for us to just be able to be friends.
Not because he deserved that from me, but because I hated feeling like I was feeling.
I didn’t want to be angry at him. I didn’t want to have so much confusion and hurt. I just wanted to be over it. To be done and be able to move on.
Partially because, even then I was slipping into moments of worrying about him.
Which I realize is pathetic to admit.
But as the holidays approached, I couldn’t help it. I was worried about how he would fare over the first holiday season without her. Worried about how he was doing. Worried about who he was reaching out to now that he didn’t have me.
I didn't want to keep beating myself up for... caring.
I just wanted it to be over.
I still couldn’t figure any of it out though.
And even as I maintained my distance and didn’t reach out to him in any way, he was constantly on my mind.
What he’d done to me.
And how it didn’t mesh at all with the man I believed him to be.
The whole situation was breaking me apart as I fought to understand it.
And it’s not like I was dealing with some unknown person here. Not like I had zero insight into who he was or what he was doing. His friends had become my friends. Those ties were still there. It was Jay and Mel I spent Halloween with. I get together with Dee and her husband at least a few times a month. His buddy’s girlfriend was just at my house this week borrowing a dress. I'm going to Pilates tomorrow with the wife of one of those core childhood friends of his.
I had insight.
But everyone else was just as confused as I was.
Not that they hadn’t seen the crash coming, because they had. As people who cared about him, they’d realized he was falling apart.
But I don’t think anyone ever anticipated he would end up disregarding me so completely.
In fact, I know most within his circle really thought we were going to work things out in the end.
I tried not to bring him up often. I tried to keep my friendships with these people separate from him. To not bring any further drama or awkwardness than there needed to be.
But everyone knew what happened.
And everyone understood where my hurt had come from.
Unfortunately, no one could give me any further explanation than what I already knew.
There had been no other girl. He hadn’t gone back to his wife (or even spoken to her at all since she’d popped up around the fourth of July). There was nothing from the outside that had come in and caused this.
He’d just gone from missing me and being so sure he was ready for "us", to determining that it wasn’t what he wanted.
Seemingly overnight.
And in making the break, he’d decided that my feelings weren’t worth even attempting to protect.
One thing was for sure though – I went from hearing from almost every one of these people at one time or another how much the boy cared about me, to now hearing that he was definitely over it.
I have no idea what's been said to make them all so sure, but… it’s been a long time since anyone in that group has reassured me of the boy’s feelings for me.
Even in the past tense.
It should be noted that these people are all still friends with the boy as well. Some of his friendships with the men in that group had endured for 20 years. I have never had any intention of destroying that, and don’t think I could even if I tried. My initial gut had been to pull away from everyone, but none of them allowed that to happen. I think they all knew what had gone down, and just hadn’t been as willing to toss me aside as he had. They’ve all been great about staying out of the middle of it, but still being friends to us both.
It really has been kind of incredible.
I still don’t think anyone gets it any more than I do though.
It just… doesn’t add up.
Which is why on New Year’s, after having far too much to drink and burning my list in the toilet (don’t ask), I found myself writing him an e-mail.
An e-mail that I began at 4 in the morning and didn’t stop until sometime after 7.
An e-mail that was over 7000 words and 15 pages long.
An e-mail that I somehow, by the grace of God, saved into my drafts instead of sending.
But when I woke the next day, I looked that e-mail over again.
Most of it didn’t make any sense. It was jumbled and repetitive and there were far more spelling and grammatical errors within than I care to own up to.
But… there was something there.
And I realized in reading it that I had not once taken the time to really let him know what he’d done to me. I’d yelled and screamed and severed ties, but I’d never explained it to him from my heart.
I’d been so concerned about being strong in the end, that I’d forgotten about being honest.
I needed that. That release. That moment where I could say to myself “Well… at least it’s out there.”
So I started writing again. This time keeping my words in check, and trying to get to the root of how he’d made me feel.
Before I sent it to him though, I sent it first to Dee.
I needed to know if I was crazy for contemplating this. Crazy for considering hitting send at all. Crazy for letting him know now, 3 months since we'd last spoken, that I was still hurting over what he'd done.
After Dee read it, she sent me a text. She said that her initial instinct had been to tell me not to send it. Not to contact him at all. But that after reading what I’d written, she thought I should. She thought he needed to hear it from me, to really realize what his actions had done. She said she knew that at his heart, he was a good person. And she hoped that he would take what I’d said and really reflect upon what he’d done. Maybe give me the explanation and apology I so desperately needed.
But she acknowledged that more important than anything else, it would give me some closure. If I never received any response from him at all, at least I would know I had said my part.
And I knew that’s why I needed to do it the most. So that I could wipe my hands of it. Walk away knowing that I’d been true to myself. True to what I was feeling.
I wound up hitting “send” not long after hearing from Dee.
Here are some of the highlights from that e-mail:
“I have to admit that I still find myself going over everything in my head; like it’s a puzzle with some of the pieces missing. I want to understand. I want to get where you were coming from. I really do. I want it to all make sense to me. I feel like we went to bed one night and things were fine, and then we woke up the next morning and you were distant and pulled away and… I couldn’t figure out what had happened. What I had done. And then, you were just gone. No phone call, no explanation, no apology for sucking me back in again when clearly you weren’t capable of fulfilling the promises you had made. Nothing. You were just gone. And I kept thinking I was being strong and keeping my head held high by not saying anything. By not demanding more from you, if only on a friendship level. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have held you more accountable for your own words. For a friendship that I really thought meant more to you than that.
You hurt me. More than I think you will ever realize. And the way you walked away from me still tears me up. Not because I want to be with you, because the truth is – you did a pretty good job of proving to me that you’re not the man I thought you were. But because I really believed that you cared about me, on even the most basic of levels. I really believed that at the end of the day you would have enough respect for me and our friendship, to not toss me away like it was the easiest thing you had ever done.
It kills me that I was so wrong”.
“I find myself now wondering what of it was real, and what was lies. Which guy was telling me the truth about how he felt about me – the one who told me how much he cared and swore he wanted a future with me, all while being so adamant that he wasn’t content with us simply being friends, or the one who walked away from me like I was nothing after proving to himself one last time that he could have me if he wanted me.
Was that really all it came down to? Was it a game to you? Because I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would fight so hard for another chance, if that’s how it was all going to end. You just disappeared. You didn’t think I deserved a sober phone call or explanation. At the end of the day, you treated me like some slut you had picked up in a bar for a one night stand. One who wasn’t even worthy of the extra effort to break it off. Not like someone who had been there for you for 6 months, and who had never been anything but open and honest and real with you.”
“I asked you to leave me alone. To let me go, so I could move on and get over everything and eventually – we could be friends. I asked you to care about me enough to give me some space. But instead, you came back begging for another chance. Claiming you couldn’t stop thinking about me. Pushing to see me when I told you I still needed time. You swore that I was what you wanted. That you were sure this time. Were you really so selfish that you would say those things, and act that way, if you weren't sure that you actually meant it? If you weren't sure that at the very least, you could do what you needed to do to protect me and my feelings? Did you never think about me at all in any of this?
I fully accept responsibility for my part. I knew better. I knew what you had been through, and I knew better than to believe the things you said to me. I was the one who should have been strong enough to keep those boundaries clear. But, I wasn’t. And for that, I do have regrets. For that, I truly am sorry. I never pursued you, but I never held you back when I should have either.
But now, I can’t help but find myself wondering – do you ever think about me? Do I ever cross your mind in even the most innocent of ways? Do you ever feel bad about what you did? About how you treated me? Does it ever occur to you that it didn’t have to be that way? Do you ever just miss having me in your life?
Or was it easy? To throw me away. Like I was nothing. Not even your friend.”
“I guess the point is, I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. But I hope you got whatever it was you needed out of us.
I just wish you had been able to get whatever that was, without treating me with so little care in the process.
Because at the end of the day, I really do wish we could have been friends. That you had cared about me enough to try even just a little to preserve that.”
I sent it to him almost 3 weeks ago. He still hasn’t responded. At this point, I don't believe he ever will.
But Dee was right. Sending it lifted a weight off my shoulders.
The weight of words left unsaid.
Sending it helped me to let go.
Well, sending it, and writing this.
I remember a few years ago, the devirginator was up here visiting me and we went to see 500 Days of Summer together.
We both walked out of that movie feeling like we had just been dumped.
It was awful. This sadness in the pit of my stomach that I couldn't even explain, because it wasn't real. It was a movie. And even if it had been real, it wasn't my reality.
Still, I couldn't figure out why anyone would ever make a movie like that. Why anyone would ever pay $10 to sit in a theater and be made to feel like that.
I wanted my happy ending damn-it!
So, I'm sorry if I just did that same thing to some of you.
I needed to write this story out. I needed to revisit the entire relationship from beginning to end. To stop shuffling through the pieces in my head, and instead look at it in its entirety.
I was beating myself up and tearing it apart and I still couldn't figure out what happened.
I needed to get it all out of me and onto my laptop.
I never anticipated that it to would turn out so big. I never intended committing so much of my time to it.
It never even occurred to me that people would become as invested in our relationship as I had been.
But once I got started, I realized that there was so much there I needed to get out.
If only so that I could gain some perspective on it.
But if in doing so I made you feel as though it was happening to you as well; I’m sorry.
I'm sorry if you now have that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
I'm sorry that there was no happy ending.
But, let's face it... in real life, there are no happy endings.
Not really anyway.
And I don't say that to be a cynic, I swear. I still believe in love and happiness and the whole big shebang.
It's just that, there's always something after the happy ending. It's not like a movie where the lights go up and you leave the theater believing that the couple on the screen moved forward in life never again having to face another hurtle. In real life, there is always another hurtle. Another kick in the gut. Another moment of sadness.
Because in real life, nothing ever works out quite the way you expect it to.
No matter how much you wanted the ending you wound up with.
Trust me, I really did want us to end up together.
I really did want him to be the one.
But as much as I wish I could fabricate a happy ending for you now, I can't.
This is what happened.
It's real life.
And real life doesn't work like that. People break up. Hearts get broken. And sometimes, the guy you thought had the potential to be your someone special, just ends up letting you down in the end.
I still have no idea what happened that morning. What caused the shift to occur so quickly. How it was even possible that he could go from fighting so hard for another chance to completely disappearing in the matter of a week.
I've gone over the entire thing in my head so many times. Come up with so many scenario's, without ever really feeling like I've found the answer.
I still don’t know which guy he was.
But I’m starting to think it’s not as simple as one or the other.
I saw a shrink years ago, during the period of time when my dad and I weren't speaking at all.
I was having a really hard time forgiving him for staying with my stepmother, after all she had done. I'd gone into therapy specifically because I knew I needed to let this go, but I couldn't wrap my head around how. I had these two visions in my head of who my dad was. One of him as the amazing father I knew him to be - the one who loved me and protected me and had always been there for me. The other of the man his staying with her had made me start to envision him as - the one who was weak, and flawed, and incapable of loving me enough.
The therapist pointed out then that these images of my father painted him as either my hero (perfect and infallible) or a failure (the broken man who had let me down the most). I couldn't reconcile the images of him in my head, because they were on such opposite ends of the spectrum. I couldn't figure out which man my dad was, because he was both. And he was neither. She said I needed to learn to see him as the man somewhere in the middle. The one with qualities from both men I was trying to paint him to be. And then I needed to determine if I could forgive that man. If I could forge a relationship with him.
I still remember feeling like she had just gifted me with some supreme knowledge that had somehow evaded me up to this point. She was right - my dad was both of those men I was painting him to be. Both, and neither. The man he was actually existed somewhere there in between.
And letting myself believe that, to accept it, was really the first step in us healing our relationship.
I know I've done the same thing with the boy. That in my eternal quest to figure this all out, I've painted two different pictures of him. One as the man who I loved and who loved me back - a man who was good and strong and loyal and true. And then the other as the man who broke me down - one who lied and manipulated and abandoned.
The truth is, I don't believe either image is entirely correct. I know the man he is resides somewhere in between.
What he did to me wasn’t right, but… I don’t believe it’s the definition of who he is.
Because none of us is exactly the same person we are at our best or our worst.
We all lie somewhere in between.
It's not always as black and white as we want it to be. People are more complicated than that.
And while the heart may always win, sometimes… it’s wrong.
But that doesn’t mean we should stop holding out for the day when it’s right.
I can say that from what I know, the boy is doing well. He's drinking a great deal less now, and has been spending more time working out and rebuilding his life. After months of us talking about it, he finally booked that trip to New Zealand and is leaving in two weeks. He and one of his best friends will be fishing and exploring and I'm sure having an amazing time.
By all accounts though, he's doing better every day.
I also know that for the last month or so, he's been seeing someone new.
I don't know how serious it is. How serious it will become.
Perhaps she's just the rebound chick he should have found himself from the beginning, and perhaps she's something more.
Perhaps she's the one.
I'm not sure it really matters at this point.
In fact, I've been shocked by how little the news has effected me.
I would be lying to say that there has been no jealousy there on my end, because of course there has been.
I have found myself wondering if she's prettier than me. Smarter than me. Funnier than me.
Wondering if they share the same connection I was so sure he and I had.
Even wondering if she's getting a better version of him than I did.
I'm ashamed to admit that in moments of liquid courage, I've actually asked some of these questions of those who have met her.
Mutual friends who have all assured me that - I win.
Which is such a petty thing to need to hear, but...
I win.
When everything is said and done though, I think I'm happy for him.
As strange as that may sound, I am.
I hate what he did to me.
What he did to us.
I hate him for hurting me as deeply as he did.
I hate him for taking me and my feelings so for granted.
I hate him for being so selfish. So recklessly and irrevocably selfish.
I hate him for still leaving me with no answers, explanations, or sober apologies.
But in both my head and heart, I know that he is not the villain I sometimes want to believe him to be.
He's just... damaged.
And aren't we all? To some extent?
After writing it all out, I know that there was good and bad to him.
That I never would have fallen so hard for someone who was all bad.
That I couldn't possibly have made the good all up.
I know it.
I know there is good there.
I wish that the good had won out. I wish that he had embraced it even just enough to prevent the fallout he caused.
To protect me, if only a little.
I wish he had cared about me enough to try to preserve some of the good between us.
If only on a friendship level.
But how little he did or did not care about me is irrelevant at this point.
Because it doesn't change how I felt about him.
It doesn't change the fact that I did love him.
And that even now, I hope for the best for him.
It’s still hard sometimes for me to not get caught up believing in the fate of it all. To not dwell on how we met, and how the pieces fell together after we started. There is still a part of me that wants to believe that it was all meant to be.
And the truth is, I guess it was. Just not for the same reasons I wanted it to be.
I do believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that good can always come out of bad. And I believe that the boy and I were meant to be together.
Even if only for a short time.
I know I helped him. I know I supported him and was there for him and if nothing else - became one of his closest friends during a time when he was falling apart and needed all the help he could get. I know that, and I refuse to believe it wasn't true.
In so many ways though, I guess he helped me too. I was still struggling a lot with my own stuff when the boy and I met. I was making strides towards being better every day, but I had a lot of heartache built up. I was still at a point where just thinking about infertility would bring me to my knees. The boy helped me to shift my focus. To look outside myself. To turn my attention on someone else for a while.
Which, was kind of something I needed at the time.
Above and beyond that, I walked away with some amazing friends. Dee and I have said more than once that if the only thing to come out of my relationship with the boy was our friendship, it was worth it. I feel like I was meant to know that girl. The bond I share with both she and Lindsey is something I wouldn't trade for anything. To now have women in my day to day life who have such a real understanding of what I've experienced with endometriosis and infertility is priceless to me. But the fact that they are both also women I would have chosen as my friends without those shared experiences is truly incredible.
And I can't ever deny that I grew closer to them both, through my relationship with the boy. Dee more directly than Lindsey, but even with Lindsey... it was learning that we both had ties to this same group of people that really did initially drive our friendship forward.
There's a part of me that I suppose will always be a little bit grateful to him for being a catalyst to those relationships.
I think there were lessons I needed to learn here as well. With the ex, I left too quickly. I bailed too soon. And the lesson I learned there was that if I wasn't willing to fight for a relationship, I may end up losing someone I loved. With the boy, I know that thought was always in the back of my head; almost causing me to over-correct in some ways when it came to him. This relationship was so out of the realm of normal for me. I put up with so much more than I ever before would have. I made excuses, and I rationalized behavior, and I allowed myself to be hurt. Because I didn't want to be stuck thinking at the end of the day that I hadn't fought hard enough.
So now, the ex has taught me not to bail, but the boy has taught me that there comes a point when - you just have to.
I loved them both. I know that.
And they both taught me lessons I needed to learn.
As painful as learning them may have been.
I can only hope that those lessons stay with me the next time I find myself falling in love.
Which just for the record – will not be anytime soon.
Because I am doing myself a favor the boy probably could have benefited from as well.
Currently taking a dating hiatus.
Pursuing other adventures (more on that to come) until my heart feels healed enough to try again.
“Off the cock”, as I’ve been telling my nearest and dearest.
But when I’m ready, I’ll give it another go.
Give my heart another chance to win.
And hopefully this time, to be right.
The End
(the song that says in 4 minutes what it just took me 5000+ words to explain):
If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.
I was shocked at how easy it was to block him.
For some reason I had pictured this drawn out, pain in the butt process.
But... it was simple.
For $5 a month, AT&T set me up with a program that would allow me to block up to 20 people at a time. I could manage it all myself online.
Which of course led to a friend and I testing what happened when someone who was blocked called or texted.
I blocked her, and she called.
The message made it pretty clear that I wasn’t accepting calls from that number.
She texted, and the same thing happened. She immediately received a text back saying I wasn’t accepting texts from her number.
Perfect.
The best part about the whole thing was that it blocked me from being able to call or text him as well.
Not that I thought I was going to make that mistake again, but it was nice knowing that if I tried – it would take a whole other level of steps before I would be able to.
Steps that I was fairly sure would slow me down and likely stop me in the process if I found myself suffering from a bout of momentary insanity.
At this point though, I have to admit that I still wasn’t convinced we were completely over.
But I told myself that this was the best way to enforce that space I had been saying we needed for months now.
Ever since the first time he’d really pushed – the night after his divorce.
This was the best way to keep him from getting in touch with me when he was drunk and lonely, and the best way to keep me from caving if and when he came crawling back full of excuses.
Because I was sure he would. By this point I recognized the pattern.
I was sure it would only be a matter of time.
In so many ways, this had become the cycle of abuse. I had a degree in psychology for goodness sake. I knew this. I knew how it worked.
He hurts me. Then he turns on the charm and begs for forgiveness. Then he hurts me again.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
And all I knew was that we were cycling faster and faster as time went on.
The good times becoming more abbreviated as the bad increased.
No, he had never once physically harmed me. I would never in a million years try to imply that he had.
But, I knew enough to know that this wasn’t healthy.
To know that what he was doing to me wasn’t acceptable.
Never in my life had anyone ever given me the run-around like he had. Never in my life had anyone ever put me on such a roller coaster.
And never in my life had I ever believed anyone to be so capable of completing me and breaking me apart all at once.
I wasn’t ready to say we were done. In the back of my mind, I still believed that eventually he would make this up to me.
That somewhere down the line (be it 3 months, 6 months, or even a year) he would pull his head out of his ass and go above and beyond to repair what we’d had.
But I knew we needed time.
I knew we both needed time.
And this was the only way I could think of to make that point crystal clear.
I was fairly sure he would try to call me that night, a Friday. That he’d go out drinking with his buddies, knock a few back, and suddenly decide he missed me.
I wasn’t about to let that happen. To let him open the door once more because of alcohol.
This really was the best decision.
And I knew that when he did try to get in touch with me, he would know.
Right away, he would know.
While I was aware of the fact that he obviously knew how to get ahold of me otherwise, I didn’t anticipate hearing from him once he figured out what I’d done.
I knew he would know that this time, it was for real.
So the weeks passed, and we didn’t speak.
No contact at all.
I remained confident in my belief that this was for the best.
That it was something I needed to do.
Something he needed to realize I was capable of doing.
But over the weeks, the guilt started to creep in.
I envisioned him calling, night after night, to see if I had unblocked him yet.
I pictured him hurt, and alone. Knowing of course that he had caused this, but still… suddenly feeling even more lost and abandoned in not having me to reach out to.
I knew that I had been there for him over the months in a way that wouldn’t be easy for him to do without. I knew that he had relied on me more than anyone else.
I knew that the silence between us must be painful for him.
And I started to feel guilty.
Both for having severed those ties, and for having done so with no explanation at all.
I knew he would understand. That as soon as he realized what I’d done, he would know it was because he had broken those promises to me.
But that over-communicative side of me still lamented the fact that I hadn’t given him an explanation.
Or a heads up.
Or the opportunity to at least explain himself before I shut the door.
I hadn’t given him any of that.
And I began to wonder if how I’d dealt with things had really been the right way, or if it was instead… the coward’s way.
As the weeks went by I grew stronger in my resolve that we couldn’t be together. That right now, there was nothing good that could come from us crossing those lines.
And as I grew stronger in that, I began to wonder if maybe I could be his friend.
If maybe I could still be there for him, without acting upon anything else.
I cared about him, and with us not talking… I found myself worrying about him more.
Wondering how he was doing, and hating that I wasn’t there to support him.
But I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t act on those worries.
I just… worried.
Less and less about myself every day.
It was 3 weeks after I had blocked his number when Mel sent me an e-mail to let me know that she and Jay would be in town the following night. They were going on the beer train (something that happens here once a year) and then would be heading out downtown after. She said they’d love to see me, and wanted to know if I would be up for meeting them out.
I immediately responded with a resounding “yes”. I loved these two. I loved hanging out with them. But I hadn’t been sure where my place was with the boy and I now not speaking, so I hadn’t wanted to initiate us spending time together myself.
Not long after I responded though, she sent me a text.
“Just a heads up that the boy will be with us too.”
It’s worth noting that she actually did call him “the boy”.
And that upon seeing that, my stomach flew up into my chest.
For a myriad of reasons of course, but one of them being that I caught myself wondering if she had read my blog.
I don’t keep this space a secret. There are plenty of people in my real life who read here, and I have nothing I'm trying to hide. Even those who know me only casually know that I do a lot of writing on the side.
The blog is not a secret.
But… I was 99% positive that I had never mentioned it to Mel myself.
Had the boy?
He did know about the blog, but he’d never really asked any questions about it.
I wasn’t sure if it was something he himself had ever even looked at, so I really couldn’t picture him mentioning it to others.
Especially since at the time, I had barely written about our relationship at all.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask her though, and I have to admit that I still don’t know.
Had she been reading here, or was it just a fluke?
That’s probably something I could ask now, but the truth is – I’d forgotten all about it until going back through the texts to write this.
I’d forgotten about it, because as much as it jolted me at the time, the more pressing issue still obviously remained that she was suggesting putting the boy and I in the same place at the same time the following evening.
It had been almost a month since we’d seen each other. Almost a month since we’d spoken.
And while I was feeling stronger in my resolve every day, I still wasn’t sure this was a good idea.
But… there was that part of me that wanted to. That part of me that good or bad, wanted to see him.
To know he was doing OK.
I responded back that I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, and that I would have to think about it.
If anyone understood, it was Mel. She had been through this mess with Jay years before.
She got it.
She even offered to ditch him once they got downtown, just so that she and Jay could see me.
I told her she didn’t have to do that though, and to just call me when they were heading out. I was having dinner with a friend, but told her I would definitely think about it. .
And I did think about it. I thought about it a lot.
Which is probably why for some reason, that night, I decided to unblock his number.
I was just feeling so much guilt over having blocked him at all.
And I didn’t feel like I needed it anymore. I didn’t feel like I needed that barrier there to keep us apart.
Even at the prospect of seeing him, I felt strong in my resolve to keep distance between us.
To not cross that line.
I didn’t do anything after unblocking him. I didn’t call, or text. I had no intention of doing either. And I assumed that even if he had been calling to see if I’d removed the block before, he had probably given up by now. I didn’t anticipate hearing from him any time soon.
In truth, it was a fairly meaningless act. I’m not sure what I expected to get out of it.
But I felt better, just knowing that those lines were open again.
It was a little before 9 the next night when Mel let me know they were heading out.
I was still at dinner, but told her I would text her as soon as I was done. As an aside, I asked if they were still with him.
She said they had actually gotten split up when getting off the train. She wasn’t sure where he was, but said they still might meet up with him later.
I actually thought this was perfect. I could go see them for a bit, and then if he showed – make some excuse up and head home. I didn’t have to stay hanging out with him all night though. I didn’t have to invest that much of myself into it. I could see him, know he was OK, and then leave.
Perfect.
As I was leaving the restaurant though, I sent her a text saying I was on my way, and she immediately responded by telling me he was now there.
I started to question myself.
I asked her if she thought this was a horrible idea, but then as soon as I hit “send” I felt like I had my answer.
So I replied again that I was thinking I should probably just head home.
She sent me a series of texts after that. First asking if she should ask him. And then saying that Jay wanted me to come. And then replying that the boy said he was fine with it, he just didn’t want to give me any false impressions. And finally saying that she wanted me to come so that she could see my beautiful face.
Hold up. Wait a minute.
Back the ‘F’ up.
He’d said what?
He didn’t want to give me any false impressions?
That was what he was telling them?
Like I was some sad little puppy dog who had been following him around and just couldn’t get the hint?
I almost threw up.
But I maintained my cool. Jay started texting me that they really wanted to see me. That I should just come out, and it would be a fun night for all.
Meanwhile, I was fuming.
Literally, fuming.
I responded with grace though. All smiley faces and exclamation points. Saying I just thought it was a bad idea, but I would love to see them if they wanted to grab breakfast in the morning.
I was keeping my cool.
He responded again to say that the boy was totally good with my coming and that it would be fun, but before I could reply back… I got a text from the boy.
All it said was “Come out and meet us you dork! I won’t bite!”
He didn't know when he sent that text what it would signify, but for me… it was the breaking point.
Because it was in that moment, with that text, that I realized he had no idea I had blocked his number.
Which meant, he hadn’t tried to contact me.
At all.
It had been almost 4 weeks since the night he’d declined coming over to my house, citing depression.
4 weeks
He hadn’t called.
He hadn’t texted.
He hadn’t e-mailed.
He hadn't sent carrier pigeons.
He hadn’t shown up at my house.
So presumably, he hadn’t been thinking of me at all.
After fighting so hard to get another chance.
After never once before being able to go more than a week without contacting me; even when I asked him to.
After all the promises. All the “I love you’s”. All the assurances that I was what he wanted.
That he could do this.
He hadn’t attempted to contact me even once in 4 weeks to tell me that he couldn’t.
And now, he was telling Jay and Mel that he didn’t want to give me false impressions.
Making me look (and feel) like an idiot.
Even though he had never bothered to give me the right impression.
Suddenly, the barrier broke.
I texted both Mel and Jay back that while the boy may have been totally good with my coming, I had suddenly realized that I wasn’t. I let all maturity fall away when I wrote “I kind of want to punch him in his stupid asshole face.”
I knew it probably made no sense to them. Up to this point, I had at least been entertaining the idea. I knew my dramatic shift would likely catch them totally off guard.
But I didn’t care. I was finally pissed.
Really pissed.
Not 10 minutes later, I received another text from the boy.
“Thanks for calling me an asshole” he said.
I couldn’t contain myself “You are a fucking asshole.” I replied. “If you don’t know that already, you’re a fucking idiot too.”
It was so unlike me. So out of the realm of normal for how I would typically have reacted.
But I suddenly felt more clarity than I had felt in months.
He responded with “Wow!! Not the girl I know. Take care.”
It only pissed me off more.
It felt so manipulative.
So contrived.
So calculating.
It felt like him telling me I wasn’t allowed to have feelings about this. That just because I had treated him with compassion and sympathy up to this point, I wasn’t allowed to be angry that he had so royally screwed me now.
Not without tainting the image he had of me in his head.
I didn’t respond.
I had no intention of responding.
I just sat there in my car, shaking.
Trying only to calm down enough to drive home.
It was as I was pulling into my garage that he called.
I didn’t answer initially; parking without crashing taking all of my concentration in this moment.
I was literally having a difficult time seeing straight.
He texted me immediately after that “Answer your phone.”
It felt like an order now, coming from him. And I was in no mood for orders.
But I also had more than a few things I was busting at the seams to say to him. .
So when he called again, I answered.
“What the hell is going on?” He asked. Sounding genuinely confused, which I just did not get.
At all.
Was he fucking kidding me?
I launched into an expletive filled account of “what the hell” was going on.
The main point being… “You disappeared. You sucked me back in when I was doing just fine without you. You made me all kinds of promises, and then you disappeared.”
What kind of a soulless fuck would do that?
His main argument against this rant?
“Well… it’s not like you called me either.”
At this point, he still had no idea I’d blocked his number. No clue at all, because he had never bothered to call.
All those weeks I’d spent worrying about him. Feeling guilty. Questioning my own moves.
All those weeks…. And he had never once thought to pick up the phone and call me.
But he was right. The phone lines worked both ways.
As I explained to him though, what the hell was I supposed to do? I mean, really? When he pulled away, seemingly without explanation, it had only been a week since he had begged for my forgiveness. Since he had pleaded for another chance. Since he had sworn he was ready, and that he wouldn’t hurt me again.
A week.
Was I really supposed to chase him down at that point? To call him when he wasn’t calling me?
Was I really supposed to be that sad little puppy dog who couldn’t get a hint that he was already apparently portraying me to be?
It had never in a million years occurred to me that he wouldn’t have called me in all that time.
That he wouldn’t have tried, even once, to make contact.
But the fact that he hadn’t… it made it pretty clear that no good would have come from my contacting him even if I had.
I was suddenly infinitely grateful that I had been oblivious to this fact. That blocking his number had kept me from waiting night after night for a call that never would have come.
Because I have no doubt that if I had been waiting for that call, I eventually would have caved and called him myself. The absence of communication would eventually have made me crazy enough to reach out, if only to ask what was going on.
It turned out; blocking his number had been the best thing I ever could have done for myself.
Even if he had never realized I’d done it.
But that didn’t stop me from yelling now. From calling him out on every misstep he’d ever made with me.
From seething with a rage he had never before witnessed rising out of me.
He had been right. In this moment, I wasn't the girl he knew.
But that was his fault. He had broken that girl. And I was intent upon making him see that.
Intent upon using my words to show him exactly what he’d done.
This wasn't who I was. Not anymore. I had wasted years of my life being angry. I had once upon a time spewed venom in every direction, including towards those I cared about the most.
Just ask my dad about some of the hateful things he's heard from me.
I had a gift for conjuring up the words that could cut the deepest. But I had worked hard to suppress that side of myself. To put people and their feelings ahead of my need to make others hurt as much as I did.
Here I was though. That girl fighting to get through. Begging for just 30 seconds with the boy.
Just 30 seconds to make him bleed the way he had me.
There were so many things I could have said. So many words on the tip of my tongue that could have pummeled him.
But I held her back; that assassin inside of me. Succumbing only to the yelling. The fierce coldness with which I addressed he and his excuses. The assassin there, just at the edge, but never fully breaking through.
It had been years since she had come so close to the surface. I had worked to send her away. To let go of my anger and hurt. I had worked to live my life with compassion and understanding.
To live my life without her.
And after years of thinking she was gone, he had managed to bring her back to the surface in only a matter of months.
For that, I almost hated him the most.
He began throwing out the now tired and used line that he was just “so messed up” right now. That he had no idea what it was he wanted.
In fact, at one point I'm fairly sure he even shouted that back at me.
“Do you really think I know what I want? Do you really think I know what I need?”
I didn’t care anymore though.
I no longer felt sorry for him.
Not in the slightest.
“Do you think you’re the only person in the world who has ever been hurt?” I shouted. “Do you think you're the only one who has ever felt this pain? Because you’re wrong. You’re dead wrong! I’ve been hurt! I’ve been hurt by the people in my life who were supposed to protect me the most! I’ve been hurt by life! I’ve been hurt by you! But you don’t see me using that as an excuse to hurt other people! You don’t see me using my past as a reason to take others down!”
One of the things I had always admired about the boy was that while he could be selfish and insensitive, he was always very open to what I had to say when I called him on it. Always quick to apologize and attempt to rectify the situation.
Typically something he hadn’t even been aware he’d done or said until I pointed it out.
He was good about this. Good about dropping all defenses and trying to understand where I was coming from when I was upset.
Good at looking himself in the mirror when directly confronted with his own misdeeds.
Not now though. Now, he was fighting back.
Defensive right out the gate. Barely listening to a word I was saying.
Even as I shouted those words for all to hear.
I can’t say I blamed him. Gone were the days of my being rational and sensitive to his feelings. Gone were the times when I carefully picked my words before approaching him.
Now, with her fighting in the background to be released; I was attacking.
With almost everything I had.
It made sense that this would push him into defense mode.
So when I said that, his immediate response was to yell back. “You have no idea what I’ve been through!" he proclaimed. "You have no idea how it’s made me feel! You may have been through plenty yourself, but that doesn’t mean you understand what this is! What it means to love someone and to plan on spending the rest of your life with them, only to have them walk out on you! You have no idea!”
I knew I wasn’t getting through to him. That I would need to tone it down, even just an little, if I was going to make the impression I needed to make.
So, I took a deep breath and dialed back the volume.
Locking my jaw as I spoke, in an attempt to keep the words from coming out as daggers.
“I never said you didn’t have a right to feel the way you feel. I never said I was judging what you’re going through. You’re right – I have no idea what it is she really did to you. But I have been compassionate, and understanding, and there for you every step of the way. I have spent entire nights listening to you. I have never once blocked you out or told you that you didn’t have a right to feel what you were feeling. I have worried about you, and cared about you, and supported you with everything I've got. I know you’re hurting, and I get that. I hate her for what she did to you. All I’m saying, is that nothing she did gives you an excuse to turn around and do the same to me.”
Suddenly, it was like a light bulb went off for him.
A moment of clarity against the madness.
“You’re right.” He said. “I’m so sorry. You’re right.”
Another moment passed, before he continued “I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”
I didn’t even have to think about my response.
I’d made my point.
I’d forced him to see.
And that was all I cared about in that moment.
“You just keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing” I replied. “It’s obvious you haven’t been wasting a whole lot of time thinking about me, so you might as well keep that up. I really don’t care what you do anymore though… I’m done.”
Which is when I told him “goodbye”, before promptly hanging up.
Still shaking. Still seething. Still boiling red with hatred.
