There are moments when we forget ourselves … moments when good intentions do not feel so noble, and cannot protect us in our frailty … when we are defined by our tragedies more than our strength. What is our humanity? Is it prevailing over our weakness, or is it the weakness itself?
I believed myself to be over the SoHB following the debacle at the concert. Bringing his girlfriend that night exposed an insensitivity I couldn’t overlook. I was certain I never wanted to speak to him again. The following Monday, I changed my IM handle to “F*** you, SoHB.” He never signed on. I suspected that he blocked me, but with his penchant for coming in to work around noon after a drinking binge, I couldn’t be sure. That afternoon, Rachel* confirmed for me when he signed on, but I couldn’t see him. I’d intended to block him once I knew he’d seen my insult. Now knowing he’d seen it, or at least been told by one of our mutual friends, I blocked him as well. That was supposed to be the end.
When I was working, I was a bit spoiled by having my friends around me every day. I could comfortably spend a weekend alone at home. I didn’t realize how desolate it could feel. On the following Friday, I invited several friends over at the last minute for drinks on my deck. I knew there was slim chance of anyone coming, even The Flirt, who had given me a “maybe.” It seemed most of my friends were out of town. I didn’t even prepare for company. I fell asleep on the couch around midnight. My ringing phone woke me at 2AM. The Flirt was drunk after late night pool playing with his best friend. He was on his way home, but wanted to come over now. I laughed at his attempt at a booty call.
The next evening, the comfortable solitude transformed into abject loneliness. I needed the company of a friend, even if it was only to sit and silently watch television. I called The Flirt, my only available friend, but reached his voice mail. I returned to my blog writing, television watching, and deepening melancholy. Hours passed. Out of desperation, I called The Flirt once more. It was no use. I would have to endure my own company all evening. It was then that I met the memory of “once upon a time.” Once upon a time, if I ever felt the slightest bit lonely, there was a friend on whom I could always call. If I ever needed company, whether going out for a drink or just a talk on the phone, I could always rely on the SoHB. I had been missing him for months, but never like I did right then. At that moment I simply missed my best friend, and I grieved.
To deal with the grief, I composed an e-mail. In it, I expressed my deep confusion at my own contradictory feelings. I apologized for jerking him around with my ever-changing emotions. I apologized for the last weekend, when I poured my drink on him. I told him that I didn’t think we should communicate for a while, but stretched forth an olive branch by saying I believed there had been more to us than what was going on recently. I told him how I missed him.
When I sat back and read my message, I realized why I needed to write it. Until I acted hostile toward him, I held all the power. I had expressed my hurt, and I had argued with him, but now his last memory of me was absolutely ugly. Before that incident, I had the liberty of calling him, even if he couldn’t comfortably do the same. Now, I wasn’t the only one bearing grievance. He had something to hold against me, as well. I didn’t like what I had accomplished. I wanted him to remember me and miss me. I wanted him to long for my company. I originally had no intention of sending the e-mail, but decided that I would. Instead of the harsh image I last left with him, I would send it and leave him a softer one.
He replied the next day. My e-mail had surprised him. He said he found it hard to imagine us being friends at this point, even at the most superficial level. He said he didn’t intend that as a spiteful statement. It was simply clear that I disliked him, and while he would prefer it wasn’t the case, he wouldn’t defend or justify himself anymore. He was confused by my contacting him to propose no communication for a while, but thought I was probably right. He assured me that he wouldn’t attend any social events where I was present. He was sorry things turned out so badly. He hoped the ill will could be put to rest at some point, and wished me the best. I didn’t respond to his e-mail . That was supposed to be the end.
Rachel and I decided to see the new Bridget Jones’ movie (a character to which I closely relate) on Friday. Having been inspired by Bridget, we visited our favorite martini bar after the movie. Their specialty drinks are an outrageous indulgence … as costly as a common dinner, but so hard to resist. We each had three and called it a night. I felt fine when I arrived home … didn’t really want the evening to end. The devilish idea popped into my head of calling the SoHB for a little light-hearted conversation, just like I’d longed to do the last weekend. I speculated that through the tunnel-vision induced by alcohol I might be able block out the hurt and anger. I doubted that three martinis would do the job. I went to my liquor cabinet and made myself two Buttery Nipple shots for courage.
I knew he wouldn’t be home on a Friday night. It was always his happy-hour night with friends. I wasn’t worried that he might be with her, because he told me once that she worked late on weekends (so there was never any need for us to meet). I didn’t have his cell phone number anymore, but I remembered his home number. As expected, his answering machine picked up. Having nothing particular to say, I didn’t leave a message. Then I reconsidered. Wanting him to know that I called … wanting him to hear my lovely, carefree voice, I called again. It surprised me when he answered.
“Hey!” I said. “I didn’t expect you to be home. I was going to leave a message.”
“No. I’m home.” I looked at the clock. Very odd for him to be home at midnight on a Friday, but not unheard of.
“What’s up?” Although a bit nervous, I actually felt as light-hearted as I sounded.
“Oh, nothing. Just had some dinner.” His voice sounded stilted … unnatural.
“Oh,” I said, wondering if he’d been out with her. There was a pause. He offered no more detail. “Well, I was surprised you answered. I’m drunk,” I giggled, offering that as explanation of the call and my gregarious manner.
“OH,” he said, knowingly. There was another pregnant pause.
“Well, what are you doing?” I said, hoping to get the conversation rolling. I believed his odd tone was due to suspicion. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop … waiting to see what new abuse I would heap on him.
“Nothing,” he replied. Pause.
“Nothing you want to talk about.”
“Right.” Another pregnant pause. He wasn’t cooperating.
“Well, I really don’t know what to say now. Like I said, I expected to just leave a message,” I said, fishing for him to contribute.
“Well, you can leave a message.”
“I can leave a message … !??” I said incredulously.
“Yeah. You can give me the message.” Here was the most pregnant pause of all. I didn’t understand. Why would I want to leave a message when the real deal was on the phone? Several long seconds passed. “Look, I need to go,” he said. The truth dawned. She was with him. He couldn’t talk to me because she was there.
“Oh, you need to go…,” I repeated.
“Yeah. I really need to go.”
“Well, … then … you just go! You just GO!!” I spat, and hung up the phone. It was the best my intoxicated brain could come up with at the moment. I was incredibly angry. So much for my good intentions.
I stomped around the house as I prepared for bed, muttering about what an ass he was. I understood now what the “nothing” he didn’t want to talk about was. The more time that passed, the angrier I felt. I was infuriated … in a blazing, white-hot rage. I wanted to tell him off. I wanted to blister his ears with all of the horrible things I thought of him. I wanted him to pay.
I resisted the desire to call him. I wouldn’t reduce myself to being the belligerent harpy shrieking from his answering machine. I was so angry, I could barely string two sentences together. Besides, he probably turned off the machine to avoid embarrassment in front of his girlfriend. I tried to concentrate on brushing my teeth, but it wouldn’t hold. My anger wouldn’t subside. I had to do something.
I would write him an e-mail. That was passive-aggressive enough. I finished up the bedtime ritual before banging out a hateful message saying that I hoped he had a very nice f*** with his girlfriend. Hoping to hit a nerve, I also said that if he ever wondered what it might have been like with me, he should ask The Flirt.
I went to bed and laid there fuming. There would be no immediate rest for me that night. After several minutes, I decided that I had not said enough. I went to the computer again and wrote an e-mail dripping with resentment. I started off explaining the benign purpose of my phone call. I said it was a good thing he picked up the phone so she didn’t have to hear my voice. I went on to question whether she was aware he’d been in my bed at some point after they started dating, since he’d told me once that they were honest with each other. Then I resorted to sarcasm, noting my stupidity in not realizing he’d intended that last night as a final farewell (as he once asserted). I asked how I could have been so silly as to believe in the feelings he expressed for me. I asked how I might think his lying with me and holding me close all day was significant, despite his never saying anything to diminish the romance of it. Finally, I attached a document I’d written a few days earlier as an exercise in letting go. In the e-mail I stated that I was obviously having a hard time living up to its edicts, but it was, nonetheless, my resolution. It wasn‘t written for him to see, but I was so impressed with myself for it, I decided to send it while in the heat of the moment. In it I detailed the minimum of decency I deserved but had not received from him. If he valued me, he would have honored his feelings for me. If he valued me, he wouldn’t have been careless with my feelings knowing he had no intention of returning them. If he valued me, he would have sacrificed his pride to my heartache with an apology. If he valued me, he would have gladly pursued my friendship and disproved my feelings of worthlessness. I stated that I was giving up the chase after something that apparently wasn’t there. I blamed alcohol in large part for his foolishness, stating that as long as it remains his most trusted companion, there will not be room for any woman to fill that role. I told him that I still prayed for him, because I loved him in spite of everything. I simply couldn’t love him up close as I had wanted. And I said goodbye.
I wrote both e-mails knowing I would regret them in the morning. I wanted to thwart my sensible self while the rage was high and alcohol still coursed through my blood. As predicted, I regretted my rashness even before falling asleep.
I half expected him to respond. That is why one spews such vicious words … to elicit a response, but I also knew he would very likely ignore my messages. I had given up all my power. I began the journey through heartache as the wronged one. My rage now seduced me into handing him the high road that should have been mine. In the morning, I futilely searched for a means of retrieving the messages. I helplessly waited for an embittered response from him, which never came. The next day, I decided my only recourse was to apologize. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to make excuses rather than hold myself accountable for the hurtful things I’ve said. I wrote a new message apologizing for the previous two e-mails. I explained that my drunk self wanted to “strike back” before my sober self could talk me out of it, and I hoped he (of all people) could understand the drunk vs. sober inconsistency. I stated that I’d rather not talk to him anymore, citing how I end up paying for my attempts at friendliness. As expected, he never replied to my apology, either. I wonder if he even received it. By then, he may have blocked my e-mail address.
I found it difficult to function over the next three days. I knew their relationship to be intimate, but being confronted with it firsthand, even over the phone, was harsh. The effect on me couldn’t have been worse if I’d actually walked in on them. I know I carried a fantasy that he still longed for me, despite his choices. It felt better imagining that he had some pangs of guilt when he lay with her. The unsavory truth was that he chose to be with her, not because of our mixed signals and misunderstandings, but because it was what he wanted. And the harshest truth of all was that with every new day, with every new opportunity I presented him, he still chose her. I am hardly on his mind, much less the source of any regret. The madness served me in the end, though. No matter how foolish I looked, it brought me kicking and screaming into reality. It exposed his coldness to me. It exposed my weakness for him. My resolution is now being honored, although the pain remains. I have no desire to see or talk to him. He is out of my life.
Dec 12, 2004
Dec 7, 2004
Background: The Source of HeartBreak (SoHB) Part 3
New Year’s Eve approached, and I resolved to give a small party. Inspired by an intimate gathering Jeri* had the previous year, I invited only a few close friends. Every year New Year’s Eve is one of my most anticipated holidays. In the recesses of my mind I fantasized about a midnight kiss with the SoHB. I also have a weakness of hoping for romantic connections during my parties, whether it’s the old crush at my birthday party, The Flirt at Halloween, or, in this case, the SoHB. I’m usually disappointed.
The SoHB called a few hours before the party. I was happy to hear his voice. He gave me an account of his evening plans, telling me that he had another party obligation, so he wouldn’t be at mine the whole night. Then he revealed that he invited someone … a date. My heart dropped. I told him it was fine. I asked a little about her, as any good friend would. When our conversation ended I allowed myself to acknowledge the disappointment. I realized that our imagined kiss had been a primary focus in my preparations. With it made impossible, I lost all desire to continue, but couldn’t cancel.
The party was lively, but my spirit wasn’t in it. I greeted my guests as cheerily as possible. When midnight approached, I poured the champagne. Looking at my guests, all couples, I raised my glass to make an impressive toast. I made a brave face for everyone around me, watching as they kissed their dates or spouses. Inside, I felt like crying.
The SoHB called a couple of times before showing up with a college girl… cute, petite… more that 10 years his junior. He knew her through theater connections. As a good hostess, I welcomed her with grace and made certain she enjoyed herself. Besides being terminally nice, I felt a perverted desire to please him. The scenario seemed bizarre… almost like the other woman playing hostess to the wife. I liked the girl. It wasn’t her fault she ruined my party.
I didn’t reveal my feelings immediately. I wasn’t secure in them myself. I had no right to expect anything of him. It was I who made it clear that we were simply friends. It was I who spent most of our friendship keeping him at a distance. Besides, I couldn’t make any bold declarations of undying love. My feelings were only now burgeoning. After enduring several casual references to her during the following week, I decided my feelings weren’t just shallow jealousy. I let him know how disappointed I was when he brought a date to my party. I told him about wanting to get away from him whenever he talked about her. He was suspicious, and understandably so. The situation resembled the one with Jeri’s friend. I explained that my questions regarding us started weeks earlier, and my feelings had begun developing before New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t convince him. He finally attempted to placate me by pointing out she would be returning to college soon. Who knew what would happen then?
The new girl spurned him once she returned to college. I was relieved, believing that we might now have a chance to build on those feelings. I knew that time would prove my sincerity, but it wasn’t long before he disappointed me again. The Flirt and his roommate threw a small football/poker party. I wasn’t interested, but the SoHB said my attendance was the only reason he would go. Feeling encouraged by this, I went. He hardly arrived before leaving again for another party, promising to return. He was obviously hoping to meet someone new. Even Jeri commented that the SoHB was “on the prowl.” I couldn’t enjoy the party. I had expected to spend more time with him, but was uneasy waiting while he sought other company. I went home. In a 1AM phone call, he complained that I had left him. I made clear my displeasure at having been so unceremoniously spurned.
The next several months were a seesaw of emotions. I felt closer to him in one moment only to feel discarded in the next. He originally told me his next interest was just a friend. She had a boyfriend. Then, on a night out, he openly teased and cajoled her with veiled remarks about a desire to date her. This time I stormed out of the bar in a drunken huff. After these events we would argue. I complained that if he insisted on pursuing other women, I needed to distance myself. I couldn’t sit by and watch. He acted resentful.
In my mind, the drama became a race. If I couldn’t find someone before he did, my heart would break. I tried things I never imagined I would. Never having been much of a dater, I bought books about it. I listed a personal ad on the internet. I picked up a man in a bar. No one I encountered impressed me. My eyes longingly returned to the SoHB
I was comforted when nothing came of his latest interest. My attempts to distance myself from him never lasted more than a week. He didn’t seem to be “on the prowl” as much, but he resisted being linked romantically with me. He argued that our differences in religion and social convictions made us incompatible. He declared me to be the one who initiated our breakup. I tried reasoning that it was the right decision at the time. It didn’t have to mean forever. I countered that our differences were once the arguments I made, but I still managed to develop feelings. I believed myself to be arguing against his doubts. If they could be allayed, we would have a chance. But he also started making comments that were out of character. Throughout our complicated relationship, he always made it clear that he didn’t prioritize sex. He consistently made comments of, “I’m not like The Flirt,” or “I don’t want you to think I’m like those guys.” Suddenly, the earth shifted on its axis, and he started saying things like, “Maybe The Flirt’s attitude is the way to go,” and “I need a mate.” To me, the remarks were a veiled way of saying I was now unsuitable … my celibacy wouldn’t fit in his lifestyle. It disturbed me, but I hoped they were mere thoughts of desperation drawn out of his loneliness. I wanted to believe in the respect I held for him after years of friendship. The character he had asserted and I believed proven … those were his convictions, right? They revealed his true self….
Over the months of late winter and spring, there were moments that stand out in memory…moments of frustration or hope, inspiration and exasperation. I cannot help but note how many involved alcohol. There was the moment we decided to go to a local Irish pub. While driving to the bar, he received a call from the friend I despised. When he told me his friend was joining us, I didn’t run. I stayed and endured the friend’s undesirable presence. When I had succumbed to enough and started to leave, the SoHB followed me and made claims of why I should stay as thought I owed it to him … as though I were a girlfriend. I agreed to stay a little longer. At some point during the night I accused the SoHB of being incapable of truly loving any woman, because alcohol was his mistress. He said I might be right.
One of the most pivotal occasions for me came one night when he stayed at my house after things had fallen through with both ladies of interest. We sat on my couch… or rather, I lay with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair. He told me that he had tried dating these other girls, but it wasn’t the same. They weren’t me. I was moved. Nodding in understanding, I expressed that it had been the same for me. I felt certain it was only a matter of time before he gave up his silly quest. He slept in my bed afterwards, holding me all night. In the morning, we talked over the meaning of these things. He was resolute that we were nothing more than friends. I argued that this was not the behavior of friends. You do not sleep over with a friend with which you have a romantic history and who has expressed feelings for you. There were several occasions in which he slept over with me, always in the same bed, and this wasn’t the last.
It was shortly afterwards that he came, late as usual, to see a band accompanied by the girl from New Year’s Eve. My group of friends had been out for hours and were already enjoying ourselves. His group seated themselves apart from us. I refused to go by their table. I had reached my limit of understanding.
Also in attendance that night was a new friend of mine. We became acquainted through our mutual interest in music. Upon learning that I played a little guitar he invited me to jam with him sometime. I suspected he was interested in me for more than music, but when he didn’t flirt or seem over eager, I put it out of mind. At the evening’s end, there was only a trio of us left, including him. As I started to drive away, I discovered my car had a flat tire. I was able to catch the other two before they left, and my guitar friend helped change the tire. He followed me home to make certain the spare would hold. I appreciated his gentlemanly consideration.
Once home, I thanked him. At some point in the evening I had mentioned having the ingredients for Buttery Nipple shots at home. He surprised me by asking if we could have one. I naively thought nothing of inviting him in. Any suspicion of interest had long been put out of mind. It was as I downed my shot and looked at him that the realization hit. He was going to kiss me! Within a split second, he did.
It turned into a passionate evening. I wanted to stop. Things were too intense, but in my clouded logic I feared saying the wrong thing. I feared hurting his feelings. So, I put off my reservations until I could think of something to say. He carried me to the bedroom. I was hesitant, but men had slept in my bed before, or I had been in theirs. I was always in control. The night continued until the wee hours. I had gone much farther than intended. In the midst of this, I recall looking at him and wishing he were the SoHB. That night as I slept beside him, I dreamed of the SoHB. I dreamed he learned of my indiscretion and became inconsolable with grief. Within my dream I reasoned that he would have to get over it … we weren’t together, but my conscience nagged me. I had let him believe I had strong feelings for him, which I did. I felt I had betrayed him. After this event, it remained in the back of my mind that I had involved myself with this new friend in a way which belonged to the SoHB. In our dating days we never went so far. It seemed to me that if anyone should hold that distinction, it was him.
More weeks passed. I avoided being alone with my guitar friend. I endeavored to be more obvious in my affection for the SoHB. We became closer than ever. I was amazed by my feelings for him. I’d often told him that I wasn’t in love with him. While that still held true, I didn’t understand how. I loved him so deeply it felt as though my heart could burst from it. When I closely examined how I could feel such deep love, but not consider myself in love, I determined the difference was a matter of trust. I trusted the SoHB with my life, my secrets, my self, but I didn’t trust him with my heart. All of my former concerns had fallen away save one. I couldn’t trust him to be responsible with alcohol. He would never give it up. I also knew he was not yet ready stop looking elsewhere for love.
One Friday in July, I invited several friends over for drinks on my new deck. I looked forward to entertaining them, knowing the evening would fit their laid back style. I also looked forward to having the SoHB over. Since we’d grown so much closer, I was certain he would stay later than everyone else, and I hoped we would have an intimate evening. As it happened, he was the last one remaining. I was eager for some meaningful alone time with him. I was certain our attraction had progressed to a point he would want to kiss me and hopefully more. I flirted. I teased. I was disheartened. There was no reaction.
We moved inside to the living room. As I close the window blinds, he said, “You know, Kwirk, I am a sexual man.”
I turned to him and said, “I know. Don’t you think I know that’s what this is all about…why you’ve been resisting me? You’ve said things like this before.”
Exactly how he responded, I can’t recall, but he started pointing out again that I had broken up with him. I countered with the fact that our breakup had happened two years ago. People change. We’d changed. By that point I was laying across the couch, my head in his lap. He gently stroked my hair. He looked at me fondly, and said, “You know, sometimes when I look at you, I think I might love you.” I knew what he meant. Several occasions throughout the preceding week … several sober occasions … I’d caught him looking at me in that old familiar way. It was the reason I knew he would want to kiss me this night … the reason I believed he would show me his desire, even if involuntarily. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to speak the words that I loved him, but it wasn’t secure. I wasn’t secure he would accept it. I wasn’t secure with myself being able to progress from loving him completely to being in love with him. He made other endearing statements. All I could manage was the supportive nod seasoned with the intermittent “I know. Me too.”
Then his tone changed. He said he felt that he was going to hurt me. He feared that he was about to betray me. I sat up and looked hard at him. “Are you seeing someone?” I asked. From the corner of his eye, he looked at me guiltily and nodded. I had been through this before. He’d started seeing someone, but it probably won’t work out, just like the others. Here he was saying intimate things to me. What was the chance that it would work out? I detachedly asked a little about her. He asked in turn if I was seeing someone. Not wanting to be left out, I mentioned that there was someone interested in me, but I wasn’t sure if I felt the same. After a few minutes, I determined we should go to bed. We could continue talking there. I took his hand, but he resisted. “Friends don’t do that,” he said, echoing my words from weeks before. I gave up and went to bed feeling certain he would shortly follow. Around 4AM I awoke alone. I rose to search for him, and found him asleep on the couch pretty much as I had left him. This time when I took his hand and coaxed him, he followed. We fell asleep again in each other’s arms.
After sunrise, we were still touching. When I rose to let out the dog or go to the restroom, he resisted, holding me close to him until I promised to return. Whenever I returned to bed, he would take me and hold me close again. I told him that I missed him. He said he missed me, too. I think there was no doubt as to what either of us meant. I wanted to talk about us, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I wanted to kiss him, but I wanted it to come out of his desire for me. We never spoke more than a few words before he drifted back into sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Before making a quick trip to the bank, I laid down on the edge of the bed facing him. We exchanged words in which I told him where I was going, and that I would return. I decided I wanted to give him more than the nods and “I know’s” of the previous night. I had been teetering at the edge of these words for a couple of weeks. Maybe last night’s revelation was the right opening. I stroked the side of his face and said, “I love you, SoHB.” His eyes were closed, but I knew he heard. I felt foolish. I realized he didn’t remember his words and didn’t understand mine were a response to them.
He didn’t leave until 3 or 4 o’clock in the afternoon. He didn’t kiss me goodbye, but it was the longest he had ever stayed. It was the most he had ever revealed. I was delighted, and yet…
As I started cleaning up from the night’s party, I felt a nagging discomfort. With him gone, I could look at the event as a whole… all he said, all he did. I stopped to analyze what could be bothering me. I drew the puzzle pieces together to start forming a picture. I realized him saying that he was going to hurt and betray me pointed to some future betrayal, but he was already seeing someone. There must be another barrier to cross. He must anticipate becoming intimate with this person. It was something I had anticipated, only not so immediately. In the years since we dated, I don’t believe he had sex, based on his word that he didn’t sleep with anyone he wasn’t involved with. So far, he hadn’t dated anyone long enough to become “involved” with them. Knowing my values, I believed him aware that sex with someone else while I was available to him, and when he had expressed such deep feeling for me, would not be acceptable. While I couldn’t expect his fidelity as a boyfriend, I did expect him to honor the feelings he expressed to me … and honor the hope that we were becoming right for one another. Surely he must know that carrying his new relationship to that level would close the casket on any hope of our having one. He’d better be certain that he didn’t want me.
I was naturally uneasy about this revelation, but it went deeper than the feared loss of potential romance. At the core of my sadness was revealed a bitter truth. If he chose that path, I could also no longer be his friend. He had led me to believe in his feelings for me. He had depended on me much as one would a girlfriend. If he slept with this person, he couldn’t expect me to be available as usual. I knew that he would. The bond we shared was significant, and he would want to continue relying on it. I wasn’t content to be the standby girlfriend. I wasn’t content with the role of being his emotional support system while he screwed someone else. No. If that was what he wanted, he would lose me entirely.
The following week I was sent to Orlando for nearly two weeks. The SoHB and I usually talked on the phone during my long trips. He would call to check on me and offer a little company. I was dismayed that he didn’t call. We e-mailed back and forth a little, but his messages lacked their usual energy and playfulness. I flew to Pensacola, where my sister lives, over the weekend. Our nephew’s band was competing in radio contest at a local bar. I had to pull all kinds of strings to manage getting there, but I did it. I expected the SoHB to come. He knew it not only meant a great deal for me to support my nephew, but it was also a hard thing for me to endure. Watching my nephew perform … seeing him pursue his dreams while I had settled for a 9 to 5 desk job … was bittersweet. By the time the evening climaxed (my nephew’s band won the contest), my ol’ standby, rum and coke, had worked its magic. My mood dropped from elation to self-pity in a heartbeat. I resented the SoHB for not being there, and decided to call him up and tell him. I left a slurred, unflattering message on voice mail.
On Monday, I was back in Orlando. In an IM conversation with the SoHB, I complained once more about his lack of consideration. He claimed I expected too much of him. I again sensed a distance, and something he said made me suspect he had done the deed. I cried a little, but it was only a suspicion, after all. I was able to put it out of mind.
Home again the next weekend, three of us met for drinks Friday night. We started at a pizza place. The three of us laughed and joked. The SoHB wanted us to visit one of his favorite haunts in its new location, and we obliged. As we sat around the bar table, I could determine the SoHB’s inebriation level by the content of his conversation. As had become his habit of late, he began talking about sex, asking personal questions … often offering me apology for the risqué topic, as though the frankness of his questions was uncharacteristic. I shrugged and let him carry on. None of it bothered me, even when I disagreed. Eventually, our friend took his leave, and the two of us were finally alone.
I always took delight our time alone together. This was no exception. I moved to sit nearer. It wasn’t long before his conversation took an odd turn. Continuing the topic of sex, he asked if I remembered an occasion when we dated … a time when we made out, and he “went for the gold,” so to speak (His words). He remembered that I moved his hand gently, but decisively, away. He apologized for that occasion … for being too forward. I smiled and nodded that I remembered. I wanted to laugh at his apology. If he’d only tried a little more of that, I may not have broken up with him. He continued rambling the same inconsequential phrases about how I had broken up with him, asking “What was I supposed to do?” He then gravely confessed that he was seeing someone, and I casually replied, “I know.”
He was astonished. “You know? How do you know?”
I reminded him that he told me two weeks earlier. He didn’t remember.
His speech was peppered with nervous laughter. “What? You knew? Why have I been torturing myself these last two weeks? You don’t know what I’ve been through. I’ve been so worried. I feel like I’ve betrayed you. But what was I supposed to do, Kwirk. You broke up with me.” His words barely registered. “I met her in a bar. You know, you go out. You meet someone, and you click. What was I supposed to do? You broke up with me.” I was still nodding, maybe not smiling. I was accustomed to the role of longsuffering, unrequited lover. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You know, I dated a couple of girls. That was just foolishness. But this isn’t foolish. This girl is older. This is serious.” His voice had turned grave. He expected me to reply, but I had none. I was still trying to process all he said. Could things have grown so different while I was gone? A question slowly formed. Had he slept with her? Was that the difference? I couldn’t speak the terrible thought. I couldn’t presume the right to ask it. It was too personal, and I feared the answer.
“I feel as though I’ve betrayed you,” he said again. “But what was I supposed to do?” He reached out to touch my shoulder. I pulled away. “Look at you. You can’t even stand for me to touch you.”
Around this time, he excused himself to the restroom. I had a moment of silence to weigh his words and decide what they meant. The words circled in my mind … words like “betrayed” and “serious.”
He returned to the table. He stared at me a moment. “Say something, for God’s sake. Give me something,” he pleaded. My mind, my heart was screaming my question, but I couldn’t utter it. “I feel so guilty. But, why? Why, Kwirk? You broke up with me.” My eyes bored into him. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to lay my hand on his cheek. My heart was bursting with a desire to love him, and cracking from fear that this was the end. If I said the words, he would confirm them, and I would be lost. I couldn’t say them. There was no point in my sticking around, not if all I could give was silence.
“I think I should leave,” I said, gathering my purse.
“Kwirk,” he called after me, but I needed to escape. I just said goodbye and headed for the door. I wanted him to follow me. I wanted him to chase me down in the parking lot and make me talk to him. I knew he wouldn’t.
I spent Saturday in a pervasive melancholy. I didn’t cry. There was no excuse. He wasn’t mine to cry over. Sunday evening I put the words together. The last night he stayed with me, he said he feared that he was going to betray me. On Friday night, he used the past tense. He felt as though he had betrayed me. It was all the confirmation I needed. He had slept with her. Then the tears came. I had to go out of town again. Monday morning I stood in front of a new class and hoped I wouldn’t lose my breakfast. He instant messaged me that afternoon, but I didn’t respond. I knew we needed to talk, but it shouldn’t happen through such a superficial medium. Wednesday was my birthday. I can’t remember a more miserable one. I received an e-mail from him wishing me a happy birthday. Tagged onto the end was a statement that he didn’t believe he did anything to deserve my not speaking to him. I deleted the e-mail. If I was important to him, he would call. He never called.
It was two weeks before I spoke to him. I initiated it, but only regarding work. It was a month before I saw him at Beerfest. I didn’t know if he was still dating that girl. I thought I didn’t care. I was apprehensive about seeing him again, but I looked forward to it, also. I had a vision of the SoHB approaching me for a personal conversation once drink boosted his courage. I dressed to kill, and I wore my most carefree spirit. Seeing him again was awkward, but it didn’t inhibit my evening. We had a large group which splintered frequently. When we did all end up in the same bar together, it looked like the moment had arrived when he would approach me, but he didn’t.
The group was fractured when Beerfest came to its official end. Of course, all the patrons stick around to enjoy the nightlife. My friends and I returned to the bar where we had last seen the other group members. We waited about an hour before leaving to look elsewhere. Walking down the street, one of my friends called The Flirt. He and the SoHB were sitting in a bar in another part of town. They had left us. The SoHB was apparently content to leave without talking to me. I was crushed. When I arrived home that night, I called him on his cell phone. I think I bitterly told him that I hoped he was having a nice time, and hung up. My phone immediately rang. I knew it was him calling to find out what was wrong. It was my guitar friend instead, whom I’d also run into at Beerfest. He asked me out on a date for the following evening. So, things ended well for me, after all.
I later learned from Rachel* that she had asked the SoHB where his girlfriend was that night. He told her she had to work. I couldn’t decide which bothered me more; the fact he was still seeing her at all, or that he didn’t flinch at the word “girlfriend.” We had dated for eight months, and he never once referred to me as a girlfriend, or since then as an ex-. I also learned that she had met him at the bar after they left us that night. She had been with him when I called. I was dismayed.
Nearly a week later, we had our first argument. In reaction to Beerfest events, I deleted his name from my IM contacts and all his numbers from my cell phone. We didn’t speak for several days. I thought he would message me, but he didn’t. By Thursday, it was driving me crazy. I e-mailed him asking for his IM contact info, thereby revealing that I deleted it. I then messaged him to ask something work-related, but we eventually spiraled into an argument. I told him that I had expected him to speak to me at Beerfest. He accused me of being stand-offish. I expressed my anger over his not ever approaching me to talk about things. He whined about my walking out on him a month earlier. He thought I hated him. He thought a part of him believed he deserved it, but he didn’t believe it anymore. I explained why I walked out on him and why I hadn’t spoken to him. I explained how I’d interpreted his words. He expressed amazement. They hadn’t slept together then, he said. He didn’t know how I could have come to that conclusion. I explained the misleading details in his conversation. He didn’t know why he used the word “betrayed.” He didn’t betray me. I explained that I didn’t see things as though he had cheated on me. I knew I had no claim on him, but his actions led me to believe he had feelings for me … significant, deep feelings. I told him what he said to me on the last night he slept over … that he sometimes thought he might love me. He didn’t remember, of course. He thought I must have misunderstood the context in which he meant it. He said it didn’t mean he actually felt that way, since he said it while drunk. He danced around my points of contention with his justifications. The only thing he didn’t contest was something he said a couple of weeks earlier. He had asked if we could get together to talk things over sometime. I agreed, but he never pursued it any further. He conceded that he had not followed through. Before ending the conversation, I wanted to get something straight before I carried on in false anger. I had been mistaken in how I interpreted what he said that infamous night at the bar. I had grieved without real reason for a month. I didn’t want to continue in mistaken grief. I wanted him to tell me that he had slept with her. All he would say was that he wasn’t comfortable discussing that with me. After much insistence, he finally said, “You know the answer to that, Kwirk.” I told him that I did know, but I wanted to hear it from him. That was all the confirmation I would get from him, but it was all I really needed.
That weekend, he called me at 5AM after a drunken all-nighter, saying he was afraid things would become irreparable if we didn’t speak. We covered the same topics. I tried to explain why I was so hurt. I tried to explain how his sleeping with her affected my perception of him and of us, in context of my religious beliefs. He took it as a judgment … that I expected him to live by my standards. I told him that I only expected him to honor the feelings he expressed to me. I went into the events that I found misleading. I went into the feelings I had expected him to be aware of, pointing out the things I did and said. He fell back on the argument that nothing was ever directly expressed. He told me that if I had spoken up, had made my feelings known, maybe it all would have turned out differently. Who knew what might have happened? I accused him of using me as a stand-in girlfriend, and now wanting me to remain available while his romance was still budding. He countered that if that were true, then I had used him as a stand-in as well. He claimed he had given up all hope in a future for us. He wanted us to remain friends. The sound of that was like nails on a chalkboard. He said that, as a friend, I should be happy for him. The conversation ended with nothing truly resolved, but I felt better for his making an effort. I had mixed feelings about the conversation itself. He took no accountability for anything. The closest he came was after he denied doing anything to mislead me. I pointed out that it is possible to do and say misleading things even when it isn’t intended. He conceded to my point, but did not accept any responsibility for anything specifically. And yet, he never denied having feelings for me. In fact, it seemed he admitted to more possibilities than he should have, for he implied that he might be with me if I’d been more forward. I didn’t buy the argument that there was anything I could have done significantly differently, but I knew he had strong feelings for me. I couldn’t be convinced otherwise.
Over the weeks and months since then, we tried being friendly. We even socialized within a group on a few occasions, but on most occasions I couldn’t look at him too frequently. I resented it when he tried being light-hearted with me, especially if it was flirtatious. The truth was nothing had been resolved. I needed to see a little regret. If he couldn’t regret choosing her over me, he should regret being irresponsible with my feelings, but he remained loyal to his denials and justifications. If he couldn’t show me real remorse, I needed a display of my value to him, at least. I needed him to pursue me in friendship if he couldn’t pursue me for romance. It seemed his best offer was to ignore the issues which divided us in hopes they would just go away. He occasionally initiated IM conversations, but I could only go so long before letting my bitterness seep through. He maintained his stance that he did no wrong. He even took on the persona of the victim, claiming he wasn’t happy with how I treated him. Our fragile relationship slowly disintegrated to the point where I started this blog. We weren’t a couple, and yet my pain has all the marks of a terrible breakup. Each morning I awaken again to the unimaginable truth that with every new day he still chooses her.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
My apologies for the delay of this post. While telling this story has been a cathartic experience overall, this part was particularly painful. That and other recent events have made dedication to its telling especially difficult.
The SoHB called a few hours before the party. I was happy to hear his voice. He gave me an account of his evening plans, telling me that he had another party obligation, so he wouldn’t be at mine the whole night. Then he revealed that he invited someone … a date. My heart dropped. I told him it was fine. I asked a little about her, as any good friend would. When our conversation ended I allowed myself to acknowledge the disappointment. I realized that our imagined kiss had been a primary focus in my preparations. With it made impossible, I lost all desire to continue, but couldn’t cancel.
The party was lively, but my spirit wasn’t in it. I greeted my guests as cheerily as possible. When midnight approached, I poured the champagne. Looking at my guests, all couples, I raised my glass to make an impressive toast. I made a brave face for everyone around me, watching as they kissed their dates or spouses. Inside, I felt like crying.
The SoHB called a couple of times before showing up with a college girl… cute, petite… more that 10 years his junior. He knew her through theater connections. As a good hostess, I welcomed her with grace and made certain she enjoyed herself. Besides being terminally nice, I felt a perverted desire to please him. The scenario seemed bizarre… almost like the other woman playing hostess to the wife. I liked the girl. It wasn’t her fault she ruined my party.
I didn’t reveal my feelings immediately. I wasn’t secure in them myself. I had no right to expect anything of him. It was I who made it clear that we were simply friends. It was I who spent most of our friendship keeping him at a distance. Besides, I couldn’t make any bold declarations of undying love. My feelings were only now burgeoning. After enduring several casual references to her during the following week, I decided my feelings weren’t just shallow jealousy. I let him know how disappointed I was when he brought a date to my party. I told him about wanting to get away from him whenever he talked about her. He was suspicious, and understandably so. The situation resembled the one with Jeri’s friend. I explained that my questions regarding us started weeks earlier, and my feelings had begun developing before New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t convince him. He finally attempted to placate me by pointing out she would be returning to college soon. Who knew what would happen then?
The new girl spurned him once she returned to college. I was relieved, believing that we might now have a chance to build on those feelings. I knew that time would prove my sincerity, but it wasn’t long before he disappointed me again. The Flirt and his roommate threw a small football/poker party. I wasn’t interested, but the SoHB said my attendance was the only reason he would go. Feeling encouraged by this, I went. He hardly arrived before leaving again for another party, promising to return. He was obviously hoping to meet someone new. Even Jeri commented that the SoHB was “on the prowl.” I couldn’t enjoy the party. I had expected to spend more time with him, but was uneasy waiting while he sought other company. I went home. In a 1AM phone call, he complained that I had left him. I made clear my displeasure at having been so unceremoniously spurned.
The next several months were a seesaw of emotions. I felt closer to him in one moment only to feel discarded in the next. He originally told me his next interest was just a friend. She had a boyfriend. Then, on a night out, he openly teased and cajoled her with veiled remarks about a desire to date her. This time I stormed out of the bar in a drunken huff. After these events we would argue. I complained that if he insisted on pursuing other women, I needed to distance myself. I couldn’t sit by and watch. He acted resentful.
In my mind, the drama became a race. If I couldn’t find someone before he did, my heart would break. I tried things I never imagined I would. Never having been much of a dater, I bought books about it. I listed a personal ad on the internet. I picked up a man in a bar. No one I encountered impressed me. My eyes longingly returned to the SoHB
I was comforted when nothing came of his latest interest. My attempts to distance myself from him never lasted more than a week. He didn’t seem to be “on the prowl” as much, but he resisted being linked romantically with me. He argued that our differences in religion and social convictions made us incompatible. He declared me to be the one who initiated our breakup. I tried reasoning that it was the right decision at the time. It didn’t have to mean forever. I countered that our differences were once the arguments I made, but I still managed to develop feelings. I believed myself to be arguing against his doubts. If they could be allayed, we would have a chance. But he also started making comments that were out of character. Throughout our complicated relationship, he always made it clear that he didn’t prioritize sex. He consistently made comments of, “I’m not like The Flirt,” or “I don’t want you to think I’m like those guys.” Suddenly, the earth shifted on its axis, and he started saying things like, “Maybe The Flirt’s attitude is the way to go,” and “I need a mate.” To me, the remarks were a veiled way of saying I was now unsuitable … my celibacy wouldn’t fit in his lifestyle. It disturbed me, but I hoped they were mere thoughts of desperation drawn out of his loneliness. I wanted to believe in the respect I held for him after years of friendship. The character he had asserted and I believed proven … those were his convictions, right? They revealed his true self….
Over the months of late winter and spring, there were moments that stand out in memory…moments of frustration or hope, inspiration and exasperation. I cannot help but note how many involved alcohol. There was the moment we decided to go to a local Irish pub. While driving to the bar, he received a call from the friend I despised. When he told me his friend was joining us, I didn’t run. I stayed and endured the friend’s undesirable presence. When I had succumbed to enough and started to leave, the SoHB followed me and made claims of why I should stay as thought I owed it to him … as though I were a girlfriend. I agreed to stay a little longer. At some point during the night I accused the SoHB of being incapable of truly loving any woman, because alcohol was his mistress. He said I might be right.
One of the most pivotal occasions for me came one night when he stayed at my house after things had fallen through with both ladies of interest. We sat on my couch… or rather, I lay with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair. He told me that he had tried dating these other girls, but it wasn’t the same. They weren’t me. I was moved. Nodding in understanding, I expressed that it had been the same for me. I felt certain it was only a matter of time before he gave up his silly quest. He slept in my bed afterwards, holding me all night. In the morning, we talked over the meaning of these things. He was resolute that we were nothing more than friends. I argued that this was not the behavior of friends. You do not sleep over with a friend with which you have a romantic history and who has expressed feelings for you. There were several occasions in which he slept over with me, always in the same bed, and this wasn’t the last.
It was shortly afterwards that he came, late as usual, to see a band accompanied by the girl from New Year’s Eve. My group of friends had been out for hours and were already enjoying ourselves. His group seated themselves apart from us. I refused to go by their table. I had reached my limit of understanding.
Also in attendance that night was a new friend of mine. We became acquainted through our mutual interest in music. Upon learning that I played a little guitar he invited me to jam with him sometime. I suspected he was interested in me for more than music, but when he didn’t flirt or seem over eager, I put it out of mind. At the evening’s end, there was only a trio of us left, including him. As I started to drive away, I discovered my car had a flat tire. I was able to catch the other two before they left, and my guitar friend helped change the tire. He followed me home to make certain the spare would hold. I appreciated his gentlemanly consideration.
Once home, I thanked him. At some point in the evening I had mentioned having the ingredients for Buttery Nipple shots at home. He surprised me by asking if we could have one. I naively thought nothing of inviting him in. Any suspicion of interest had long been put out of mind. It was as I downed my shot and looked at him that the realization hit. He was going to kiss me! Within a split second, he did.
It turned into a passionate evening. I wanted to stop. Things were too intense, but in my clouded logic I feared saying the wrong thing. I feared hurting his feelings. So, I put off my reservations until I could think of something to say. He carried me to the bedroom. I was hesitant, but men had slept in my bed before, or I had been in theirs. I was always in control. The night continued until the wee hours. I had gone much farther than intended. In the midst of this, I recall looking at him and wishing he were the SoHB. That night as I slept beside him, I dreamed of the SoHB. I dreamed he learned of my indiscretion and became inconsolable with grief. Within my dream I reasoned that he would have to get over it … we weren’t together, but my conscience nagged me. I had let him believe I had strong feelings for him, which I did. I felt I had betrayed him. After this event, it remained in the back of my mind that I had involved myself with this new friend in a way which belonged to the SoHB. In our dating days we never went so far. It seemed to me that if anyone should hold that distinction, it was him.
More weeks passed. I avoided being alone with my guitar friend. I endeavored to be more obvious in my affection for the SoHB. We became closer than ever. I was amazed by my feelings for him. I’d often told him that I wasn’t in love with him. While that still held true, I didn’t understand how. I loved him so deeply it felt as though my heart could burst from it. When I closely examined how I could feel such deep love, but not consider myself in love, I determined the difference was a matter of trust. I trusted the SoHB with my life, my secrets, my self, but I didn’t trust him with my heart. All of my former concerns had fallen away save one. I couldn’t trust him to be responsible with alcohol. He would never give it up. I also knew he was not yet ready stop looking elsewhere for love.
One Friday in July, I invited several friends over for drinks on my new deck. I looked forward to entertaining them, knowing the evening would fit their laid back style. I also looked forward to having the SoHB over. Since we’d grown so much closer, I was certain he would stay later than everyone else, and I hoped we would have an intimate evening. As it happened, he was the last one remaining. I was eager for some meaningful alone time with him. I was certain our attraction had progressed to a point he would want to kiss me and hopefully more. I flirted. I teased. I was disheartened. There was no reaction.
We moved inside to the living room. As I close the window blinds, he said, “You know, Kwirk, I am a sexual man.”
I turned to him and said, “I know. Don’t you think I know that’s what this is all about…why you’ve been resisting me? You’ve said things like this before.”
Exactly how he responded, I can’t recall, but he started pointing out again that I had broken up with him. I countered with the fact that our breakup had happened two years ago. People change. We’d changed. By that point I was laying across the couch, my head in his lap. He gently stroked my hair. He looked at me fondly, and said, “You know, sometimes when I look at you, I think I might love you.” I knew what he meant. Several occasions throughout the preceding week … several sober occasions … I’d caught him looking at me in that old familiar way. It was the reason I knew he would want to kiss me this night … the reason I believed he would show me his desire, even if involuntarily. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to speak the words that I loved him, but it wasn’t secure. I wasn’t secure he would accept it. I wasn’t secure with myself being able to progress from loving him completely to being in love with him. He made other endearing statements. All I could manage was the supportive nod seasoned with the intermittent “I know. Me too.”
Then his tone changed. He said he felt that he was going to hurt me. He feared that he was about to betray me. I sat up and looked hard at him. “Are you seeing someone?” I asked. From the corner of his eye, he looked at me guiltily and nodded. I had been through this before. He’d started seeing someone, but it probably won’t work out, just like the others. Here he was saying intimate things to me. What was the chance that it would work out? I detachedly asked a little about her. He asked in turn if I was seeing someone. Not wanting to be left out, I mentioned that there was someone interested in me, but I wasn’t sure if I felt the same. After a few minutes, I determined we should go to bed. We could continue talking there. I took his hand, but he resisted. “Friends don’t do that,” he said, echoing my words from weeks before. I gave up and went to bed feeling certain he would shortly follow. Around 4AM I awoke alone. I rose to search for him, and found him asleep on the couch pretty much as I had left him. This time when I took his hand and coaxed him, he followed. We fell asleep again in each other’s arms.
After sunrise, we were still touching. When I rose to let out the dog or go to the restroom, he resisted, holding me close to him until I promised to return. Whenever I returned to bed, he would take me and hold me close again. I told him that I missed him. He said he missed me, too. I think there was no doubt as to what either of us meant. I wanted to talk about us, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I wanted to kiss him, but I wanted it to come out of his desire for me. We never spoke more than a few words before he drifted back into sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Before making a quick trip to the bank, I laid down on the edge of the bed facing him. We exchanged words in which I told him where I was going, and that I would return. I decided I wanted to give him more than the nods and “I know’s” of the previous night. I had been teetering at the edge of these words for a couple of weeks. Maybe last night’s revelation was the right opening. I stroked the side of his face and said, “I love you, SoHB.” His eyes were closed, but I knew he heard. I felt foolish. I realized he didn’t remember his words and didn’t understand mine were a response to them.
He didn’t leave until 3 or 4 o’clock in the afternoon. He didn’t kiss me goodbye, but it was the longest he had ever stayed. It was the most he had ever revealed. I was delighted, and yet…
As I started cleaning up from the night’s party, I felt a nagging discomfort. With him gone, I could look at the event as a whole… all he said, all he did. I stopped to analyze what could be bothering me. I drew the puzzle pieces together to start forming a picture. I realized him saying that he was going to hurt and betray me pointed to some future betrayal, but he was already seeing someone. There must be another barrier to cross. He must anticipate becoming intimate with this person. It was something I had anticipated, only not so immediately. In the years since we dated, I don’t believe he had sex, based on his word that he didn’t sleep with anyone he wasn’t involved with. So far, he hadn’t dated anyone long enough to become “involved” with them. Knowing my values, I believed him aware that sex with someone else while I was available to him, and when he had expressed such deep feeling for me, would not be acceptable. While I couldn’t expect his fidelity as a boyfriend, I did expect him to honor the feelings he expressed to me … and honor the hope that we were becoming right for one another. Surely he must know that carrying his new relationship to that level would close the casket on any hope of our having one. He’d better be certain that he didn’t want me.
I was naturally uneasy about this revelation, but it went deeper than the feared loss of potential romance. At the core of my sadness was revealed a bitter truth. If he chose that path, I could also no longer be his friend. He had led me to believe in his feelings for me. He had depended on me much as one would a girlfriend. If he slept with this person, he couldn’t expect me to be available as usual. I knew that he would. The bond we shared was significant, and he would want to continue relying on it. I wasn’t content to be the standby girlfriend. I wasn’t content with the role of being his emotional support system while he screwed someone else. No. If that was what he wanted, he would lose me entirely.
The following week I was sent to Orlando for nearly two weeks. The SoHB and I usually talked on the phone during my long trips. He would call to check on me and offer a little company. I was dismayed that he didn’t call. We e-mailed back and forth a little, but his messages lacked their usual energy and playfulness. I flew to Pensacola, where my sister lives, over the weekend. Our nephew’s band was competing in radio contest at a local bar. I had to pull all kinds of strings to manage getting there, but I did it. I expected the SoHB to come. He knew it not only meant a great deal for me to support my nephew, but it was also a hard thing for me to endure. Watching my nephew perform … seeing him pursue his dreams while I had settled for a 9 to 5 desk job … was bittersweet. By the time the evening climaxed (my nephew’s band won the contest), my ol’ standby, rum and coke, had worked its magic. My mood dropped from elation to self-pity in a heartbeat. I resented the SoHB for not being there, and decided to call him up and tell him. I left a slurred, unflattering message on voice mail.
On Monday, I was back in Orlando. In an IM conversation with the SoHB, I complained once more about his lack of consideration. He claimed I expected too much of him. I again sensed a distance, and something he said made me suspect he had done the deed. I cried a little, but it was only a suspicion, after all. I was able to put it out of mind.
Home again the next weekend, three of us met for drinks Friday night. We started at a pizza place. The three of us laughed and joked. The SoHB wanted us to visit one of his favorite haunts in its new location, and we obliged. As we sat around the bar table, I could determine the SoHB’s inebriation level by the content of his conversation. As had become his habit of late, he began talking about sex, asking personal questions … often offering me apology for the risqué topic, as though the frankness of his questions was uncharacteristic. I shrugged and let him carry on. None of it bothered me, even when I disagreed. Eventually, our friend took his leave, and the two of us were finally alone.
I always took delight our time alone together. This was no exception. I moved to sit nearer. It wasn’t long before his conversation took an odd turn. Continuing the topic of sex, he asked if I remembered an occasion when we dated … a time when we made out, and he “went for the gold,” so to speak (His words). He remembered that I moved his hand gently, but decisively, away. He apologized for that occasion … for being too forward. I smiled and nodded that I remembered. I wanted to laugh at his apology. If he’d only tried a little more of that, I may not have broken up with him. He continued rambling the same inconsequential phrases about how I had broken up with him, asking “What was I supposed to do?” He then gravely confessed that he was seeing someone, and I casually replied, “I know.”
He was astonished. “You know? How do you know?”
I reminded him that he told me two weeks earlier. He didn’t remember.
His speech was peppered with nervous laughter. “What? You knew? Why have I been torturing myself these last two weeks? You don’t know what I’ve been through. I’ve been so worried. I feel like I’ve betrayed you. But what was I supposed to do, Kwirk. You broke up with me.” His words barely registered. “I met her in a bar. You know, you go out. You meet someone, and you click. What was I supposed to do? You broke up with me.” I was still nodding, maybe not smiling. I was accustomed to the role of longsuffering, unrequited lover. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You know, I dated a couple of girls. That was just foolishness. But this isn’t foolish. This girl is older. This is serious.” His voice had turned grave. He expected me to reply, but I had none. I was still trying to process all he said. Could things have grown so different while I was gone? A question slowly formed. Had he slept with her? Was that the difference? I couldn’t speak the terrible thought. I couldn’t presume the right to ask it. It was too personal, and I feared the answer.
“I feel as though I’ve betrayed you,” he said again. “But what was I supposed to do?” He reached out to touch my shoulder. I pulled away. “Look at you. You can’t even stand for me to touch you.”
Around this time, he excused himself to the restroom. I had a moment of silence to weigh his words and decide what they meant. The words circled in my mind … words like “betrayed” and “serious.”
He returned to the table. He stared at me a moment. “Say something, for God’s sake. Give me something,” he pleaded. My mind, my heart was screaming my question, but I couldn’t utter it. “I feel so guilty. But, why? Why, Kwirk? You broke up with me.” My eyes bored into him. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to lay my hand on his cheek. My heart was bursting with a desire to love him, and cracking from fear that this was the end. If I said the words, he would confirm them, and I would be lost. I couldn’t say them. There was no point in my sticking around, not if all I could give was silence.
“I think I should leave,” I said, gathering my purse.
“Kwirk,” he called after me, but I needed to escape. I just said goodbye and headed for the door. I wanted him to follow me. I wanted him to chase me down in the parking lot and make me talk to him. I knew he wouldn’t.
I spent Saturday in a pervasive melancholy. I didn’t cry. There was no excuse. He wasn’t mine to cry over. Sunday evening I put the words together. The last night he stayed with me, he said he feared that he was going to betray me. On Friday night, he used the past tense. He felt as though he had betrayed me. It was all the confirmation I needed. He had slept with her. Then the tears came. I had to go out of town again. Monday morning I stood in front of a new class and hoped I wouldn’t lose my breakfast. He instant messaged me that afternoon, but I didn’t respond. I knew we needed to talk, but it shouldn’t happen through such a superficial medium. Wednesday was my birthday. I can’t remember a more miserable one. I received an e-mail from him wishing me a happy birthday. Tagged onto the end was a statement that he didn’t believe he did anything to deserve my not speaking to him. I deleted the e-mail. If I was important to him, he would call. He never called.
It was two weeks before I spoke to him. I initiated it, but only regarding work. It was a month before I saw him at Beerfest. I didn’t know if he was still dating that girl. I thought I didn’t care. I was apprehensive about seeing him again, but I looked forward to it, also. I had a vision of the SoHB approaching me for a personal conversation once drink boosted his courage. I dressed to kill, and I wore my most carefree spirit. Seeing him again was awkward, but it didn’t inhibit my evening. We had a large group which splintered frequently. When we did all end up in the same bar together, it looked like the moment had arrived when he would approach me, but he didn’t.
The group was fractured when Beerfest came to its official end. Of course, all the patrons stick around to enjoy the nightlife. My friends and I returned to the bar where we had last seen the other group members. We waited about an hour before leaving to look elsewhere. Walking down the street, one of my friends called The Flirt. He and the SoHB were sitting in a bar in another part of town. They had left us. The SoHB was apparently content to leave without talking to me. I was crushed. When I arrived home that night, I called him on his cell phone. I think I bitterly told him that I hoped he was having a nice time, and hung up. My phone immediately rang. I knew it was him calling to find out what was wrong. It was my guitar friend instead, whom I’d also run into at Beerfest. He asked me out on a date for the following evening. So, things ended well for me, after all.
I later learned from Rachel* that she had asked the SoHB where his girlfriend was that night. He told her she had to work. I couldn’t decide which bothered me more; the fact he was still seeing her at all, or that he didn’t flinch at the word “girlfriend.” We had dated for eight months, and he never once referred to me as a girlfriend, or since then as an ex-. I also learned that she had met him at the bar after they left us that night. She had been with him when I called. I was dismayed.
Nearly a week later, we had our first argument. In reaction to Beerfest events, I deleted his name from my IM contacts and all his numbers from my cell phone. We didn’t speak for several days. I thought he would message me, but he didn’t. By Thursday, it was driving me crazy. I e-mailed him asking for his IM contact info, thereby revealing that I deleted it. I then messaged him to ask something work-related, but we eventually spiraled into an argument. I told him that I had expected him to speak to me at Beerfest. He accused me of being stand-offish. I expressed my anger over his not ever approaching me to talk about things. He whined about my walking out on him a month earlier. He thought I hated him. He thought a part of him believed he deserved it, but he didn’t believe it anymore. I explained why I walked out on him and why I hadn’t spoken to him. I explained how I’d interpreted his words. He expressed amazement. They hadn’t slept together then, he said. He didn’t know how I could have come to that conclusion. I explained the misleading details in his conversation. He didn’t know why he used the word “betrayed.” He didn’t betray me. I explained that I didn’t see things as though he had cheated on me. I knew I had no claim on him, but his actions led me to believe he had feelings for me … significant, deep feelings. I told him what he said to me on the last night he slept over … that he sometimes thought he might love me. He didn’t remember, of course. He thought I must have misunderstood the context in which he meant it. He said it didn’t mean he actually felt that way, since he said it while drunk. He danced around my points of contention with his justifications. The only thing he didn’t contest was something he said a couple of weeks earlier. He had asked if we could get together to talk things over sometime. I agreed, but he never pursued it any further. He conceded that he had not followed through. Before ending the conversation, I wanted to get something straight before I carried on in false anger. I had been mistaken in how I interpreted what he said that infamous night at the bar. I had grieved without real reason for a month. I didn’t want to continue in mistaken grief. I wanted him to tell me that he had slept with her. All he would say was that he wasn’t comfortable discussing that with me. After much insistence, he finally said, “You know the answer to that, Kwirk.” I told him that I did know, but I wanted to hear it from him. That was all the confirmation I would get from him, but it was all I really needed.
That weekend, he called me at 5AM after a drunken all-nighter, saying he was afraid things would become irreparable if we didn’t speak. We covered the same topics. I tried to explain why I was so hurt. I tried to explain how his sleeping with her affected my perception of him and of us, in context of my religious beliefs. He took it as a judgment … that I expected him to live by my standards. I told him that I only expected him to honor the feelings he expressed to me. I went into the events that I found misleading. I went into the feelings I had expected him to be aware of, pointing out the things I did and said. He fell back on the argument that nothing was ever directly expressed. He told me that if I had spoken up, had made my feelings known, maybe it all would have turned out differently. Who knew what might have happened? I accused him of using me as a stand-in girlfriend, and now wanting me to remain available while his romance was still budding. He countered that if that were true, then I had used him as a stand-in as well. He claimed he had given up all hope in a future for us. He wanted us to remain friends. The sound of that was like nails on a chalkboard. He said that, as a friend, I should be happy for him. The conversation ended with nothing truly resolved, but I felt better for his making an effort. I had mixed feelings about the conversation itself. He took no accountability for anything. The closest he came was after he denied doing anything to mislead me. I pointed out that it is possible to do and say misleading things even when it isn’t intended. He conceded to my point, but did not accept any responsibility for anything specifically. And yet, he never denied having feelings for me. In fact, it seemed he admitted to more possibilities than he should have, for he implied that he might be with me if I’d been more forward. I didn’t buy the argument that there was anything I could have done significantly differently, but I knew he had strong feelings for me. I couldn’t be convinced otherwise.
Over the weeks and months since then, we tried being friendly. We even socialized within a group on a few occasions, but on most occasions I couldn’t look at him too frequently. I resented it when he tried being light-hearted with me, especially if it was flirtatious. The truth was nothing had been resolved. I needed to see a little regret. If he couldn’t regret choosing her over me, he should regret being irresponsible with my feelings, but he remained loyal to his denials and justifications. If he couldn’t show me real remorse, I needed a display of my value to him, at least. I needed him to pursue me in friendship if he couldn’t pursue me for romance. It seemed his best offer was to ignore the issues which divided us in hopes they would just go away. He occasionally initiated IM conversations, but I could only go so long before letting my bitterness seep through. He maintained his stance that he did no wrong. He even took on the persona of the victim, claiming he wasn’t happy with how I treated him. Our fragile relationship slowly disintegrated to the point where I started this blog. We weren’t a couple, and yet my pain has all the marks of a terrible breakup. Each morning I awaken again to the unimaginable truth that with every new day he still chooses her.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
My apologies for the delay of this post. While telling this story has been a cathartic experience overall, this part was particularly painful. That and other recent events have made dedication to its telling especially difficult.
Nov 13, 2004
Background: The Source of HeartBreak (SoHB) Part 2
The SoHB had a hard time with the breakup. It confounded me. He didn’t seem to value me that greatly when we were together. In all of our eight months as a couple, he took me out on only two dates! Why was he upset now? Fortunately, work sent me to Birmingham for a month, so we had some much needed space. When I returned, I threw myself a 30th birthday party. It was a raging success with one exception. I had hoped that my former crush would attend, and my fantasy of reconciling with him put the SoHB completely out of mind. The crush didn’t show, of course, so I holed up in my room for a spell, crying on The Flirt’s shoulder. Ah, well. Shortly, I was back in the swing of the party. Later, the SoHB found me nearly passed out on the couch with The Flirt. We weren’t cuddling, or even touching, but I recall hearing him swear softly at the sight of us. I feigned sleep. I later announced to the remaining party-goers that I was going to bed. They were welcome to continue as long as they liked … just lock my doors when the last one left. The SoHB is always last to leave a party. He came to my room and sat on my bed. I can’t remember much of our conversation, but there was some discussion of giving it another try.
Two weeks later, it was his birthday. Predictably, his ideal revelry was attending a local event called Beerfest. Also in typical SoHB fashion, he ran about 2 hours late for his own birthday gathering. As I watched him walk toward us, having grown frustrated in waiting for him, I felt absolutely certain that I did NOT want to try again. Having a heart-to-heart in the middle of a crowd would be inappropriate, so I resolved to keep my distance throughout the evening. At one point, after we had enjoyed all the offerings of Beerfest, I found myself cornered in a bar with him and another friend for a length beyond endurance. I had to escape…quickly! Making the excuse of finding the others, I exited to find Rachel* and The Flirt involved in lively conversation. This better fit my mood. I stopped to enjoy their repartee. Within minutes the SoHB burst out of the bar in a huff, mumbling incoherently. He was upset that I had left his company to enjoy The Flirt’s, innocuous as it was. I tried to calm him …reason with him, but I wasn’t going to chase him all over town. He went off on his own, and I didn’t see any more of him that night. I heard from Rachel that when she later chanced upon him, he was livid, alleging there was something going on between The Flirt and me. He was upset with both of us for several weeks. I tried telling the sober SoHB that he had jumped to conclusions, but he was more content playing the role of wronged friend and ex-boyfriend. I decided to give him space. The Flirt and I cooled our flirtation.
In time, the SoHB discovered that nothing came of his suspicions. While I gave him space, I was also ever-present, reminding him that my friendship was still available. Our comradery restored itself, and we returned to our old routine of socializing on weekends with friends at the local pub. The element of romance was hardly missed, except for one brief moment when I thought he might win me back. I walked out of my front door one Sunday to find a single rosebud tucked beneath my windshield wiper. That single token wasn’t enough to sway my decision, but if he continued…
When I questioned him about it the next day, he expressed regret over making such a foolish gesture. He had chased after girls before, and he was resolved to never do it again.
Most of the time, I was proud of how we almost seamlessly flowed out of romance into friendship. I was certain this was how mature people handled breaking up. By November, we were content and secure in our friendship. This was the month that Jeri*, his oldest friend, was married. She had tried setting him up with a co-worker of hers for a while, and finally succeeded by arranging their first date to be at her wedding. When I learned of this, it touched a jealous streak I didn’t know I possessed. I made unsuccessful last-minute attempts to find my own date. I dreaded the blessed day.
If I’d had a date, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so uncomfortable. The Flirt was there solo, as well. It helped. We more or less kept each other company throughout. It became my aim to unobtrusively observe the SoHB’s behavior with his date. I wondered if he would be attentive to her. I wondered if he would show her the interest of which I suspected I hadn’t been worthy. I felt a mixture of pleasure and dismay that he completely lacked any chivalrous manners. Although I would have been hurt to see him fawn over her, I hated seeing him be so unimpressive. He seemed ignorant of all the courtesies a gentleman pays a lady. I found myself torn between coaxing him to offer her a drink, and secretly being pleased that he hadn’t done so by his own volition.
The newly married couple held an informal party at their home after the reception. (I guess everyone is doing it these days. I’ve been to three weddings where they did this.) Everyone imbibed without restraint. As often occurs, the boys and girls segregated to talk about each other. Conversation was unmemorable until the SoHB’s date left us. Immediately, the conversation turned to the SoHB and his ineptness with women. Jeri had also been trying to urge him in the right direction all night. She turned to another friend and said, “You know, the SoHB and Kwirk dated a few times….” I didn’t react, but it bothered me. We hadn’t just “dated a few times.” We had been involved, but here was his closest friend displaying ignorance of it. At least her input made me feel a bit better that it wasn’t just me. He couldn’t give the appropriate attention to any girl.
We left the party at the same time. On my way home, he called me on my cell phone after dropping off his date. I asked him to come over. We made out for the first time since… I can’t even remember. All the while I insisted that he not take me too seriously. I strove to be completely frank about my mixed up feelings and behavior… that they did not mean I wanted to be with him or keep him from being with someone else. I told him as we lay together that I considered this night a final farewell. It was to be a bittersweet ending.
He continued to date the girl briefly. I don’t know who ended it, but he later told me that he hadn’t been ready yet. I’ve wondered if I unintentionally sabotaged that relationship.
The next several months were spent in a paradox of growing ever more dependent on him while trying to distance myself. Most of the time I felt that he was still too attached, but I recognized a co-dependency in myself, as well. Around the first anniversary of our breakup, I developed a slight crush on The Flirt. For once the SoHB had perfect timing. A little health scare made him take notice of his diet and give sobriety a turn. He also began a religious work-out regimen during his lunch breaks. He turned down all happy hour and lunch invitations. This worked well for me at this point. I had no desire to start a relationship with The Flirt, but I wanted the freedom to show interest in anyone I chose without reservation. Before his sobriety, I had also managed to end his drunken 2AM phone calls and visits to my door. I was moving on.
The summer was always a demanding travel season at my company. I spent most of it on the road. I returned to find The Flirt disinterested in me. He was infatuated with someone else. The SoHB slowly came off of his sobriety, but maintained his diet and exercise. I soon noted that he had completely lost the beer belly and was looking fine in his blue jeans. I found myself attracted to him as never before. I tried distracting myself with The Flirt, but that came to a screeching halt when I found out that he conspicuously disappeared from my Halloween party to have a liaison with a scantily clad Cher. “Cher” was a co-worker with a penchant for flashing her augmented breasts, plus many embarrassing drunken moments. She was someone The Flirt had always claimed to disdain and was smart enough to leave alone. When I learned of his indiscretion with her, my attraction to him evaporated… poof! ... Gone. The only desirable person left was the SoHB.
It started gradually, insidiously. Shivers ran through me when he passed my desk at work. I found myself missing those early morning phone calls and visits. If he participated in an event, I wanted to be there. I might skip it if he wasn’t. I wanted his attention in spite of myself. I defied caution to receive it. We again became so tightly entangled, I began to fear what might happen if one of us became involved with someone. I began to fear what might happen to me.
I took inventory, sifting through all of my options. While The Flirt possessed a certain sex appeal, he was wholly unsuitable. While I was exposed to men of confidence, charm, and ambition, no one could tug at my heart like the SoHB. All paths pointed back to him. He was, without a doubt, my best friend. To him, I divulged my secrets. In him, I trusted more than anyone. I’d found in him the rare quality for which I wished above all else… a gentle spirit. Looking over our history, also, I believed our struggles might have made us right for each other. I realized that the divergent issues of religion and politics no longer burdened me. I saw that in our dating relationship, both of us had been on the rebound. Those past heartaches were finally healed. Lastly, my physical attraction to him was stronger than I ever thought possible.
These thoughts plagued me as I reconsidered the state of our relationship. There were still significant doubts. I couldn’t escape my concern over his drinking. I also feared that a renewed romance was doomed, and this time, a friendship wouldn’t arise from the ashes. But, I doubted our friendship could survive anyway if one of us found someone. One fateful night in late December, the fear became a reality.
We had our typical Friday night happy hour, this time with a few different faces. The only regulars from our illustrious crew were the SoHB and I, together as always. When the restaurant started closing around midnight, the SoHB, our co-worker, Janeice*, and I were the only ones remaining. They were not ready to end the evening. I, however, had resolved to drink and party less. I felt it had spun out of control over the last couple of months. The SoHB had friends who called him from a nearby bar. He wanted to join them. If anything could dissuade me further, that was it. There was a long, complicated history between a certain friend of his and my family. I knew him before I met the SoHB and never cared for him. The SoHB knew this and had never pressured me to spend time with that friend until this night. He was petulant that I wouldn’t consider joining them. I didn’t understand how he could expect it of me. He knew how uncomfortable that person made me. Besides, I reasoned, I wasn’t his girlfriend.
Janeice told the SoHB to wait outside. She wanted to talk to me for a minute. When he stood to walk away, he glared at me in such a manner I hadn’t seen since the night of Beerfest. I was puzzled. Why didn’t he understand? Janeice looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t you see what this means to him? Don’t you see what this is? It’s a test. He’s testing you to see how much you care. C’mon and go. What will it hurt? It will make him feel better.”
I studied the carpet and shook my head in bemusement. My mind flooded with thoughts. A test?!! How many times had he failed me? …And at nothing so difficult as what he was asking. What made him think he could ask anything of me… require this sort of thing from me? We weren’t a couple. It might get confusing sometimes, but we weren’t. Besides, it wasn’t all about his friend. I had resolved to not stay out late. I was trying to look out for myself. He should understand. He would have to deal with it.
I shook my head and said, “I can’t, Janeice. I just can’t.”
He sat in his car waiting for Janeice. He barely glanced at us approaching. I told him I was sorry, but I couldn’t go. He nodded, saying that he understood… that it was okay, but there was something about his demeanor that was not okay. Something … defeated. I hesitated, but he had said it was all right. I went home. Much later, I learned that after meeting his friends, at his third bar of the night, he met an old acquaintance. Things began to change drastically.
***TO BE CONTINUED***
*=Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Two weeks later, it was his birthday. Predictably, his ideal revelry was attending a local event called Beerfest. Also in typical SoHB fashion, he ran about 2 hours late for his own birthday gathering. As I watched him walk toward us, having grown frustrated in waiting for him, I felt absolutely certain that I did NOT want to try again. Having a heart-to-heart in the middle of a crowd would be inappropriate, so I resolved to keep my distance throughout the evening. At one point, after we had enjoyed all the offerings of Beerfest, I found myself cornered in a bar with him and another friend for a length beyond endurance. I had to escape…quickly! Making the excuse of finding the others, I exited to find Rachel* and The Flirt involved in lively conversation. This better fit my mood. I stopped to enjoy their repartee. Within minutes the SoHB burst out of the bar in a huff, mumbling incoherently. He was upset that I had left his company to enjoy The Flirt’s, innocuous as it was. I tried to calm him …reason with him, but I wasn’t going to chase him all over town. He went off on his own, and I didn’t see any more of him that night. I heard from Rachel that when she later chanced upon him, he was livid, alleging there was something going on between The Flirt and me. He was upset with both of us for several weeks. I tried telling the sober SoHB that he had jumped to conclusions, but he was more content playing the role of wronged friend and ex-boyfriend. I decided to give him space. The Flirt and I cooled our flirtation.
In time, the SoHB discovered that nothing came of his suspicions. While I gave him space, I was also ever-present, reminding him that my friendship was still available. Our comradery restored itself, and we returned to our old routine of socializing on weekends with friends at the local pub. The element of romance was hardly missed, except for one brief moment when I thought he might win me back. I walked out of my front door one Sunday to find a single rosebud tucked beneath my windshield wiper. That single token wasn’t enough to sway my decision, but if he continued…
When I questioned him about it the next day, he expressed regret over making such a foolish gesture. He had chased after girls before, and he was resolved to never do it again.
Most of the time, I was proud of how we almost seamlessly flowed out of romance into friendship. I was certain this was how mature people handled breaking up. By November, we were content and secure in our friendship. This was the month that Jeri*, his oldest friend, was married. She had tried setting him up with a co-worker of hers for a while, and finally succeeded by arranging their first date to be at her wedding. When I learned of this, it touched a jealous streak I didn’t know I possessed. I made unsuccessful last-minute attempts to find my own date. I dreaded the blessed day.
If I’d had a date, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so uncomfortable. The Flirt was there solo, as well. It helped. We more or less kept each other company throughout. It became my aim to unobtrusively observe the SoHB’s behavior with his date. I wondered if he would be attentive to her. I wondered if he would show her the interest of which I suspected I hadn’t been worthy. I felt a mixture of pleasure and dismay that he completely lacked any chivalrous manners. Although I would have been hurt to see him fawn over her, I hated seeing him be so unimpressive. He seemed ignorant of all the courtesies a gentleman pays a lady. I found myself torn between coaxing him to offer her a drink, and secretly being pleased that he hadn’t done so by his own volition.
The newly married couple held an informal party at their home after the reception. (I guess everyone is doing it these days. I’ve been to three weddings where they did this.) Everyone imbibed without restraint. As often occurs, the boys and girls segregated to talk about each other. Conversation was unmemorable until the SoHB’s date left us. Immediately, the conversation turned to the SoHB and his ineptness with women. Jeri had also been trying to urge him in the right direction all night. She turned to another friend and said, “You know, the SoHB and Kwirk dated a few times….” I didn’t react, but it bothered me. We hadn’t just “dated a few times.” We had been involved, but here was his closest friend displaying ignorance of it. At least her input made me feel a bit better that it wasn’t just me. He couldn’t give the appropriate attention to any girl.
We left the party at the same time. On my way home, he called me on my cell phone after dropping off his date. I asked him to come over. We made out for the first time since… I can’t even remember. All the while I insisted that he not take me too seriously. I strove to be completely frank about my mixed up feelings and behavior… that they did not mean I wanted to be with him or keep him from being with someone else. I told him as we lay together that I considered this night a final farewell. It was to be a bittersweet ending.
He continued to date the girl briefly. I don’t know who ended it, but he later told me that he hadn’t been ready yet. I’ve wondered if I unintentionally sabotaged that relationship.
The next several months were spent in a paradox of growing ever more dependent on him while trying to distance myself. Most of the time I felt that he was still too attached, but I recognized a co-dependency in myself, as well. Around the first anniversary of our breakup, I developed a slight crush on The Flirt. For once the SoHB had perfect timing. A little health scare made him take notice of his diet and give sobriety a turn. He also began a religious work-out regimen during his lunch breaks. He turned down all happy hour and lunch invitations. This worked well for me at this point. I had no desire to start a relationship with The Flirt, but I wanted the freedom to show interest in anyone I chose without reservation. Before his sobriety, I had also managed to end his drunken 2AM phone calls and visits to my door. I was moving on.
The summer was always a demanding travel season at my company. I spent most of it on the road. I returned to find The Flirt disinterested in me. He was infatuated with someone else. The SoHB slowly came off of his sobriety, but maintained his diet and exercise. I soon noted that he had completely lost the beer belly and was looking fine in his blue jeans. I found myself attracted to him as never before. I tried distracting myself with The Flirt, but that came to a screeching halt when I found out that he conspicuously disappeared from my Halloween party to have a liaison with a scantily clad Cher. “Cher” was a co-worker with a penchant for flashing her augmented breasts, plus many embarrassing drunken moments. She was someone The Flirt had always claimed to disdain and was smart enough to leave alone. When I learned of his indiscretion with her, my attraction to him evaporated… poof! ... Gone. The only desirable person left was the SoHB.
It started gradually, insidiously. Shivers ran through me when he passed my desk at work. I found myself missing those early morning phone calls and visits. If he participated in an event, I wanted to be there. I might skip it if he wasn’t. I wanted his attention in spite of myself. I defied caution to receive it. We again became so tightly entangled, I began to fear what might happen if one of us became involved with someone. I began to fear what might happen to me.
I took inventory, sifting through all of my options. While The Flirt possessed a certain sex appeal, he was wholly unsuitable. While I was exposed to men of confidence, charm, and ambition, no one could tug at my heart like the SoHB. All paths pointed back to him. He was, without a doubt, my best friend. To him, I divulged my secrets. In him, I trusted more than anyone. I’d found in him the rare quality for which I wished above all else… a gentle spirit. Looking over our history, also, I believed our struggles might have made us right for each other. I realized that the divergent issues of religion and politics no longer burdened me. I saw that in our dating relationship, both of us had been on the rebound. Those past heartaches were finally healed. Lastly, my physical attraction to him was stronger than I ever thought possible.
These thoughts plagued me as I reconsidered the state of our relationship. There were still significant doubts. I couldn’t escape my concern over his drinking. I also feared that a renewed romance was doomed, and this time, a friendship wouldn’t arise from the ashes. But, I doubted our friendship could survive anyway if one of us found someone. One fateful night in late December, the fear became a reality.
We had our typical Friday night happy hour, this time with a few different faces. The only regulars from our illustrious crew were the SoHB and I, together as always. When the restaurant started closing around midnight, the SoHB, our co-worker, Janeice*, and I were the only ones remaining. They were not ready to end the evening. I, however, had resolved to drink and party less. I felt it had spun out of control over the last couple of months. The SoHB had friends who called him from a nearby bar. He wanted to join them. If anything could dissuade me further, that was it. There was a long, complicated history between a certain friend of his and my family. I knew him before I met the SoHB and never cared for him. The SoHB knew this and had never pressured me to spend time with that friend until this night. He was petulant that I wouldn’t consider joining them. I didn’t understand how he could expect it of me. He knew how uncomfortable that person made me. Besides, I reasoned, I wasn’t his girlfriend.
Janeice told the SoHB to wait outside. She wanted to talk to me for a minute. When he stood to walk away, he glared at me in such a manner I hadn’t seen since the night of Beerfest. I was puzzled. Why didn’t he understand? Janeice looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t you see what this means to him? Don’t you see what this is? It’s a test. He’s testing you to see how much you care. C’mon and go. What will it hurt? It will make him feel better.”
I studied the carpet and shook my head in bemusement. My mind flooded with thoughts. A test?!! How many times had he failed me? …And at nothing so difficult as what he was asking. What made him think he could ask anything of me… require this sort of thing from me? We weren’t a couple. It might get confusing sometimes, but we weren’t. Besides, it wasn’t all about his friend. I had resolved to not stay out late. I was trying to look out for myself. He should understand. He would have to deal with it.
I shook my head and said, “I can’t, Janeice. I just can’t.”
He sat in his car waiting for Janeice. He barely glanced at us approaching. I told him I was sorry, but I couldn’t go. He nodded, saying that he understood… that it was okay, but there was something about his demeanor that was not okay. Something … defeated. I hesitated, but he had said it was all right. I went home. Much later, I learned that after meeting his friends, at his third bar of the night, he met an old acquaintance. Things began to change drastically.
***TO BE CONTINUED***
*=Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Nov 10, 2004
Background: The Source of HeartBreak (SoHB) Part 1
I notice that I’ve been remiss in telling the whole story of the SoHB and why he is who he is. Let me correct that here.
We met four years ago, working at the same company but in different departments. I noticed him around. Thought he was kind of cute, but was interested in someone else at the time, and he had a girlfriend. As new employees, neither of us socialized much with co-workers, so our paths never crossed in that setting. Months passed. My crush on that other person developed, became serious, but was dashed once he realized how interested I really was. I was crushed… heartbroken. He dropped me like a dirty dish rag, without a word, and I had believed him to be a friend first. I always thought he cared enough about my feelings and respected my friendship enough that he would talk to me, tell me if I’d come to the wrong conclusion. Instead, I had to discover my loss slowly, and it wasn’t just the loss of a crush. I lost a friend, too. I was an emotional wreck. At precisely the same time, the SoHB had his own heartbreak. His girlfriend of two years dumped him. I remember him coming in to work one day with two black eyes. He had encountered her at a bar after the breakup and was so upset that he banged his head against the wall until this result.
I know. What a gleeming gem he is, right?
Not long after we had endured these respective traumas, our company asked us to work on a project together for that year’s conference. We both have theater backgrounds and were the obvious choices for putting together a little production. Thus, we were thrown together to plot and plan, toil and gripe. As the conference deadlines approached, we spent more time together. I thought I noticed something in his eyes… a spark of interest beyond work, beyond friendliness. It intrigued me. I thought him nice, but perhaps a bit too timid for my taste. On the other hand, there was The Flirt, with whom I became better acquainted through the SoHB. They worked in the same department and frequented the local bars together. He was tall, cocky, moderately attractive, and flirted deliciously. It’s all harmless, and one knows not to take it seriously, but he makes a girl feel noticed. I recall looking at the two of them standing side by side several times and wondering which one I would rather date.
A pivotal point came at a mutual friend’s wedding. She made a huge weekend-long event out of it with a party after the rehearsal dinner (everyone invited) and a massive sit-down dinner reception including all the alcohol you could want, a band, and a dance floor. It was the first time I spent socially with both the SoHB and The Flirt. I’ll never forget the SoHB taking me out on the dance floor near the end of the reception. I could almost feel his eyes burning into me. I was impressed by his apparent interest in me, but a little uncomfortable that I couldn’t return it… not to the degree given. (A little piece of irony is that much later I learned he doesn’t remember that night very well, and it is the only time I have ever seen him dance.)
After the wedding, we started socializing outside of work, but always in a group. There were four of us who hung out at the local pizza joint every Friday night, drinking beer and shooting the breeze. Sometimes, a few extra would join us. I never drank much before this point. Two or three times a year I would get drunk at a party. Otherwise, I would have the rare cocktail when out to dinner. Drinking was not a part of my lifestyle, and I didn’t want it to be. I loved hanging out with those guys, though. I finally acquired a taste for beer at the ripe old age of 29. In the meantime, the SoHB and I were also building up quite a rapport through IM. It was at the wedding I had made my decision. He was the one I wanted.
I was pleased to invite all of my new friends from work to a gay college friend’s Halloween party that year. He always gives great parties. They have a tendency of getting a little wild. The SoHB and The Flirt were among my guests. Everyone seemed to be intimidated initially, but ended up having fun. The Flirt had the dilemma of being hit on by gay guys, but he handled it superbly. In the end, the SoHB and I were nearly the only ones left standing. All of our friends had deserted us. It was then, as we stood out on the front porch of my friend’s house, that he kissed me. It was just like a routine I heard Chris Rock perform once. He kissed me mid-sentence. I had actually given up on it. I thought the moment had passed. We were a couple from then on. After our regular nights out with friends, he would walk me to my car and kiss me passionately. We would wait until the others were gone or unable to see. I was worried about dealing with office gossip if we were open about it initially. This went on for a couple of weeks. He was obviously interested. It wasn’t a fling. We never did anything more than kiss. I waited for him to ask me out on a date, but he never did. I finally asked him in an IM conversation when he was going to ask me out, so we then went on our first date.
By the end of January, I had begun having doubts. I went into the relationship knowing we were at opposite ends of the spectrum on vital issues. I’m a Christian who values faith as the most important element in my life. He’s a Jewish atheist who alters from denying God’s existence when sober to condemning God when drunk. I’ll admit I thought I could save him. He’s a political liberal. I’m conservative. One of my core values is conserving sex for marriage. He’s lived with a couple of girlfriends. (When he learned of my conviction, he downplayed it saying sex wasn’t that big of a deal… and he never pressured me in any way.) Never having been around much alcohol, I didn’t realize for a long time how much of a problem he has. I would also feel pangs of jealousy whenever he mentioned his most recent ex-. He didn’t want to go certain places because they had gone there, or he might see her there. I understood to an extent, but I also often felt as though her memory kept him from truly being with me. I couldn’t be too critical, however. My former crush often entered my mind, for he fit my ideal. When I compared the two guys, the SoHB always came up short. But the thing that really made me wary of him wasn’t any of the above. I was concerned about a lack of thoughtfulness that indicated to me a disinterest in me. He passed on several opportunities to meet my family. He passed on accompanying me to events where I needed his support. Valentine’s Day approached, which made me nervous. We had dated long enough to recognize the holiday, but I didn’t feel comfortable with any bold, romantic gestures. About a week beforehand, he asked what I wanted to do for it, but I was relieved to tell him that the company was sending me on the road. I acted disappointed, of course. Actually, I ended up getting the flu and couldn’t go anywhere. February 14th was nearly over when I realized that I hadn’t heard from the SoHB… no romantic gestures, no phone call, nothing. He didn’t even check on how I was feeling. That was the first time I ever cried over him.
Things never got any better, but I held on. Every time I determined that I should break it off, his rare gentleness would renew my hope. I tried distancing myself in order to gain some perspective, and he pulled away in turn. We hardly kissed anymore, but we lingered in this wasteland for months. I felt neglected and turned to The Flirt for attention, hoping it would inspire the SoHB to act. It was a childish tactic better left to high school hallways, but I wanted him to recognize I had options. I wanted him to counter The Flirt's attention to me by escalating his own. One night in late June, he finally reacted, storming out of the room when I showed The Flirt a little attention. I went after him, and we argued in the driveway until dawn. That’s when I did it. It was difficult, but I broke up with him.
One week later, I had to break up with him again. Turns out he was too drunk to remember the first time.
*** TO BE CONTINUED ***
We met four years ago, working at the same company but in different departments. I noticed him around. Thought he was kind of cute, but was interested in someone else at the time, and he had a girlfriend. As new employees, neither of us socialized much with co-workers, so our paths never crossed in that setting. Months passed. My crush on that other person developed, became serious, but was dashed once he realized how interested I really was. I was crushed… heartbroken. He dropped me like a dirty dish rag, without a word, and I had believed him to be a friend first. I always thought he cared enough about my feelings and respected my friendship enough that he would talk to me, tell me if I’d come to the wrong conclusion. Instead, I had to discover my loss slowly, and it wasn’t just the loss of a crush. I lost a friend, too. I was an emotional wreck. At precisely the same time, the SoHB had his own heartbreak. His girlfriend of two years dumped him. I remember him coming in to work one day with two black eyes. He had encountered her at a bar after the breakup and was so upset that he banged his head against the wall until this result.
I know. What a gleeming gem he is, right?
Not long after we had endured these respective traumas, our company asked us to work on a project together for that year’s conference. We both have theater backgrounds and were the obvious choices for putting together a little production. Thus, we were thrown together to plot and plan, toil and gripe. As the conference deadlines approached, we spent more time together. I thought I noticed something in his eyes… a spark of interest beyond work, beyond friendliness. It intrigued me. I thought him nice, but perhaps a bit too timid for my taste. On the other hand, there was The Flirt, with whom I became better acquainted through the SoHB. They worked in the same department and frequented the local bars together. He was tall, cocky, moderately attractive, and flirted deliciously. It’s all harmless, and one knows not to take it seriously, but he makes a girl feel noticed. I recall looking at the two of them standing side by side several times and wondering which one I would rather date.
A pivotal point came at a mutual friend’s wedding. She made a huge weekend-long event out of it with a party after the rehearsal dinner (everyone invited) and a massive sit-down dinner reception including all the alcohol you could want, a band, and a dance floor. It was the first time I spent socially with both the SoHB and The Flirt. I’ll never forget the SoHB taking me out on the dance floor near the end of the reception. I could almost feel his eyes burning into me. I was impressed by his apparent interest in me, but a little uncomfortable that I couldn’t return it… not to the degree given. (A little piece of irony is that much later I learned he doesn’t remember that night very well, and it is the only time I have ever seen him dance.)
After the wedding, we started socializing outside of work, but always in a group. There were four of us who hung out at the local pizza joint every Friday night, drinking beer and shooting the breeze. Sometimes, a few extra would join us. I never drank much before this point. Two or three times a year I would get drunk at a party. Otherwise, I would have the rare cocktail when out to dinner. Drinking was not a part of my lifestyle, and I didn’t want it to be. I loved hanging out with those guys, though. I finally acquired a taste for beer at the ripe old age of 29. In the meantime, the SoHB and I were also building up quite a rapport through IM. It was at the wedding I had made my decision. He was the one I wanted.
I was pleased to invite all of my new friends from work to a gay college friend’s Halloween party that year. He always gives great parties. They have a tendency of getting a little wild. The SoHB and The Flirt were among my guests. Everyone seemed to be intimidated initially, but ended up having fun. The Flirt had the dilemma of being hit on by gay guys, but he handled it superbly. In the end, the SoHB and I were nearly the only ones left standing. All of our friends had deserted us. It was then, as we stood out on the front porch of my friend’s house, that he kissed me. It was just like a routine I heard Chris Rock perform once. He kissed me mid-sentence. I had actually given up on it. I thought the moment had passed. We were a couple from then on. After our regular nights out with friends, he would walk me to my car and kiss me passionately. We would wait until the others were gone or unable to see. I was worried about dealing with office gossip if we were open about it initially. This went on for a couple of weeks. He was obviously interested. It wasn’t a fling. We never did anything more than kiss. I waited for him to ask me out on a date, but he never did. I finally asked him in an IM conversation when he was going to ask me out, so we then went on our first date.
By the end of January, I had begun having doubts. I went into the relationship knowing we were at opposite ends of the spectrum on vital issues. I’m a Christian who values faith as the most important element in my life. He’s a Jewish atheist who alters from denying God’s existence when sober to condemning God when drunk. I’ll admit I thought I could save him. He’s a political liberal. I’m conservative. One of my core values is conserving sex for marriage. He’s lived with a couple of girlfriends. (When he learned of my conviction, he downplayed it saying sex wasn’t that big of a deal… and he never pressured me in any way.) Never having been around much alcohol, I didn’t realize for a long time how much of a problem he has. I would also feel pangs of jealousy whenever he mentioned his most recent ex-. He didn’t want to go certain places because they had gone there, or he might see her there. I understood to an extent, but I also often felt as though her memory kept him from truly being with me. I couldn’t be too critical, however. My former crush often entered my mind, for he fit my ideal. When I compared the two guys, the SoHB always came up short. But the thing that really made me wary of him wasn’t any of the above. I was concerned about a lack of thoughtfulness that indicated to me a disinterest in me. He passed on several opportunities to meet my family. He passed on accompanying me to events where I needed his support. Valentine’s Day approached, which made me nervous. We had dated long enough to recognize the holiday, but I didn’t feel comfortable with any bold, romantic gestures. About a week beforehand, he asked what I wanted to do for it, but I was relieved to tell him that the company was sending me on the road. I acted disappointed, of course. Actually, I ended up getting the flu and couldn’t go anywhere. February 14th was nearly over when I realized that I hadn’t heard from the SoHB… no romantic gestures, no phone call, nothing. He didn’t even check on how I was feeling. That was the first time I ever cried over him.
Things never got any better, but I held on. Every time I determined that I should break it off, his rare gentleness would renew my hope. I tried distancing myself in order to gain some perspective, and he pulled away in turn. We hardly kissed anymore, but we lingered in this wasteland for months. I felt neglected and turned to The Flirt for attention, hoping it would inspire the SoHB to act. It was a childish tactic better left to high school hallways, but I wanted him to recognize I had options. I wanted him to counter The Flirt's attention to me by escalating his own. One night in late June, he finally reacted, storming out of the room when I showed The Flirt a little attention. I went after him, and we argued in the driveway until dawn. That’s when I did it. It was difficult, but I broke up with him.
One week later, I had to break up with him again. Turns out he was too drunk to remember the first time.
*** TO BE CONTINUED ***
Nov 8, 2004
If I had just one tear rolling down your cheek...
My hurt, my anger, has reached its zenith. I will allow no more. I had believed there was something that could be saved, something worth working for. I strove to be heard. I strove to be important to him. I strove to be real. I’ve come to the conclusion that all the times he said that he thought I hated him, he actually hoped…wanted me to hate him. That would make it so much easier to eliminate me from his life. That would make me and all the tender feelings he’s had toward me something of his past that he would no longer have to deal with. It would also enable him to step into the role of victim. “Poor guy. Lost his best friend just because he wanted to find love…” Or, “Poor guy. He’s hated by someone he cares deeply for.” It isn’t that easy, though. I loved him in spite of my hurt. I loved him in spite of the betrayal. I believed in him and the relationship we’d spent three years in building. I believed in his humanity, his gentleness, his good heart. There is nothing more to believe in. Had I mattered in the least, there is no way he would have pulled this stunt. There is no way he would have wanted and created this unfortunate circumstance.
A couple of weeks ago, I learned that a semi-local cover band I love would play this weekend at a nearby venue. My best friend and I discovered them last winter and have since caught every local performance, as well as encouraging our friends to see them. The last time they came to town, the SoHB attended and was impressed with them. (As a side note, I remember him acting a little strangely that night. I now know that he had started seeing his new girlfriend around that time.) A few other friends also came and enjoyed themselves. When I found out they were returning, I sent out an e-mail letting all of those friends, plus the ones who missed them before, know about the performance. The SoHB was a part of the mailing list. I saw no reason to exclude him, although I didn’t anticipate enjoying his company if he came. Originally, he responded that he hoped to go, since he liked them so well, but in an IM conversation last Friday, he said he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it. I’ve been rather hacked off with him lately due to the conversation about what he might have me to do if our roles were reversed. He had promised to think on it, but has, in effect, made no more effort to sustain our friendship than ever. My response to his wavering commitment was to say, “Okay. I won’t look for you.” I felt certain his hesitancy was due to plans with his girlfriend. He’s been more noticeably absent lately. If that was the reason, I certainly didn’t want to see him.
The drama began as soon as we arrived, but it wasn’t my drama. As soon as we approached the bar we saw my best friend’s ex- was there with his friends. It could be the beginning of an awkward evening, but I was proud of Rachel*. She handled it well, considering it was the first time she’d seen him since ending the relationship. He had strung her along much like the SoHB had done with me. She did well, that is, until she learned that her ex- had brought a date. She was poised, but had difficulty composing herself. She was the one who had introduced him to this band. He knew she would be there. It was one thing for him to come at all, but showing up with a girl on his arm knowing how it would hurt her was callous. When another of our friends arrived later, I conferred with her over how we needed to watch over Rachel. She can get volatile when she’s drinking.
The band kicked off to a raring start. They had a much larger crowd than last time. Word must have gotten around. I was disappointed that more of my friends didn’t show, and I hated the situation for Rachel, but we danced and genuinely enjoyed ourselves. It was the first time our other friend had seen this band, so I was pleased to see she was getting into the groove at the very first song. After about an hour, over my shoulder I heard Rachel say something like, “There’s ___. (gasp) Oh my gosh…” I turned to look at him coming in, but knew at her gasp that my worst fear was coming true. In he strides, the SoHB, walking behind his new girlfriend with his hand on her shoulder. I only take a glance, and then move up in the crowd so he won’t pass right in front of me. I act as though I haven’t seen him. I am pretending for the sake of my own enjoyment more than the sake of saving face. I sense he has stopped behind me to greet my friends, and glance over my shoulder to see the back of his. Next thing I know, he has moved on. He didn’t even speak to me, which is good. I didn’t want him to. As soon as he is gone, Rachel approaches and hugs me. I can’t remember what she said as an attempt at comfort. I didn’t want to be comforted. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, that I hadn’t seen her. I had told him I didn’t want to see her or ever meet her. I wanted to enjoy the band. This was supposed to be our night… mine and Rachel’s night to enjoy.
I found myself zoning out during the songs. I would be dancing, then suddenly realize I had drifted off into my own thoughts. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t escape the knowledge that he was indeed here and with her. I couldn’t believe he brought her there knowing I would be there and would be hurt. As I thought on it, I became indignant. He had told me he was uncertain about coming. Not only was he aware I would be there, he knew of the performance due to MY e-mail only … due to MY invitation. There was so much cold cruelty about it. I tried putting it out of my mind. I wanted to make it through until the band’s first break. I thought they would never break.
The situation made me tense. I ordered a drink, but ended up handing it to Rachel. I had to go outside, get away from it, for a while. A guy, a sweet Connecticut Yankee, chatted me up while I stood there. It made me feel a little validated. His opener was about how I looked so sad. I didn’t go into my story immediately, but I eventually told him how my ex-boyfriend showed up with his new girlfriend. He fed me lines about how beautiful I was, and how most any guy there would love my attention. Maybe they weren’t lines. He sounded so sincere. I’d like to believe what he said anyway. We parted ways when the band started playing again. Getting away from it had been a wise move, but the tension never truly departed. It was official. My night was ruined. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t allow him that victory.
Later in the evening, I encounter Rachel and Andrew* talking at the bar. Andrew is a friend of Rachel’s ex-boyfriend, a nice guy I had come to know only recently. He lends a sympathetic ear to Rachel’s plight. As I wait at the bar, Rachel and Andrew finish their conversation, and his attention turns to me. This could be awkward. The first time (and last time) we met, we ended up making out in public despite his approaching wedding day. Here he was, friend of Rachel’s ex-boyfriend, accompanied by his new bride. Play it cool, Kwirk. Play it cool. I greet him casually. He, like the Yankee, comments on my sad countenance. I explain that I find myself in the same situation as Rachel. At his request, I point out the offending bloke. I think Andrew may have said something in effort to be soothing or boost my morale. I can’t remember. For when I looked over at the SoHB, I noted his girlfriend had obviously stepped away to the restroom. An idea came to mind. I turn to Andrew and say, “Watch this.” With resolute purpose, I approach the SoHB. He’s unaware of me until I pull out his shirt-front and pour my drink, a whole rum & Coke, down his chest. I don’t see his reaction. I simply turn and walk back to the bar to re-order my drink. I think that wasted rum & Coke was the best money I ever spent.
I thought he would leave immediately out of physical discomfort. I was dismayed that he didn’t. Maybe my stunt had no effect. Maybe my drunken aim had missed its mark. He had been standing. Maybe I poured the drink into the open air between his shirt and chest, so very little actually touched him. As I closed out my tab much later, I stole glances at them. They were closing their tab as well. She went to bar for it. I was surprised and strangely comforted to notice how plain she is. I couldn’t even call her cute. That is surprising for him. At the time, I thought it odd that she would be getting their tab, but I realize today it must have been an effort to save face. He stood with his drenched crotch safely concealed behind their table. I returned to the stage, so I didn’t see them leave. Rachel made out briefly with a 21-year-old, so her night ended well. I just wanted to escape. Everything had been too traumatic. Neither one of us should have driven, but we made it safely back to my house. She stayed over to sleep it off. We cried and huddled together.
I don’t understand why things had to take such a terrible turn in our relationship. I never asked the world of him, just a little consideration. I would have tried remaining friends despite the pain if he had treated me decently. He said he wanted to remain friends, but he obviously didn’t want to make the effort. And my feelings for him have been nothing more than inconvenient to him since he’s been dating this girl, as were his feelings for me when they started dating. I didn’t think I would have to lose him entirely. I’m devastated anew with every nail he drives into the coffin. I’m so devastated to realize that he doesn’t care, not in the least.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
A couple of weeks ago, I learned that a semi-local cover band I love would play this weekend at a nearby venue. My best friend and I discovered them last winter and have since caught every local performance, as well as encouraging our friends to see them. The last time they came to town, the SoHB attended and was impressed with them. (As a side note, I remember him acting a little strangely that night. I now know that he had started seeing his new girlfriend around that time.) A few other friends also came and enjoyed themselves. When I found out they were returning, I sent out an e-mail letting all of those friends, plus the ones who missed them before, know about the performance. The SoHB was a part of the mailing list. I saw no reason to exclude him, although I didn’t anticipate enjoying his company if he came. Originally, he responded that he hoped to go, since he liked them so well, but in an IM conversation last Friday, he said he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it. I’ve been rather hacked off with him lately due to the conversation about what he might have me to do if our roles were reversed. He had promised to think on it, but has, in effect, made no more effort to sustain our friendship than ever. My response to his wavering commitment was to say, “Okay. I won’t look for you.” I felt certain his hesitancy was due to plans with his girlfriend. He’s been more noticeably absent lately. If that was the reason, I certainly didn’t want to see him.
The drama began as soon as we arrived, but it wasn’t my drama. As soon as we approached the bar we saw my best friend’s ex- was there with his friends. It could be the beginning of an awkward evening, but I was proud of Rachel*. She handled it well, considering it was the first time she’d seen him since ending the relationship. He had strung her along much like the SoHB had done with me. She did well, that is, until she learned that her ex- had brought a date. She was poised, but had difficulty composing herself. She was the one who had introduced him to this band. He knew she would be there. It was one thing for him to come at all, but showing up with a girl on his arm knowing how it would hurt her was callous. When another of our friends arrived later, I conferred with her over how we needed to watch over Rachel. She can get volatile when she’s drinking.
The band kicked off to a raring start. They had a much larger crowd than last time. Word must have gotten around. I was disappointed that more of my friends didn’t show, and I hated the situation for Rachel, but we danced and genuinely enjoyed ourselves. It was the first time our other friend had seen this band, so I was pleased to see she was getting into the groove at the very first song. After about an hour, over my shoulder I heard Rachel say something like, “There’s ___. (gasp) Oh my gosh…” I turned to look at him coming in, but knew at her gasp that my worst fear was coming true. In he strides, the SoHB, walking behind his new girlfriend with his hand on her shoulder. I only take a glance, and then move up in the crowd so he won’t pass right in front of me. I act as though I haven’t seen him. I am pretending for the sake of my own enjoyment more than the sake of saving face. I sense he has stopped behind me to greet my friends, and glance over my shoulder to see the back of his. Next thing I know, he has moved on. He didn’t even speak to me, which is good. I didn’t want him to. As soon as he is gone, Rachel approaches and hugs me. I can’t remember what she said as an attempt at comfort. I didn’t want to be comforted. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, that I hadn’t seen her. I had told him I didn’t want to see her or ever meet her. I wanted to enjoy the band. This was supposed to be our night… mine and Rachel’s night to enjoy.
I found myself zoning out during the songs. I would be dancing, then suddenly realize I had drifted off into my own thoughts. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t escape the knowledge that he was indeed here and with her. I couldn’t believe he brought her there knowing I would be there and would be hurt. As I thought on it, I became indignant. He had told me he was uncertain about coming. Not only was he aware I would be there, he knew of the performance due to MY e-mail only … due to MY invitation. There was so much cold cruelty about it. I tried putting it out of my mind. I wanted to make it through until the band’s first break. I thought they would never break.
The situation made me tense. I ordered a drink, but ended up handing it to Rachel. I had to go outside, get away from it, for a while. A guy, a sweet Connecticut Yankee, chatted me up while I stood there. It made me feel a little validated. His opener was about how I looked so sad. I didn’t go into my story immediately, but I eventually told him how my ex-boyfriend showed up with his new girlfriend. He fed me lines about how beautiful I was, and how most any guy there would love my attention. Maybe they weren’t lines. He sounded so sincere. I’d like to believe what he said anyway. We parted ways when the band started playing again. Getting away from it had been a wise move, but the tension never truly departed. It was official. My night was ruined. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t allow him that victory.
Later in the evening, I encounter Rachel and Andrew* talking at the bar. Andrew is a friend of Rachel’s ex-boyfriend, a nice guy I had come to know only recently. He lends a sympathetic ear to Rachel’s plight. As I wait at the bar, Rachel and Andrew finish their conversation, and his attention turns to me. This could be awkward. The first time (and last time) we met, we ended up making out in public despite his approaching wedding day. Here he was, friend of Rachel’s ex-boyfriend, accompanied by his new bride. Play it cool, Kwirk. Play it cool. I greet him casually. He, like the Yankee, comments on my sad countenance. I explain that I find myself in the same situation as Rachel. At his request, I point out the offending bloke. I think Andrew may have said something in effort to be soothing or boost my morale. I can’t remember. For when I looked over at the SoHB, I noted his girlfriend had obviously stepped away to the restroom. An idea came to mind. I turn to Andrew and say, “Watch this.” With resolute purpose, I approach the SoHB. He’s unaware of me until I pull out his shirt-front and pour my drink, a whole rum & Coke, down his chest. I don’t see his reaction. I simply turn and walk back to the bar to re-order my drink. I think that wasted rum & Coke was the best money I ever spent.
I thought he would leave immediately out of physical discomfort. I was dismayed that he didn’t. Maybe my stunt had no effect. Maybe my drunken aim had missed its mark. He had been standing. Maybe I poured the drink into the open air between his shirt and chest, so very little actually touched him. As I closed out my tab much later, I stole glances at them. They were closing their tab as well. She went to bar for it. I was surprised and strangely comforted to notice how plain she is. I couldn’t even call her cute. That is surprising for him. At the time, I thought it odd that she would be getting their tab, but I realize today it must have been an effort to save face. He stood with his drenched crotch safely concealed behind their table. I returned to the stage, so I didn’t see them leave. Rachel made out briefly with a 21-year-old, so her night ended well. I just wanted to escape. Everything had been too traumatic. Neither one of us should have driven, but we made it safely back to my house. She stayed over to sleep it off. We cried and huddled together.
I don’t understand why things had to take such a terrible turn in our relationship. I never asked the world of him, just a little consideration. I would have tried remaining friends despite the pain if he had treated me decently. He said he wanted to remain friends, but he obviously didn’t want to make the effort. And my feelings for him have been nothing more than inconvenient to him since he’s been dating this girl, as were his feelings for me when they started dating. I didn’t think I would have to lose him entirely. I’m devastated anew with every nail he drives into the coffin. I’m so devastated to realize that he doesn’t care, not in the least.
* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.
Nov 3, 2004
And the Plot Thickens...
In that last conversation with the SoHB, he referred to an occasion after our breakup in which he became convinced something was going on between me and a close friend of ours. He mentioned how he had been hurt over that incident, but he eventually got over it. (Nothing happened. It was all a product of his own imagination and proven to be such as time passed.) I responded by saying that it wasn't exactly the same thing, and maybe I'll lead him on and then go screw this friend so we could be even. I intended it to be a biting comment. I didn't mean it literally.
Saturday night was a Halloween party at the house of another ex-employee of my ex-company. I knew SoHB wouldn't go. He had another obligation that would detain him until midnight at least. There was a slight chance he might show up. I spent the hours before the party in a dizzying balancing act of mentally preparing to see him but not getting caught up in depending on it. I remember sitting in the floor just before leaving, thinking about how I dreaded going, but dreaded more the idea of isolating myself too much. I need to get out and be normal as much as possible. Being cooped up as much as I have been isn't healthy. So, with low expectations, I went.
My best friend was there. So was the former source of SoHB’s jealousy. He’s a flirt. I’m a flirt. We’ve always been attracted to each other, but never made the slightest attempt to pursue anything while I was dating SoHB, nor while feelings were still raw from our breakup. About six months later, we shared a fleeting kiss on a dance floor. About six months after that, we made out after a party. That was over a year ago. It was all just for thrills. We are too completely opposite in everything vital for us to consider dating. In fact, after we made out, it seemed I lost my mystery for him. He didn’t even flirt with me the same. Recently, however, he has grown a little more forward in flirting with me again. Noting my Halloween costume, he aggressively flirted with me at the party. As a gag, I dressed like a “Girl Gone Wild” from that notorious line of videos. My shirt was pinned up, and I wore a strategically placed black sign reading “CENSORED”. Of course I wore something under the sign, but it was cropped and nude colored, so the effect may have been more shocking than I originally intended. It certainly did get attention, especially from The Flirt. It became his goal of the night to peek behind my sign or convince me to flash him for real. I relished the renewed attention.
Needless to say, after 5 hours of drinking, dancing, and general revelry, everyone was sloshed. Now, I was raised as a nice Baptist girl (No drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no sex.), but as an adult, I determined that alcohol wasn’t so awful a sin, so I drank like the best (or worst) of them. Anyone who drinks knows it will enhance your merriment or help you slide into sadness, depending on how you were predisposed. Well, my merriment was enhanced as long as The Flirt was around to boost my ego, but when he left, I slipped into melancholy. It didn’t help that my best friend was distracted with fending off one of her ex’s, which left me with only my most recent ex- with which to make conversation. I segregated myself for a while hoping I might feel rejuvenated, but it only made me want to escape. I entertained the thought of leaving and dropping by The Flirt’s house on my way home. He’d been gone only a few minutes. Surely I could catch him. Oh, I knew it wasn’t a sound idea, but the more I thought it, the more I liked it, so without a word to anyone, I left the party.
The Flirt didn’t come to the door, but it was unlocked and the lights were on, so surely he was still up. I let myself in and called his name. In my drunkenness, I thought nothing of seeking him out in his bedroom. I had slept over before. Never anything sexual, just crashing after a flamboyant night. At most, all we ever did was cuddle, and that was all I had in mind. I found him asleep in bed. I sat on the bed and woke him, then crawled in fully clothed. I don’t remember well what we talked about, but I remember feeling comforted in my sadness. Then conversation turned to our shared attraction and things that had happened in the past. He told me what he wanted to do right then, which didn’t shock me, but I told him it wouldn’t happen. I’m a woman with certain precise boundaries. No one gets past them. I believe sex is sacred to marriage, and I’m still a virgin. He has known this for years. No one has ever pressured me to give up this ideal. His suggestion wasn’t intercourse, but it was definitely beyond my boundaries. I couldn’t let that happen.
I let it happen. Despite this feeling that I have lost my sense of self in allowing it (and through other recent events), I don’t feel guilt or shame, which frightens me a bit. I don’t want this to happen again. I don’t want it to go farther. I have specific reasons for wanting to maintain my boundaries. And yet, I’m so intrigued by the question of what might happen next. He has no significant interest in me, and I have no feelings for him. Still, we know each other very well, and there is a sense of security in that. The thrill of it is very enticing. And I can’t help but remember that night with pleasure. It’s funny. None of it was intended as a revenge against the SoHB (I’m wise to the fact that what I do doesn’t affect him anymore.), but the irony of what I said to him in conversation strikes me. Add to that the fact that it is the third anniversary of our first kiss. It seems just somehow, all the same.
Saturday night was a Halloween party at the house of another ex-employee of my ex-company. I knew SoHB wouldn't go. He had another obligation that would detain him until midnight at least. There was a slight chance he might show up. I spent the hours before the party in a dizzying balancing act of mentally preparing to see him but not getting caught up in depending on it. I remember sitting in the floor just before leaving, thinking about how I dreaded going, but dreaded more the idea of isolating myself too much. I need to get out and be normal as much as possible. Being cooped up as much as I have been isn't healthy. So, with low expectations, I went.
My best friend was there. So was the former source of SoHB’s jealousy. He’s a flirt. I’m a flirt. We’ve always been attracted to each other, but never made the slightest attempt to pursue anything while I was dating SoHB, nor while feelings were still raw from our breakup. About six months later, we shared a fleeting kiss on a dance floor. About six months after that, we made out after a party. That was over a year ago. It was all just for thrills. We are too completely opposite in everything vital for us to consider dating. In fact, after we made out, it seemed I lost my mystery for him. He didn’t even flirt with me the same. Recently, however, he has grown a little more forward in flirting with me again. Noting my Halloween costume, he aggressively flirted with me at the party. As a gag, I dressed like a “Girl Gone Wild” from that notorious line of videos. My shirt was pinned up, and I wore a strategically placed black sign reading “CENSORED”. Of course I wore something under the sign, but it was cropped and nude colored, so the effect may have been more shocking than I originally intended. It certainly did get attention, especially from The Flirt. It became his goal of the night to peek behind my sign or convince me to flash him for real. I relished the renewed attention.
Needless to say, after 5 hours of drinking, dancing, and general revelry, everyone was sloshed. Now, I was raised as a nice Baptist girl (No drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no sex.), but as an adult, I determined that alcohol wasn’t so awful a sin, so I drank like the best (or worst) of them. Anyone who drinks knows it will enhance your merriment or help you slide into sadness, depending on how you were predisposed. Well, my merriment was enhanced as long as The Flirt was around to boost my ego, but when he left, I slipped into melancholy. It didn’t help that my best friend was distracted with fending off one of her ex’s, which left me with only my most recent ex- with which to make conversation. I segregated myself for a while hoping I might feel rejuvenated, but it only made me want to escape. I entertained the thought of leaving and dropping by The Flirt’s house on my way home. He’d been gone only a few minutes. Surely I could catch him. Oh, I knew it wasn’t a sound idea, but the more I thought it, the more I liked it, so without a word to anyone, I left the party.
The Flirt didn’t come to the door, but it was unlocked and the lights were on, so surely he was still up. I let myself in and called his name. In my drunkenness, I thought nothing of seeking him out in his bedroom. I had slept over before. Never anything sexual, just crashing after a flamboyant night. At most, all we ever did was cuddle, and that was all I had in mind. I found him asleep in bed. I sat on the bed and woke him, then crawled in fully clothed. I don’t remember well what we talked about, but I remember feeling comforted in my sadness. Then conversation turned to our shared attraction and things that had happened in the past. He told me what he wanted to do right then, which didn’t shock me, but I told him it wouldn’t happen. I’m a woman with certain precise boundaries. No one gets past them. I believe sex is sacred to marriage, and I’m still a virgin. He has known this for years. No one has ever pressured me to give up this ideal. His suggestion wasn’t intercourse, but it was definitely beyond my boundaries. I couldn’t let that happen.
I let it happen. Despite this feeling that I have lost my sense of self in allowing it (and through other recent events), I don’t feel guilt or shame, which frightens me a bit. I don’t want this to happen again. I don’t want it to go farther. I have specific reasons for wanting to maintain my boundaries. And yet, I’m so intrigued by the question of what might happen next. He has no significant interest in me, and I have no feelings for him. Still, we know each other very well, and there is a sense of security in that. The thrill of it is very enticing. And I can’t help but remember that night with pleasure. It’s funny. None of it was intended as a revenge against the SoHB (I’m wise to the fact that what I do doesn’t affect him anymore.), but the irony of what I said to him in conversation strikes me. Add to that the fact that it is the third anniversary of our first kiss. It seems just somehow, all the same.
Oct 30, 2004
The Problem of "IF"
If only . . . If only I could eliminate the “if only.” The pain won’t release. The doubts won’t resolve. The comfort won’t arrive. I keep thinking, “if only he would validate the truth I know . . . if only he would show me the deep feeling he still possesses for me . . . if only he would demonstrate his regret at having made the wrong choice.” My heart is tortured with dreams of the impossible. Can I possibly cry enough to purge this agony? Added to this grief is the knowledge that I grieve alone. He does not share my remorse. How this is possible, I cannot tell. His heart spoke to me. His dilemma was plain before my eyes, but now he refuses to acknowledge all that I know to be true. I didn’t imagine the emotion he felt for me, but he was faced with a choice. And when he was torn between his feelings for me and his selfish desires, he chose to deny his feelings. This is the inconsolable source of my grief. It was no small slight. Believing myself to have value beyond his desires, I allowed myself to feel secure. I trusted him to protect the bond I knew us both to cherish. Afterward, I believed the loss of that bond would spiral him into unbearable regret. His grief would contaminate his new relationship. His feeling for me would haunt him with unanswered questions as to what was truly lost. I am a romantic. I may be dramatic. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to dream of such things, but this is how it should have been . . . if only.
Oct 27, 2004
When What Was is Undone
Which loss is more painful? The loss of something cherished and true, or the loss of something equally cherished but found to be untrue. While in both circumstances you grieve the loss of hope in the future, when it is found to be untrue, you also grieve the loss of belief in the past. Do you remember the moment you found that Santa Claus was a myth? Did it not shake the foundations of your childhood? Wasn't it the beginning of the end? All of those magical years of believing in pixie dust and enchanted forests came to a screeching halt. As adults, we think we've outgrown such silly myths, but then we fall in love with people who don't love us back. We can't escape the fairy tales, no matter how old we get.
I had a conversation with the SoHB (Source of HeartBreak) yesterday. Every conversation brings new conviction that I must release him from my life entirely. It would serve me best if I never saw him again. But time passes, and I do see him. We have the same circle of friends, so it is somewhat inevitable, but I must confess to occasionally manipulating circumstance. I often see him online. I want him to initiate a chat so I can rebuff him with cold politeness. If he doesn't, I do. I can't seem to help myself. If I invite friends to go out, I include him in the invitation. My justification is that our friends need not feel uncomfortable or that they must choose between us. The truth is that I still want something from him, and every conversation proves to me his unwillingness to give it. Of course, I don't ask for it outright, but I am reaching, . . . clawing for it in every precious moment when he's near.
I've become a nag. I've become a horrible shrew who can do nothing but scold and blame. I asked him yesterday why he didn't understand my feelings of resentment. I asked why I couldn't make him understand. He participated in the conversation. He didn't simply brush aside what I have to say as insignificant, but said that he doesn't agree with my account of events. I get no apology, except to say that he's sorry I was hurt. I get no expression of significant remorse. He said he wants us to remain close friends, but that seems to mean forgetting all about this problem and getting back to normal. In the end of these conversations, it will often appear that we've made some progress. This time he said he would seriously think about what asked of him. I told him that making ammends with someone you've hurt entails an expression of regret along with marked attempts to show that person how greatly they are valued. I said that an inequality of commitment to each of these factors isn't nearly as important as making certain both are addressed. Since he has expressed an acceptance of some culpability in handling things badly (He will not, however, admit to "betraying" me), I asked him to think about what I should do if the situation were reversed and he were in my shoes. He agreed and seemed to approach the idea with some enthusiasm. I left the conversation feeling more optomistic about our future, but it was short-lived.
With a little distance from it I realized that what I asked of him will not satisfy me. I must confess to wanting more than breadcrumbs. Every time he has said he wants us to remain close friends, I feel trivialized . . . reduced to being a sidelight in his life when I had been a main player. I don't want to be a friend. I want to be the object of his affection. I want to be the one he regrets taking for granted, . . .the one he longs for now that his mistakes have made me unreachable. I want him to admit that his feelings for me were very intense, but he ignored them. I guess that is the pivotal point for me. He now says that he had given up on us and accepted that we would be nothing more than friends. Things he said through drunken hazes and the way he looked at me that week before the sky fell in told me differently. I want him to want me back, not as a friend, but as the true love he regrets losing. In other words, I want the impossible, even if it's true. Even if he still harbors deep romantic feelings for me, he has decided to pursue a relationship with her. I am out of the game, and there is no use in my hanging around.
What is the harsher loss? All I know is that my sorrow is filled with the loss of not only things I hoped to come, but my value to someone I cherished, which I knew to be significant, being rendered insignificant. How does one reconcile that loss?
I had a conversation with the SoHB (Source of HeartBreak) yesterday. Every conversation brings new conviction that I must release him from my life entirely. It would serve me best if I never saw him again. But time passes, and I do see him. We have the same circle of friends, so it is somewhat inevitable, but I must confess to occasionally manipulating circumstance. I often see him online. I want him to initiate a chat so I can rebuff him with cold politeness. If he doesn't, I do. I can't seem to help myself. If I invite friends to go out, I include him in the invitation. My justification is that our friends need not feel uncomfortable or that they must choose between us. The truth is that I still want something from him, and every conversation proves to me his unwillingness to give it. Of course, I don't ask for it outright, but I am reaching, . . . clawing for it in every precious moment when he's near.
I've become a nag. I've become a horrible shrew who can do nothing but scold and blame. I asked him yesterday why he didn't understand my feelings of resentment. I asked why I couldn't make him understand. He participated in the conversation. He didn't simply brush aside what I have to say as insignificant, but said that he doesn't agree with my account of events. I get no apology, except to say that he's sorry I was hurt. I get no expression of significant remorse. He said he wants us to remain close friends, but that seems to mean forgetting all about this problem and getting back to normal. In the end of these conversations, it will often appear that we've made some progress. This time he said he would seriously think about what asked of him. I told him that making ammends with someone you've hurt entails an expression of regret along with marked attempts to show that person how greatly they are valued. I said that an inequality of commitment to each of these factors isn't nearly as important as making certain both are addressed. Since he has expressed an acceptance of some culpability in handling things badly (He will not, however, admit to "betraying" me), I asked him to think about what I should do if the situation were reversed and he were in my shoes. He agreed and seemed to approach the idea with some enthusiasm. I left the conversation feeling more optomistic about our future, but it was short-lived.
With a little distance from it I realized that what I asked of him will not satisfy me. I must confess to wanting more than breadcrumbs. Every time he has said he wants us to remain close friends, I feel trivialized . . . reduced to being a sidelight in his life when I had been a main player. I don't want to be a friend. I want to be the object of his affection. I want to be the one he regrets taking for granted, . . .the one he longs for now that his mistakes have made me unreachable. I want him to admit that his feelings for me were very intense, but he ignored them. I guess that is the pivotal point for me. He now says that he had given up on us and accepted that we would be nothing more than friends. Things he said through drunken hazes and the way he looked at me that week before the sky fell in told me differently. I want him to want me back, not as a friend, but as the true love he regrets losing. In other words, I want the impossible, even if it's true. Even if he still harbors deep romantic feelings for me, he has decided to pursue a relationship with her. I am out of the game, and there is no use in my hanging around.
What is the harsher loss? All I know is that my sorrow is filled with the loss of not only things I hoped to come, but my value to someone I cherished, which I knew to be significant, being rendered insignificant. How does one reconcile that loss?
Oct 26, 2004
In the Thick of Things
For a moment, I forgot my own age. I actually had to stop and think. How can I be 32? How is it possible I've been here 32 years? I don't remember 32 years worth of stuff . . . do I? I feel like I'm still in my twenties. Many of my friends are in their twenties. I was actually told by someone a couple of weeks ago that he thought I was the same age as my 22-year-old nephew. It had to have been the lighting. Nonetheless, it added a thrill to my night.
My life is going through a turnstile. So many painful changes have swept over me it can't help but be funny. I blame it all on a prayer. I felt that my life had become stagnant in the familiar, and I was drowning in the quagmire of security. I prayed, recklessly, for the removal of all obstacles that were stunting my progress to happiness and fulfillment. I named people, institutions, lifestyle choices that I suspected to be in my way and asked God to deal with all things as He saw fit. I knew it was dangerous. I knew an answer to this prayer would, in all likelihood, cause immeasurable grief. As they say, you get what you pay for.
Almost immediately I noticed little inconveniences popping up. My life usually runs very smoothly, but I suddenly found myself in circumstances that tried my ability to self-defend. Then the roof fell in. In short (and in this order), the love of my life tells me he's involved with someone, a little more than a week ago I was fired, and this weekend the guy I was seeing (who had been a respite from my heartbreak) dumps me. Those are the major whammies on my mind right now, but there's more. A little hurricane called Ivan knocked a limb into the eve of my house causing damage that still needs repairing. I've been driving my mother's car for over a month now because mine "stopped working." The dealership replaced a defective part that was under warranty (thank God!), but refuses to correct all the problems that have mysteriously begun since they worked on it. (They claim it came in that way.) Now I get to have a mechanic fix the car, paid for out of my currently paycheck-less savings, and then fight the dealership to cover the cost.
I feel like a whiner, and I hate whiners. I know how fortunate I am. My roof damage from Ivan is superficial. There was no structural or internal damage to my home. So many were not so blessed. And I'm fortunate to have a car to see me through this trouble with my own car. I could have found myself without any transportation. Even in my heartbreak, I know myself to be blessed. It's as though God interceded where I didn't have the strength to stop. The man is an alcoholic, an atheist, and incapable of giving himself to a full and mature relationship . . . wholly unsuited for me . . . but I was bonded to him so tightly and only falling deeper. If I couldn't let him go, then I wouldn't be free to meet the person who will be right for me. The same is true of the guy who recently dumped me. I knew it wouldn't work out, but it distracted me from the pain of the first guy. Still, I knew staying involved with him would keep me unavailable. It was just too hard to let go.
So, I'm thirty-two. I can only shake my head in disbelief. I guess it's no wonder I'm feeling this way. Maybe the age thing is a bigger element than I ever credited. I find myself longing for my husband as though he were someone who is hiding somewhere in my current life. I don't think any woman anticipates her wedding to be delayed beyond thirty. It's a despicable thought to every young woman. I was surprisingly fine with enjoying my single-ness when that pivotal birthday arrived. There are too many unhappily married thirty-somethings who find themselves wondering why they needed to rush as twenty-somethings. Even now I don't have panicked thoughts about my biological clock or dying alone. I just find myself being more certain than ever of the type of relationship I need, feeling ready to build it, and being completely frustrated over the lack of prospects. Random thoughts will strike me that if my husband were with me in certain situations (as in the things that dissolved both ill-fated relationships), the situations wouldn't exist at all. And at other times, I wonder over how nice it would be to have someone to confer with, lean on, or simply vent to. I might even have no need for a blog.
My life is going through a turnstile. So many painful changes have swept over me it can't help but be funny. I blame it all on a prayer. I felt that my life had become stagnant in the familiar, and I was drowning in the quagmire of security. I prayed, recklessly, for the removal of all obstacles that were stunting my progress to happiness and fulfillment. I named people, institutions, lifestyle choices that I suspected to be in my way and asked God to deal with all things as He saw fit. I knew it was dangerous. I knew an answer to this prayer would, in all likelihood, cause immeasurable grief. As they say, you get what you pay for.
Almost immediately I noticed little inconveniences popping up. My life usually runs very smoothly, but I suddenly found myself in circumstances that tried my ability to self-defend. Then the roof fell in. In short (and in this order), the love of my life tells me he's involved with someone, a little more than a week ago I was fired, and this weekend the guy I was seeing (who had been a respite from my heartbreak) dumps me. Those are the major whammies on my mind right now, but there's more. A little hurricane called Ivan knocked a limb into the eve of my house causing damage that still needs repairing. I've been driving my mother's car for over a month now because mine "stopped working." The dealership replaced a defective part that was under warranty (thank God!), but refuses to correct all the problems that have mysteriously begun since they worked on it. (They claim it came in that way.) Now I get to have a mechanic fix the car, paid for out of my currently paycheck-less savings, and then fight the dealership to cover the cost.
I feel like a whiner, and I hate whiners. I know how fortunate I am. My roof damage from Ivan is superficial. There was no structural or internal damage to my home. So many were not so blessed. And I'm fortunate to have a car to see me through this trouble with my own car. I could have found myself without any transportation. Even in my heartbreak, I know myself to be blessed. It's as though God interceded where I didn't have the strength to stop. The man is an alcoholic, an atheist, and incapable of giving himself to a full and mature relationship . . . wholly unsuited for me . . . but I was bonded to him so tightly and only falling deeper. If I couldn't let him go, then I wouldn't be free to meet the person who will be right for me. The same is true of the guy who recently dumped me. I knew it wouldn't work out, but it distracted me from the pain of the first guy. Still, I knew staying involved with him would keep me unavailable. It was just too hard to let go.
So, I'm thirty-two. I can only shake my head in disbelief. I guess it's no wonder I'm feeling this way. Maybe the age thing is a bigger element than I ever credited. I find myself longing for my husband as though he were someone who is hiding somewhere in my current life. I don't think any woman anticipates her wedding to be delayed beyond thirty. It's a despicable thought to every young woman. I was surprisingly fine with enjoying my single-ness when that pivotal birthday arrived. There are too many unhappily married thirty-somethings who find themselves wondering why they needed to rush as twenty-somethings. Even now I don't have panicked thoughts about my biological clock or dying alone. I just find myself being more certain than ever of the type of relationship I need, feeling ready to build it, and being completely frustrated over the lack of prospects. Random thoughts will strike me that if my husband were with me in certain situations (as in the things that dissolved both ill-fated relationships), the situations wouldn't exist at all. And at other times, I wonder over how nice it would be to have someone to confer with, lean on, or simply vent to. I might even have no need for a blog.
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