Into the Realm of Madness

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.