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.

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.