This is one of those posts I thought about not writing. For a couple of reasons.
First, I have to admit to some poor behavior (which isn’t new, or even infrequent, but still it’s hard each time). And I have to share details, specific details, about someone else’s life in order to tell my story. And each time I do that feels like a betrayal. Like I’m telling other people’s secrets (even though I don’t name names).
But it’s been on my mind for over 10 days now, so I guess that means I’m supposed to write about it.
It was Labor Day weekend and I got together with a friend for some fun and frolic. Read=sex. Note: I really do have a better sex life than one might imagine by reading this blog. It’s weird, I write a blog called ‘Sex, Lies and Dating in the City’, but usually don’t write about my actual sex life. Very weird.
Anyway, he’d been out of town for a while, dealing with family stuff. His mom passed away not too long ago, so I asked him how he was doing. And he said he was doing well. And then he said some nice things about his mom and how peaceful her passing was and how relatively easy it was to settle her affairs and deal with his family issues.
I could feel the tears well up in my eyes as he spoke, but I didn’t cry. Not until after I was alone. Then I balled my eyes out. You see, it was just a day away from the anniversary of my mom’s death. And her passing was not peaceful. And while nothing about my family life had ever been easy, it’s gotten more complicated since she’s been gone.
So I cried, alone in my apartment, for a while. A long while. And then I got mad. It was a beautiful day and I’d just had some pretty awesome sex and I was alone in my apartment crying. And angry. And feeling incredibly self-destructive.
I guess I should note here that I have a self-destructive streak that’s a mile wide. And that, I’ve pretty much tamed it in the past decade. I no longer drink to excess. Nowadays it’s rare for me to have more than 5 drinks a month (instead of my old 5 drinks a night). And I’ve never been a smoker. Or into unprescribed drugs (I’ve always been afraid of how they mix with my prescriptions). So my self-destructive impulses tend to drive me to eat really inappropriate things. Which isn’t that big of a deal.
But there are some kinds of crazy that can’t be tamed with cold pizza and M&Ms. I needed to lash out at someone. Preferably myself. Please don’t ask why. That’s a rational question for an irrational situation.
So, after blocking his emails and ignoring his texts and comments (he’d left a couple of comments here on the blog that got sent straight to spam, as I have him categorized as spam) for the past 6 months, I reached out to M. To yell at him. Because it was, somehow, his fault that I was feeling lonely, sad and despondent.
And he gave me the same story I’ve heard before. Too many times. He’s sorry he disappointed me. But he never meant to hurt me. And he’s completely changed, now. Blah blah blah. And then it hit me, I had a crystal clear moment and I wrote to him:
Do you know who you are? You’re the guy who didn’t pick up the phone the night my mom died. And then you didn’t return the call, for days. So you can pretend you’ve changed. Who knows, maybe you have. But you’re always going to be the guy who didn’t pick up the phone the night my mom died. You were never there when I needed you (even after you said you would be, over and over).
Or something like that.
There are no happy thoughts left. No wanting him to hold me. No wishing for a time machine, for a chance to get it right. Just the ultimate act of nonsupport. Of saying, “you don’t matter that much to me”. I was in love with a man who couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone the night my mother died. And now, for the past 10 days, I keep saying that to myself, over and over. Like a fucked up mantra. Maybe if I say it enough times I’ll keep if from ever happening again.
I’m not sure what any of this says about my mental stability, the stages of grief or anything else. It’s complicated, I guess.
Tags: anger, blog, ex-boyfriend, mom, sex