Big dipper.
Is it worth it?
That’s what I asked myself over and over while driving home from work today.
I’ve spent the last 60 some-odd days progressively rekindling a friendship with my ex-boyfriend — the intention being that if all of the stars in our galaxy aligned, perhaps we could once and for all merge our lives together.
- Undisputed trust, check
- Unconditional support, check
- Loving companionship, check
- Open communication, check
Let’s take this delicate journey one day at a time, while fostering these critical, non-negotiables… before blasting into the [currently jilted] space of a committed relationship and beyond. And if it is our destiny, materalize an eternal blessed union.
That is where my heart has been simmering on a very low, steady temperature setting. Until, now.
My head is back with vengeance.
When we first reconnected, I learned he might be relocating for the equivalent of a job promotion. But the business opportunity was in such an infancy stage, not to mention so was my consideration for even fathoming a legitimate chance at survival…that I didn’t spend more than 30 seconds reflecting on the geographic repercussions it would have on our situation.
Could we continue our voyage – the intensive equivalent of physical therapy for two souls – long distance? If I initially couldn’t conceive of us actually withstanding a reconciliation, I definitely did not grasp doing so in different area codes.
The psyche is such an incredible phenomenon.
I don’t harbor resentment, on paper. But I think deep down, entrenched in my memory’s crevices, there are residual bits of exhaust that pollute a fresh start. Case in point — the moment I learned that this move may actually happen, the haunted past flashed in front of my eyes.
“Oh my God. I’m here again. He’s back. But, he’s also leaving.”
Not once, but twice Mr. Big has reunited with me in our shared city, only to pick up and dip out for a job opportunity shortly thereafter.
Three times is a charm. Three times is a mind fuck.
I understand, genuinely and whole-heartedly that this is a fortuitous overlap in our lives at the moment. There wasn’t a mastermind plan devised to simultaneously attempt winning me back, with one foot already secretly out the door. And, frankly, if our inconsistent history wasn’t a reality, I’d be calling shot gun in the Uhaul truck, bags packed….I could use some new scenery myself.
But our road less traveled has a lot more miles to go before I’m willing to sacrifice another drop of blood, wipe of sweat, or bucket of tears. If it were up to him, we’d be house hunting, I’d be negotiating a job transfer to keep my position and work remotely, and the future would be ours to create. Yet he is fully aware that ‘day by day’ means just that, and it surely doesn’t mean follow in his footsteps.
My intuition and I had a chat a while back, after we met with the Couch Counselor. Do I take a leap of faith and see if this dude really is for real? Or do I walk away before anyone gets hurt — with no casualties or additional battle wounds to show? The jury of one voted to take the plunge under these conditions — strict internal supervision, daily emotional inventories, and professional advice to boot.
It was worth it to me. To take the risk.
But now you throw 200 miles, or possibly 500 miles in the mix, and my reliable navigation system has shit the bed. Can it be done? Sure, people do it all the time. But given our extenuating circumstances, mixing regions isn’t ideal. Not having a roadmap to steer this 8-year-in-the-making relationship rehab was overwhelming enough, and that’s only with a 10 minute commute.
We could potentially lift off into what feels like outer space. Which, ironically, is the closest natural approximation of a perfect vacuum. It has effectively no friction, allowing planets and their family of neighbors to move freely along the gravitational path. If only it were that easy…
As I sit here wondering where in the world universe we’ll land in — one day, one month, or one year from now — I can’t help but wonder if this next trip will be worth the risk. Will Mr. Big stand by my side, near or far, proving me wrong. Or will he literally become The Big Dipper.
And then I’m remembered.
Shoot for the moon. Because even if you miss, you’ll still land among the stars.
New moon.
The month of July buried me alive, for reasons I’ve already documented and don’t wish to regurgitate. Thankfully though, I crawled out… into the month of August ~ which had better things in store.
The theme: Out with the old, in with the new. Well, sorta.
Including but not limited to a new cell phone, a new computer, and a new car. Considering I typically ride the technological short bus, these improvements have already made my life that much more painless, which is priceless.
I also invested in an EZ-Pass, so stopping at 6 cash tolls to and from the office, will be a thing of the past. Although truthfully I will miss a few of the attendants’ smiles.
It has become quite evident that I’m surrounded by effortless tools in practically every facet of my life, making the daily bumps less bruise-worthy. But most noteworthy, which is not new news, is my friends.
Since reconnecting in a developmental meaningful way with Mr. Ex in the latter part of this summer, I knew it was inevitable that downloading my female counterparts on the latest increments was non-negotiable. But the anxiety-induced anticipation levels of having these talks aged me approximately 3 calendar years; my birth certificate now reads 1976.
Speaking of, while reconnecting with my couch-based counterpart, Mrs. Therapist, during my last session she waved her magic wand with 3 simple words.
Everyone is neurotic.
I was explaining to her the 2-sided dialogue which dances around in my cluttered head to the tune of, “What will your friends say when you tell them you’re talking to ‘He Who Shall Remain Nameless?’” ~ “Be calm. Be still. They’ll still love you just the same, albeit having to go on blood pressure medicine.” ~ “You are out of you mind. You know it, and they will know it.” ~ “Stop being so hard on yourself. Listen to your heart…that’s the best you can do.” ~ “Tears, lots-o-tears are in store for your friends.” ~ “Seriously, shut up. You’re awesome. And a good friend…you don’t judge them for their personal decisions. And they’ll do the same for you.”
Hearing that I’m not crazy was empowering to say the least. That, literally, every person has their own inner banter that nearly drives us all mad. Not to mention that the sentiment came from a PhD professional with 30+ years under her belt…told me this insight which was as believable as explaining that the color of our Earth’s sky is blue.
I am blessed to have several friends I consider sisters, by choice, and have now had The Talk with almost all of them. And every single one took my breath away. My neurosis of believing they’d be checked into a psych ward was proven wrong. I was left speechless and brought to tears by their brilliance. Sure, they’re probably all worn out and frankly over it. But they’ve also grown up along side me too in their own right and understand we each have our own lives to live, and negotiating and rationalizing Love is a waste of air.
Unexpectedly, out of the entire gang, the two specific women who I thought for sure would need an emergency script written for Xanax…were actually the most rationale, calm, and borderline supportive [of me, not the potential reunion]. I called off the SWAT teams, crisis support centers, and ambulances on standby.
Suddenly, not only was I human, but so were they. My friends are not robots, monsters, or scripted characters — They’ve had their hearts broken. They’ve loved someone who didn’t love them back the way they wanted. They’ve taken risks. They’ve gone against the grain. They’ve sacrificed time and energy for the sake of what they believed may or may not result in an outcome of their best interest at the time. They’ve made choices that others didn’t condone. And they’ve also lived a life without regret or shame.
And that is why they’re my friends.
Probably the most ironic twist in this whole situation is when one of my sidekicks told me about the major plot line in the Twilight series. Said friend passionately plead her case that I need to read the book(s)…almost as if they were written just for me. Let me be very clear: I do not read fiction. Especially science-fiction. I would rather calculate economic equations than read about Vampires.
That is, until explained in a Cliff Notes format the scoop: Bella, a human, loves a Vampire, Edward. She loves him beyond reason and considers him as valuable as oxygen. Her best friend, Werewolf Jacob, hates Vampires and protects her from them. Bella has to essentially choose between her Friend, and her Love (who she can’t even be with given that he’ll eat her alive — for lack of better words, but is nonetheless continually drawn to him — and he too realizes he could kill her, but can’t live without her either).
I got it, instantly. This isn’t about some silly fantasy story that takes place in the woods. Millions of people aren’t enamored by make-believe, intangible figures from boredom.
It’s about Love.
Relating to the language of love in any format or context is something everybody gets. Even me, the non-fiction reading, transparent, authentic, factoid-slinging, statistics and analytics-driven, trashy reality show following gal.
I’m a confused Human. Mr. Ex is a Vampire. My friends are Werewolves. But the only difference is, thankfully, I don’t have to choose.
Couch talk(s).
In 48 hours, I visited not one therapist, but two. Mine, and Mr. Ex’s.
While driving to the latter visit during my lunch break, I literally felt like I was driving through the twilight zone. As a homemade CD blasted beats in my car stereo, I was seat-dancing to the music and in somewhat of a good mood from successfully knocking out a crazy amount of projects at work. Then, about 1/2 way through the unfamiliar route, suddenly my stomach sank. The organ did approximately 6 backflips in a row to the likes of a trapeze artist. I’m off to compete in a game of poker and I don’t even know how to play.
At the risk of crashing my car while projectile vomiting from nerves and adrenaline, I tried to focus back on the tunes and not chance getting a DUIF: Driving Under the Influence of Fear.
“What am I doing?? I can’t believe where I’m headed. Is this really happening? What am I going to say? Will I cry? Will I like the lady sitting across from me? What are her preconceived opinions of me? What has he told her about me? Can I remain calm and poised, or will I have a manic-filled melt down?”
Then I reflected back on what my own recently revisited couch companion advised me…that, “nothing bad could come from it.” There are no expectations, no specific outcomes. This meeting would simply be an open discussion of two people who care immensely for each other over eight long years. The end result could ultimately bring us closure/healing, a friendship, or a possible reconciliation down the windy road at the pace of a tortoise.
Rewind to last weekend when I saw my former projected fiance-to-be at a mutual friend’s river-house party. We sat in the water talking for such a long time, that I burned [despite the 85 SPF evenly covering all of my skin] and my finger tips mimicked a wrinkly 85-year-old’s aged hand. It literally took the sun setting, dinner on the table, and the party attendants yelling at us to join the crowd… in order to pull our four feet out of the mushy sand.
Rewind some more. After Mr. Ex took me out for my birthday last month, apparently his friend-for-hire had suggested maybe I come in for a co-session. He then brought it up in conversation during our last round of dialogue while floating on a raft, and I spent the next several days up in arms about what to do.
Sure, joining him on a couch ”wouldn’t hurt” per se. But I’m potentially opening up a can of wilted worms. My vast database of the Ex Files were stowed away, locked up with no key, deported to another country, for good. No more do-over’s. No more second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh chances. No more embarrassing outcomes and betrayals. No more false promises.
I’ve gone as far as A) Adamantly telling friends & family that the cat had used up all 9 lives, B) Agreed [by way of an alcohol-laced cocktail napkin] to a $1,000 bet should I reconnect with him romantically, and C) Most importantly, convinced myself that Mr. Ex would indefinitely hold that title, without parole.
And now here I am…facing an opportunity to see if in fact, this man whom I invested countless courtships with over many, many years…is actually on the road to relationship recovery. Were the months and months of professional counsel, insightful books, and ample alone quiet time in the mirror of his mind enough to sincerely make a significant change in him? Not just being faithful either — but actually *wanting* to invest in a mutually-fulfilling partnership. Were all of his friends and even past skeptics who have been individually approaching me time and time again — that they whole-heartedly believe the guy has had an exorcism of the heart, be true? Could we potentially, with the help of relationship experts to guide us along the tidal waves ahead, sail us to a calm, healthy, faithful, loving shore?
I have no fucking clue. And, the thought of it scares the hell out of me.
So, I went to the office and met the person who he’s spent 16 weeks confiding to. Those 60 minutes were in fact insightful, and telling. The first 10 were spent fighting a lump in my throat; ultimately managing to only need one Kleenex by the time it was over. And I left feeling relatively stable — that the “no expectations” policy was achieved. We both walked our separate ways with no future plans set-in-stone, no scheduled couch visits on the calendar, just a day-by-day TBD for now.
Of course, as always, many will want to weigh-in, providing words of encouragement/support/disdain/contempt from both team’s sidelines. But what I’ll be listening to [besides The Counsel on a couch, The Counsel from up above, and The Counsel of my intuition] is my heart.
Eat. Pray. Love.
[Two weeks ago]
Friend: So if Mr. Ex contacts you, do you think you can resist not responding?
Me: No.
Friend: [Pause] Why not?
Me: Because I don’t feel strong enough. I’m not at a place where I can not-not respond.
I had that converation on my birthday with one of my closest comrades. It was just her and I, speaking truths. My spirits were already in the gutter as a whole entourage of girlfriends hadn’t shown up for the anticlimactic celebration. But on the brink of having an epic pity party from being bailed on, and internally addressing being an aging SFO (single white female), and being recently rejected by 4 bachelors from The Match.com, back-to-back…and knowing 3 people who got engaged in less than 1 week, instead, I had an epiphany — that I’d be disgustingly authentic from here on out.
That I have spent so much time concerned about what others (particularly my inner circle) think of me, that it makes me Pepto-Bismol sick. Sure, relatively speaking, of course we want our loved ones to approve, support, and cheer us on…unconditionally, but that isn’t always the case when opinions and emotions soar high through the jaded-colored sky.
When Mr. Ex and I broke up last time, in the winter (Round 8 or so, if you’re counting), I had a break-through then, too.
“Love yourself first.” Those deliberate sounds have literally become a mantra of mine. If Buddhists and Yogis recite an Om when they meditate, then that is my own personalized succinct and heartfelt self-imposed love letter. I write or silently speak those 3 words daily, without fail.
All I’ve ever really known is loving others. If there is one thing I can unequivocally say at 31-years-old, it is that I consciously strive to live selflessly every single day. So much so, that I have also gotten lost in the crowd. I seldom look in the mirror, into my own eyes, and into my own heart, looking for insight and answers. Instead I often look and listen in the background’s reflection, wondering what others see, think, and feel. That stems from my upbringing though; needing approval, and rarely getting it. Constantly feeling a sense of not being good enough — someone with great potential, but who isn’t quite collectively living up to it.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I believe the best in others, even when they don’t necessarily deserve it, because that’s all I ever wanted. To have faith in me.
As I’ve documented for weeks months now, Mr. Ex hasn’t left me. He’s inside still. But not the ohmygodican’tbreathe sorta way. That’s the difference from the past. He used to be my oxygen. I can inhale and exhale on my own now, and feel much more sustained in my core. My foundation and footing isn’t contingent on his presence or inhabiting my world. But the fundamental meaning of who he is, and what he means to me, is completley unscathed.
Ever since he’s resurfaced in my world, even in the smallest way here and there, time has stood still. On a regular basis, I tuck away my most intimate, sacred, genuine feelings. Not only because they’re too big to swallow without choking, but because I’m terrifed my friends and family will not understand. They want to protect me. Hell, I want to protect me. But once again, wanting needing their fairy dust to love me regardless of what I say or do, no matter how dumb/insane/ridiculous it may be, is nearly debilitating.
The truth is, my soul feels stagnant. She wants to go forward. She wants to be free. She wants to find someone who will love her, the way she loves in return. She wants to erase the hurt. She wants to start over. She wants a renewed sense of patience. But she’s standing still. It’s this fucking force of nature magnet that I can’t seem to overcome.
Mr. Ex, will be always be Mr. Big in my heart. There are so many laws that have been broken in our mutual history. The Law of Attraction, Motion, and Gravity…which we defy. We always, inevitably, somehow or someway, come back around face-to-face.
Like on Saturday, while making the 5-hour journey back home from a week-long vacation at the beach…when I was summoned to a river house by our mutual friend. What should I have done? Thanked her for the gesture and invitation, but gone home to unpack and unwind. What did I do? I went to the river, saw my heart turned inside out in the flesh, and spoke to him again. Every mini-reunion we have, our converations evolve little by little, and pick up right where they left off: healing, learnings, emptiness, dating, happiness, marriage, lessons, friends, former friends, unanswered questions, family, parents, boundaries, trust, therapy, hope, lies, trust, heartbreak, love.
I’m a hot mess.
People have commented to me time and time again that I’m disciplined, and they’re “proud” of me, in various aspects of my life. When I set my mind to something, even a freight train won’t stop me. And yet lately, I’ve never felt more out of control, or more like a fraud. Food has been a trusted resource for pain…I usually have somewhat of a grip around sweets and such, but not even the slightest bit these days…full-on Intervention TV show binging. Exercise has been an afterthought. Pleading with God has become a hobby. Crying has been a steadfast routine.
Eat. Pray. Love.
The book, and now soon to be released movie, simply-put subtitle explanation is exactly how I feel: One Woman’s Search For Everything.
Tomorrow I’ll be revisiting my couch counselor. The unbiased friend-for-hire whom I chatted with on three occasions after the explosive Mr. Big break-up, equipped with a PhD degree, was remarkable, insightful, and a great fit for my tell-it-like-it-is personality. However, she told me I didn’t need weekly visits; I was healthy with a solid head screwed on my shoulders. Yet, I could “check in” as needed, ya know, for maintenance work.
My spirit needs an oil change, wheels need balancing, heart needs an alignment. And no matter what my exterior may look like to others from a distance, I’m finally going to [work on] focusing on the interior — detailing my insides, and dealing with the fact that he too, still shares that space with me.
“I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism.”
— Elizabeth Gilbert
Make a wish.
So I turned 31 Flavors on Thursday.
Seems like only yesterday I had fully embraced claiming a new decade, and realized the number “thirty” rolled off my lips with ease, now it was already time for another milemarker. How did that happen?
Stereotypically, I have never put too-too much weight on an actual acknowlegement that I was born by way of a party. But maybe that is because more times than not, my friends & family at large “show up” literally & metaphorically. Maybe I took for granted the love, support, and celebration I’d grown to humbly expect during my first three decades on earth.
The cumulative days leading up to, the day of, and weekend following were a bit rough on my ego, to say the least. And let me preface first by saying, I’ve come a long way over the last 10 years with my expectations. It used to *crush* me when people flaked out. I put friends on a pedestal & expect to be met halfway. Whereas today, after many disappointing, near debilitating reality checks, I’ve narrowed it down to one day a year where you can’t bail — just one single day — all you have to do is show up.
Wednesday — a no-frills Happy Hour was scheduled…to partake in cheap cocktails & hors dourves. Roughly 10 women were slated to attend — two showed up.
Thursday — on my birth certicate’s official rite of passage, not one of my 5 siblings called to say the two staple well-wishing words: Happy Birthday. Facebooking doesn’t count with DNA, sorry. And a few “good friends” were also MIA. That unusual silent treatment really took me by surprise.
Saturday — a very small group of 3, (2 of which were there on Wednesday) were on board to have a legit night on the town with moi — but 1 bailed.
Thankfully, for every low blow, a positive was right around the corner: There were amazing friends who did show up in more ways than one, My Mom sang her faithful rendition of the Happy Birthday To You song on my voicemail, My dear friend from out-of-state drove over 5 hours to spend Friday night with me and happily served as my date to a concert, along with a few unexpected cards in the mail that really touched my heart.
Last but not least, I spent the evening of my birthday with a person who wanted to make some missed moments in the past up to me — Mr. Ex. When he asked me to accompany him on an impromptu Miami getaway recently and I painfully declined [complimentary sand & sun is hard to resist with a man you wanted to marry, thankyouverymuch]…he had also extended a no-strings-attached dinner invitation in honor of my birthday that was conducive to my schedule. While we dated for most of my 20’s, we were also conveniently broken up (over the summer) for the majority of my annual I Exist anniversaries … consequently he was not obligated to take me out or wrap a gift box with a prize inside.
I appreciated the gesture, but not knowing if I’d develop anxiety or break out in hives during the meantime of agreeing to meet, I asked if I could RSVP the day of. Then when the day eventually arrived — equipped with a bruised ego, jilted attitude, no candles to blow out, and zero plans on the agenda, I poignantly decided: Fuck it. I’m in. I’m going to spend my birthday with my Ex.
We went to a beautiful botanical garden in town that spans over 40 acres. Ironically (or maybe not), it was the backdrop of our very first date at my work’s holiday party in the early 2000’s. I sweated out about 1 gallon of water while we strolled around sipping wine and observing majestic living artwork. When plans failed to eat at the restaurant on-location, I requested we visit a new Greek spot instead that received rave reviews. Then finished off the humid night outside with a few scoops of Expresso Oreo ice cream.
I have no regrets and can honestly say that the overall experience was really very enjoyable. We talked about life, dating, lessons, and laughed in between mouthfuls of Chicken Soulvaki. I will always wish him well, while wondering if I’ll ever have that extraordinary connection & chemistry with another person. I will also always wonder why it wasn’t in our cards to be together, ever after.
Speaking of chemistry ~ apparently I haven’t found any with the first four dudes I met from The Match.com last week. Not even Mr. D…the school teacher, who I touted as being super duper. No one has booked me for a second date or followed-up. Ok fine. I didn’t necessarily have sparks flying across the bachelor board on my end either, but still.
Although the first week of my “30+” years got off to a rocky start ~ I’ll never give up hope for brighter days ahead, never stop embracing those who reciprocate friendship by showing up for me, never stop believing in love, and never, ever stop holding out hope that there is someone out there who can’t live without me, too.
A hot mess.
The Internet (and my mind) is fucking with me. I appear to be overheating.
Let me back up 24 hours.
Bullets Pictures of Mr. Ex are flying around from all sides of the screen through our mutual Facebook friends. Dodging them seems near impossible. Ever since I interacted with him in the flesh on multiple occasions so far this summer, it has occurred to me I definitely, definitely negated any kind of “steps forward” I had previously achieved over the first few months of separation. I’m back at ground zero…Which is also why I’m choosing to remove myself from continued communal interactions via river boating and BBQing hangouts; my raw heart can’t handle it. I’d be better off just skewering the broken pieces and adding them to the grill.
Next up, my colleague who is also single was recently talked into joining The Match.com (compliments of my own peer pressure) and before she could even blink, the Quarterback winked at her. That’s just awesome. Guess he isn’t taking my advice on resolving his trust issues with women before hitting the field again. It stung a little bit, but also validated my intuition to just move on.
I wish on The Match there was a Commenting box available — or better yet — a Reviewer’s section. Ya know, just like online stores have thru their web site for consumers. You can write up your personal experience of a product…its features, quality, durability, if the description on the package actually translates to real usage. That would be oh so helpful in online dating. In this case, I’d have to call QB’s bluff on “balancing work and personal life.”
Or like the Lawyer who I briefly dated last June & lied about his age. The guy just turned 40 but his profile page proclaims he is in his early 30’s.
Which leads me to my next subject — recycling. I recycle plastic, paper and aluminum products, but am making it my mission to not recycle men. Period.
The Lawyer is still on The Match and emailed me. Or should I say had the nerve to email me. Exhibit A: He took me to his beach house after knowing me for 3 weeks, then didn’t contact me again for another 2 weeks. Lame. And, now, he wants to know if I’d like to grab some sake with him (just like our first date). No thank you. His case is closed.
There was also yet another past bachelor who reached out yesterday — I formerly referred to him as The Artist. After several emails and a phone call, we were scheduled to meet in early December, but then Mr. Ex came back swinging into the picture. I was entirely too confused and overwhelmed to even fathom holding a conversation with a new chap at the time, so I gently canceled the date. I then later ran into The Artist in March and recognized him from pictures. I don’t think he is my type though so won’t pursue that avenue. And also because, as I said above, I really and truly want a fresh start.
Finally, after all the digital debauchery over the course of the day, last night I met up with two of my best girlfriends — one is visiting from out of town. She is married, a mom, and drives a mini van. I still don’t believe it, even seeing it in writing. The other gal is a fellow Match.com customer and cashed in on the cream of the crop. I’m devasted the guy doesn’t have a clone in the form of a brother or cousin; he’s amazing. They have proven to be a match indeed…and could actually be used in the company success story commercials.
I knew that both off-the-market ladies, who are almost as invested in my search to find lasting love as I am, would want to participate in culling down my growing list of potential manfriends. So I printed out about 15 dudes for them to review. One by one they scanned photos, “About Me” sections, hobbies, and interests. Each got put into two piles: Yes and Hell No.
The orchestrated ordeal was halfway hilarious, halfway hard. The married judge on our panel was picking apart elements such as restricted height (5’6”), the way the guy sat on the chair (legs wide open = cocky), posing on a motorcycle (or as she calls them, crotch rockets), if a female (not even knowing if they’re maybe related) was included in any photos, and on and on. I sat there defending myself, constantly sourcing the book “Mr. Good Enough” written by a lady over 40 who never got married because she was entirely too picky.
This time around, I’m genuinely trying hard to expand my normally strict criteria.
Which leads me to my next subject: Kids. I want kids, but I want them to come out of my uterus. Not only am I not ready nor wanting to be a Step Mother, but I just want *1* thing to be sacred and of my own. I’m open to meeting someone who is divorced (which by the way is 1:1 who contact me), but offspring baggage too…that’s tough. Both my sister & sister-in-law were ripping me a new one over the weekend, telling me I *have* to be more open about guys with children, otherwise I’m vastly limiting my ability to meet men.
God forbid I’m limited in any capacity.
So, I’m supposed to settle. I’m supposed to just totally throw my hands up and say screw it. Just give me anyone. I’m over 30 and maxing out here soon.
Really though — where do you draw the line on settling?
I need a cold shower… this 100+ degree heat is clearly getting to me.
Match is back.
Well, I’m alone again. So what I do when I’m alone…I hop back on The Match.com.
First though, let me bring the Quarterback’s playbook to a close. When I met with him last week for 90 minutes after non-dating for 90 days, it was nothing short of terrible. He thought we were having The Talk & was prepared to lock us down as a bona fide couple. Instead I made a move he wasn’t expecting. I ended it. And it stung.
Great guy, amazing guy. Good looking, sharp. I could go on and on. But I uncovered through continued conversation that he has a tremendous amount of trust issues and frankly, I’m getting too old [and tired] to try & fix men. I gently suggested he see a counselor. And, that as things stand today between him and I, I simply can’t continue dating under these circumstances. The insecurities and walls he has working against him will continually shut out and sabotage women to enter his life in a meaningful way. I’ve learned the hard way that people have to love & respect themselves first before anyone else can.
Then I mentioned in a post not long ago that I’ve also recently engaged with my beloved Mr. Ex. Especially being around our circle of friends made me feel at home again. I could write a 700 page novel about how difficult it is for me to muster up enough self-control to not get completely devoured in his world and arms again. If I could snap my fingers, wiggle my nose, sprinkle fairy dust…anything at all…to live happily ever after with him, I’d do it. But again and again my mind bitch-slaps my heart and says, “You have got to get a grip.”
I was terrible at Economics in college. Well, I understood the concepts, but failed miserably executing equations on tests. But one theory I’ll never forget is the Law of Diminishing Returns. It refers to how the marginal production of a factor of production starts to progressively decrease as the factor is increased, in contrast to the increase that would otherwise be normally expected. Blah blah blah. Or how I understood the example, your first piece of pizza is amazing. The second is good. The third, you’re getting full. Any beyond that, you’re almost disgusted and can’t fathom another bite.
That is how my spirit feels with regards to ever getting hurt again from Mr. Ex. Could he have actually taken or is taking a major renovation internally through insight and self-awareness? Absolutely. Is there a possibility that he could be the man I always hoped he could be? Definitely. Is the risk of getting crushed again worth finding out? Not again. I’m not playing with fire anymore.
To bring some context to the situation, that would literally make me the pussy cat who had 9 lives…or 9 shots at a relationship.
I hate felines. In fact, I recently learned I’m allergic to them.
So as I was saying, when I need to distract myself, I typically dive face first into the Internet. I’ve been swimming in a sea of digital dating, at a cost of $34.99 a month, on and off, for approximately six years.
You can imagine my surprise when I received a VIP email [Note: Match always ups the ante and adds fuzzy ploys to somehow make the experience that much more silly — now you can mark an email as “VIP” and you are only allowed 1 per week] from a dude I briefly dated, if you can even call it that, circa 2004 or so. My best friend thought he was gay, based on his gestures. Today she thinks he looks better than before based on his photos, I think he has less hair, added grey hair, and put on some weight. From what I remember, he slightly annoyed me, but only because he sorta picked on me, for not letting go of Mr. Ex. I heard through a mutual friend that he later got married.
Well said bachelor emailed me, *VIP status*, which really confused me because I thought he was legally off the market. “Divorced, 33.” Doh. I’m not sure what’s worse: The fact I’m still single and still on The Match. Or that he’s back, and divorced.
This past November immediately after I was laid off @ my job, I re-upped on The Match and proposed a self-inflicted “30 Days of Dating” [see earlier comment about distraction]. I was completely overwhelmed by the time management and schedule maintenance that was necessary to keep up with the herculean effort! I remember saying to myself, “Thank goodness I’m unemployed or I’d never be able to swing this.”
Which leads me to my next point. In 3 days, my profile stats are borderline ridiculous:
- 76 Winks
- 43 Emails
- 23 Favorites
- 1 VIP correspondence
While I appreciate, very much so, the attention I’m receiving — the collective energy it takes to keep up with basic communication is insane. I could honestly use an assistant…to find my husband.
I wonder if Craigslist has a category for that.
Best friend, part 2.
Another one bites the dust.
My last blog post chronicled a failed attempt to have The Talk with The Quarterback [QB]…a guy I’ve been faux dating for approximately 12 weeks. As if that experience wasn’t bad enough from being shot down because he was too wrapped up in the Lakers’ game to focus on a conversation…things have continued to take a nose dive ever since. His last words as we said good-bye Thursday night was, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Well not only did he get drinks with colleagues after work instead of making plans to have The Talk with me, but he said he’d call or text later post happy hour. He did not.
Then Saturday came and went…no communication. I had it. This is ridiculous. My electronic elephant in the room acknowledgment on Saturday night to him said, “I’m gonna read between the lines QB. You went drinking instead of making plans to see me. You also didn’t call/text like you said you would. And no word today…”
Yet, it came as no surprise to me when his response oozed obliviousness, “What do you mean? I didn’t go ‘instead’ of talking and have been working on my house all day. Sorry.” He blew my cellular up all day Sunday and I reciprocated with a whole lot of nothing.
QB then texted Monday [allow me to acknowledge the obvious before we proceed further – he rarely ever actually dials phone numbers to engage in verbal conversations] and asked if I was free that evening or the following to get together. I responded that Wednesday would work better. And this next nonsense made my toes crinkle, “Ok. So should we have the ‘talk’ then too? ;)”
Oh hell to the no. Is he actually making light of this?
So now… here we are – D-Day has arrived. And ironically, although we’re still having A Talk, it won’t be The Talk…it’ll likely be The End.
The man clearly has a severe case of Dating Deficiency Syndrome [I’m coining a new term specifically for this obnoxiously annoying conundrum]. I cannot waste another second with someone who does not make me feel like a priority…I spent far too many years in that dynamic and my baby-making eggs aren’t getting any younger either.
Friends who formerly were head over heels for the guy have recently done a sharp 180. Because they watched me go through long-term turmoil with Mr. Ex on & off for years, their collective capacity for bullshit is now nearly nonexistent. Some have said they’re “proud” of me for getting off the QB train – which sorta makes me feel bad in a backwards sorta way. But that is just my own Ego…feeling silly for putting myself in a backseat position in the past…that now when people see me taking a stand in the 1st quarter, it is deemed commendable.
Comrades have also said that maybe by sharing insight with the chap tonight – i.e. taking virtually zero initiative, not acknowledging nice gestures I’ve done, to putting The Talk on the back burner so he could mentally focus on an NBA basketball game one-hour from tipoff – that just maybe he’ll learn from it. That, maybe, the next girl will get a new and improved manfriend because of me.
And that brings me to my next subject.
I’ve had contact with Mr. Ex on several occasions over the last few months. The first encounter was when I drunk-dialed him — thanks to a day-long St. Patrick’s festival that put my liver to the ultimate test, then a very civil [albeit intoxicated] in-person chat at a popular outdoor sporting event, followed by a handful of recent conversations that were prompted by our mutual friend going through distress.
Over the course of these varying dialogues – it has become abundantly clear that the guy is undergoing an unquestionable metamorphosis. He has taken significant steps through personal and professional education & counsel – that even my self-help bookshelf would be jealous. His own buddies have indicated an unprecedented, dramatic shift in his overall frame of mind too. Personally, I have always believed that sometimes people have to hit a proverbial rock bottom in order to finally see the light. And that may in fact be the case with the man I have loved to the core of my soul.
As time has progressed since our dramatic break-up almost 4 months ago, and my extraordinary anger has subsided, I inwardly observed that I genuinely, whole-heartedly wish him the best. When you truly care about someone, it is impossible to wish hurt upon them. While we were together, I always put him before me…sometimes to a fault. But it makes me happy, in an unexplainable dynamic, that he could ultimately find happiness through enlightenment.
One of my favorite expressions that exemplifies this very notion: Once you know better, you do better.
I wish more than anything that I could be on the back end of his new-found relationship rehab discovery. That all of the blood, sweat and tears I invested for the better part of my 20’s could ultimately not have been in vain. But the hard, cold, sobering truth is that even if the man that I would have donated every organ to… has legitimately taken a permanent emotional shift, that same shift will never negate broken trust.
And so… in a few hours as I end a seemingly non-relationship with the QB, wondering if he’ll somehow come out new & improved for the next ladyfriend he encounters…I simultaneously am saddened in a bitter sweet twist, that another ladyfriend will also reap the benefits of my irreplaceable best friend, Mr. Ex.
Riddle me this.
Here’s the truth, told through what’s referred to as diarrhea of the mouth.
Exhibit A: I am completely, unequivocally, impossibly terrified…we’re talking borderline schizophrenic style…of getting hurt. I’d almost prefer to jump off a cliff than go through heartache again.
Let me back up for just a moment.
Last night I saw the Quarterback [QB] for the first time in over a week, due to traveling. His busy season (thanks to work) is wrapping up soon…but not quite yet, apparently. When we finalized our day & time reunion over texting, there wasn’t even a discussion as to where we were going or what we were doing — suppose it’s now at a point that those kind of details are understood. And by reunion, I mean sitting on the couch. And by sitting on the couch, I mean I watched TV, played on my phone, and filed my nails while he worked on the computer. For 3 hours.
In the first 5 minutes I was literally fighting back tears [told you, I’m a hot mess right now]. Back to Exhibit A. You see, I’m struggling with…in a major way…finding a balance between compromising and practicing patience, while fostering a fulfilling potential relationship with someone. I’ve yammered away about this very touchy subject on several occasions now on the blog & it continues to randomly rear its ugly head. While I understand there is a lot going on with his job, and standard work hours of 9-5 are not confined to punching off the clock upon leaving the office — I am also battling with my noisy conscience reminding me about what I deserve.
I deserve some romance. I deserve some special outings. I deserve some thoughtful gestures. Especially given the newness of our courtship. I’m not talking a trip to Paris, I’m talking anything outside the confines of a couch.
Mr. Ex was a master romantic. Granted he would generally only pull out the big guns on special holidays or when trying to win me back — but I’ve tasted from the cup of chivalry before and I’m craving it again.
When I get wrapped up in my jaded frantic thoughts, immediately I reach into my “actions speak louder than words” bag and remember that he has *shown up* to every single thing I’ve asked him to do. Not once has he pushed back, sighed, or tried to get out of being my +1. Not to mention every circumstance leaves him in a room full of strangers who are clearly sizing him up. And yes we have had several instances which included meaningful conversations on the patio or curled up on the couch chatting til the sun goes down, but I’m still missing something.
Is that too much to ask? Does that make me stiletto-high maintenance?
And the kicker is — he knows it. Within the first 20 minutes he looked at me tapping away on my mobile mini keyboard and pitifully asked, “Are you texting your friends telling them how much I suck?” Some people wear their heart on their sleeve, I must wear my feelings on my face.
Then a while later said, with what I believe to be his guilty conscience uncovered and in disbelief himself, “So when did it become acceptable that you sit here while I work?” To which I quickly responded, “I believe the word you’re looking for is compromise, not acceptable.” And he corrected himself, “I know this isn’t what you want and I’m sorry it has to be this way. But I really like seeing you, even if this is how it happens.”
My logic tells me to give it more time and hang on until some sense of normalcy arrives.
But Exhibit A has me on the brink of suffocation — if I keep hanging on in the meantime, I could fall for him — face first. Then what if he doesn’t show up in the ways that I need, even after the business agenda has been cleared?
I know, I know: Don’t be afraid, blah blah blah. Enjoy the time you do have together, blah blah blah.
It’s not that simple though. My heart has previously been put through the blender, on high speeds, and the mere thought of having to piece myself together again is, well it’s just unthinkable.
Weighing manfriend pros & cons is a skill I’ve mastered. He is heavy on the front-end, but the handful of cons happen to be sore spots for me. And that is where I get stumped.
Trying desperately to let go of my past while also opening up for my undetermined future is a riddle I’ve yet to crack.
The big time.
The 78th annual Strawberry Hill horse races took place this weekend. It is one of my all-time favorite [tailgating] events of the year. The day-long lush fest is our little southern town’s tribute to the Kentucky Derby – in simple terms…if Strawberry Hill were a prescription pill, it’d be the generic brand of the real deal. And I love the watered down version just the same.
I typically spend an embarrassing amount of time plotting out my frock, acquiring the accompanying comfortable heels with still a scoach of fashion, and lovely accenting accessories. But not this time – this time I waited until the last minute, which is a reflection of how crazy my life feels these days.
Thankfully I found a halter top, A-line, polka dot dress that fit the traditional theme and even managed to pull off a floppy hat to boot.
Despite the fact I was among 17,000 other tailgaters…I still managed to run into my ex, Mr. Ex.
Before the day kicked off, I asked pleaded with my closest comrades to wear their proverbial straightjackets, “Please. No drama. No cussing out. No dagger eyes. Our collective reaction will be no reaction. OK?”
Most agreed, with just one potential exception, “I can’t make any promises, depends on the amount of alcohol I’ve had during shoulder rubbing.”
When all was said and done, only one verbal interaction occurred with an attending amiga – it was between my living quarters companion and him, who are now retired friends. From what I gathered, she told him she was “disappointed” in him [the D word is probably the absolute worst word you could use in my personal opinion] and that he lost the greatest thing that would ever happen to him. Yowzers. That is a very nice compliment. Whether or not I can own that title, I will not argue that I added value to the boy’s bubble.
While walking to a gal pal’s plot, about ¾ of the way through the day with no sign of Him so far, I inevitably spotted a group of his friends. I halted to say hello and within 90 seconds, there he was in the circle. Luckily I had consumed a solid 8 Jello shooters and several vodka-sodas in my belly that the initial interaction was coated in a very subtle alcohol-induced numbness. The kind where you’re totally coherent, still articulate and aware of immediate surroundings, but somehow able to cope with circumstances to the likes of Wonder Woman.
I was introduced to one of his [girl] friends who I had seen numerous times in pictures but never met. The truth is – I speculated deep down that there had been *something* going on between them in the past. But after meeting her, I can see that that probably wasn’t the case, and just my own underlying insecurity about my unoccupied place in his pants.
Next thing I know the 3 of us are taking back fruity shots from plastic Dixie cups. I don’t know how it happened and certainly didn’t foresee that being the situation ahead of time, but when the air is sticky, you’re standing in front of the person who broke your heart, and bottles of Absolut are within reach – it’s just what you do. You take the shot.
Then we had a little side chat. The dialogue details are foggy – yet I do vividly remember that the surrounding crowd around us seemingly disappeared…while we were talking for those few minutes, it was only him & I. But everything had already been said before this moment; The apologies. The regrets. The mistakes. The aching. The missing. It sorta reminds me of this scene sequence from Sex & the City.
There is no question I’ll always love the man. He is my Titanic after all. But I’m afraid I love the man I wished he could be. No matter how hard I tried to keep that boat afloat, it was destined to sink.
Sink or swim.
In the course of a day, there are many times when you need to keep some piece of information in your head for just a few seconds. Your short-term memory plays a key role in this process.
Information is transferred from short-term memory (also known as working memory) to long-term memory through the hippocampus, so named because its shape resembles the curved tail of a seahorse. The hippo is a very old part of the cortex, evolutionarily, and is located in the inner fold of the temporal lobe.
It is a bit like a sorting center where these new sensations are compared with previously recorded ones. It also creates associations among an object’s various properties. The hippocampus keeps strengthening the associations among these new elements until, after a while, it no longer needs to do so. The cortex will have learned to associate these various properties itself to reconstruct what we call a memory.
And here’s the kicker… Mr. Ex has completely flooded my hippo. No proverbial retaining wall can withstand the flurry of constant reminders, triggers, associations, inside jokes, mutual friends, movie marathons, and a few dozen more catalysts that exacerbate the painful memories.
I don’t mean literally all my recalled data storage regarding *him* and us as a couple are bad. Most are not. But thinking, processing, and reflecting on the extraordinary amount of love I had for the guy makes my hair hurt.
What’s ironic about this complex human phenomenon is under normal conditions, I notoriously have a horrible memory…I’m basically a gold fish without the gills. I don’t know what is wrong with my brain’s capacity to retain certain information. Sometimes I think it’s because I’ve experienced so much in this world, that my inbox is at capacity. Sometimes I think it’s because I’ve been reincarnated countless times that my hard drive is just tired. Sometimes I’m convinced it’s early on-set Alzheimer’s.
Then a keyword search on Google cleared up the mystery pretty quickly: Excessive or prolonged stress (with prolonged cortisol) may hurt memory storage.
In this case, I wish more than anything that my apparent ability to magically forget certain events, certain conversations, and certain feelings could also be applied. It’s too painful. Which is why I believe [until recently] for the last 2 months…they’ve laid dormant deep down inside. But now the floodgates have washed over me and there is no life preserver in sight.
For instance — every time New York City presents itself — be it through TV shows, through family members, or through everyday passing conversation — I think of him. I think of our infamous trip in the winter. I think of the promises made. I think of my siblings looking him dead in the eye and giving him another shot. I think of the first fight I’ve had as an adult with my own Mother over the scandalous reunion.
Another example — as things slowly progress with the Quarterback [QB] and we experience “firsts” together…I can’t help but think back to my formerly known as Mr. Big. I used to cook for him every single weekend, especially the first food intake of the day. And I loved every part of what came to be a ritual — the gesture itself, teaching him how to fry bacon without burning it, explaining the science of when pancakes are ready to be flipped, refilling his cup with fresh coffee, and feeling comfortable enough to ultimately loosen our belts from expanded bellies while we vegged out on the couch.
This past weekend I made my very first morningtime meal for QB. Although I’ve concocted countless variations of eggs, bacon & cheese before…the experience just wasn’t the same. Not a single part of it felt normal. And I know most of that is probably because it literally was a new encounter with someone I’ve only scratched the surface with, but I missed the fundamental familiarity.
Starting over can be exciting, and it can also be scary. Making new memories can be fun, and it can also seem like an optical illusion. At this stage in the game, I’m simultaneously hovering between two worlds: MaryB and the Matrix.
In my past, I effortlessly inhaled pure oxygen from the universe…it was that easy. In my present, I need an oxygen tank, breathing mask, flippers and goggles. We’re talking full-fledged scuba gear. The memory levels are at an all-time high…but I’m determined to swim.
Because, in my future, to quote Carrie: I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.
The Ex’s ex.
Per usual, my life continues to unravel in the form of themes. Saturday’s manifested through Reminders.
I forced my ass to the gym for an afternoon calorie cutting session. Although the free weights and elevated treadmill waiting for me was a painful pill to swallow, my brand-spankin’ new $4.50 double-issue of People magazine would surely make the experience a scoach more pleasant. Tabloid TV shows have been covering the exclusive Sandra Bullock baby adoption/divorce story that I just had to read the scoop for myself and see how she is coping.
About ½ way through the transcribed interview – I suddenly began to lose my breath, eerily similar to what felt like a panic attack. And not because I was huffing and puffing at an 18% incline. It was because reading about her marriage crumbling from infidelity really resonated with me.
I’ve had many, many friends candidly tell me that if I had married Mr. Ex, they truly thought he would have strayed from our monogamous commitment. Whether or not that is true, the fact he did during the final attempt of our dating reconciliation leads me to think it was a definite possibility. The pain of being betrayed by someone who you’ve invested enough years in that the state could have deemed us in a common-law marriage was so traumatizing, I couldn’t imagine having to cope with that knowledge after sporting matching promise rings.
Yet “Sandy” — as insiders refer to her — has remained impossibly classy throughout the entire ordeal, I admire her perceived strength and poise from afar. And I can also empathically taste her sadness and disappointment.
Because I’ve incarcerated my feelings in a secret lock box hidden deep inside the frontal lobe – it was inevitable that their suppressed selves were sure to make an appearance eventually. And that they did.
As soon as I returned home covered in sweat, exhausted leg muscles gave out & sank into a pink antique armchair; my little heart sobbed away. The experience was equivalent to an impromptu, unscheduled colonoscopy procedure, but for the soul. And although I wasn’t in front of a mirror, I’m confident it could have passed as an ugly cry. Since the separation from Mr. Ex the end of February, I literally have not shed legitimate, note-worthy tears.
It probably also didn’t help that immediately before the workout, my dear friend who has been attached at our mutual Single Ladies hip shared that her boyfriend of 3 climate seasons wants to look at rings together soon. My unbelievable happiness for her pending engagement status could probably be picked up on the Richter scale. And at the same time, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt more alone.
Fast-forward to the evening. I decided to put on my most fabulous heels covered in pink & purple flowers, perfect for a warm spring night on the town, and get my mind off of the matter. A colleague of mine who I’ve recently befriended & also still has her maiden name, was my partner-in-crime.
Several Vodka-sodas and shots were poured and the mood was looking up. That is — until the woman who Mr. Ex had “inappropriate indiscretions” with behind my back…literally stood behind my bar stool.
I’ve never seen her before – only in pictures. I think only on one occasion I had played out the scene of what would happen if in fact this moment ever occurred in real life. And I’m happy to report: I handled it much better in the flesh than in my imagination.
She knows a bunch of my friends through shared acquaintances, and lucky for me, the gal I was out with too. The pretty person stood there for a solid 60 seconds before I realized it was her. As soon as it hit me, I anxiously waited for Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew to jump out from behind the bar. But my debut in the show Punk’d never happened.
To summarize, the conversation [if you can even call it that] was nothing short of awful. She denied fully knowing that him and I were together at the time. She denied telling the source who disclosed the infidelity to me. She asked if we could get together privately and talk, to which I declined as the dialogue would be pointless at this portion of the healing process [she declined my request to speak back when the news initially broke]. She said, more than once, how much Mr. Ex really does love me. That alone made my skin crawl. Whether or not he “really” does is no one’s business, especially hers. And if that was her way of bringing comfort to the awkward situation, it didn’t work.
Lastly, just to make the story that much more uncomfortable, she casually asked towards the end, “So how’s the Quarterback doing?”
I sat there processing the inquiry for a few seconds and in this order thought to myself, “OH MY GOD she reads my blog!” Followed by, “OH MY GOD I cannot believe she has the audacity to ask about my love life.”
In closing, here is my Jerry Springer Final Thoughts segment.
A tremendous amount of cheating is taking place among celebrities and recently several have been publicly called out. Unfortunately I simply can’t avoid the media vomiting endless reports, rumors and ridiculous scandals, because every single time they remind me of being betrayed. Tiger, Jesse, Larry freaking King, and their horny comrades are all a hot mess. But watching the female recipients leverage fame from their affairs is just disgusting, and giving public apologies is even worse. You’re not sorry – you got caught.
Having to see, who I considered the Love of my Life, former fling and recycled sexual partner, was terrible. Blocking her on Facebook as not to accidentally see postings and photos apparently wasn’t enough. Unfortunately I simply can’t avoid public scenes, because cities are small and so are social circles of people who sleep with your boyfriend.
I now have a seared image in my memory of the person I was hoping to not think about again. What’s worse, I can’t forget the scent… she smelled like summer. There is a pungent perfume by Clinique [ironically] called Happy that I’m personally not a big fan because its super fruity, and it or a similar smell singed my nostrils. I honestly can’t say there is anything worse than having the elusive stranger who was a driving force behind a relationship’s demise try not only to chat it up with you, but then leave her scent behind like canines do to mark their territories.
Reminders, the good and the bad kind, are unavoidable. But maybe, just maybe, the memories that sting will fade with time. One can only wish…
Homework.
My friend for hire [the lady I pay to listen and give me advice] gave me homework after our 1st happy hour together – write a letter to Mr. Ex letting it all out – don’t hold back, then shred & dispose of it. “But don’t actually give it to him.”
I wonder if she’ll be excited or upset that I not only completed the HW like an obedient student, but I took it up [a few] notches. I drunk dialed.
Not my finest moment, but in retrospect, I’m at peace with the experience.
Many concerned comrades from both sides of the party lines have advised me to speak with him – for closure. However the last few weeks I’ve felt so much rage & anger that proactively making a move to communicate directly with him was the last thing on my mind. I had nothing to say, nor did I care to hear what he would share either.
I’ve been worried of accidentally running into him, for fear of Chuck Norris-ing his face, that I’ve made a concerted effort to avoid physical contact at all costs…actually steering clear of certain locations & events. I’m not a violent person & have a difficult time terminating pesky, uninvited indoor insects, much less bitch slapping a human being. But one day when I noticed my skin bubbling, from the blood boiling underneath, something told me it was in everyone’s best interest to remain in a straight jacket.
Then, little by little, my self-imposed barrier was stripped away. First through my overdue, returned pictures left on my windshield complete with a handwritten “I won’t let you go” letter, followed by continued outreach from his inner circle, offering the same super glue sentiments.
Finally on Saturday after 12 full hours of consuming Miller Lites with limes thanks to a convenient Irish festival taken place right outside my doorsteps…I was alone, I caved. Everything I would have said in that secret ‘for my eyes only’ homework letter, is what I verbally vomited over the phone. And, just as I originally anticipated would happen, and why I chose not to engage in discussions about the alleged affair during the break-up, the outcome went just as expected.
- Denial of past sexual transgressions
- This was the first & only time it happened in our 7+ years of dating
- That he “would have” come clean with it eventually
- Yatta yatta yatta.
I believe none of it. And told him so. No more half truths. No more masks. No more lies. No more make believe.
The only real question I had for him that no one has been able to answer is Why. Why? Why! And, he too couldn’t respond with any kind of explanation.
Ok then. How. How? How! This is about the time I absolutely Lost It & likely woke up the neighbors. Something about an expensive jacket needing to be returned to his closet is what put him in contact with the other woman.
“So let me get this straight. You went to get a jacket back [which as far as I understood, you had no more tangible or intangible ties to her any longer – another lie] and you fell on top of her? That makes perfect sense.”
Although that unscheduled early morning dialogue under the influence wasn’t in my plan – I actually do *feel* better. A sense of closure. I guess – to hear it directly from his mouth. That was validating.
In addition, I also gave him a get out of jail free card. My bruised ego, out of vengeance, could have allowed him to spend the next 6+ months doing back flips to win me back, again. I could have led him to believe there was a small glimmer of hope – only to leave him stranded alone without a life preserver in the end.
That would have been one way to “get back” at him; to hurt him. But that isn’t my style.
I explicitly advised him to move on. Use the same time & energy he’d use to win me back and/or wait for my return instead reflecting on poor, selfish decisions, gain insight through the guidance of a counselor, and live life to his greatest potential. “Don’t let this all be in vain. Help yourself first, don’t ever treat any woman that way again, and then go live your best life.”
Lastly, I remember him reciting a bible verse, from the book of Matthew. I remember shaking my head that here I was drunk, and he was reading a verse from holy literature. That scenario was so ridiculous, and backwards, for so many reasons. In the scripture, the subject of forgiveness came up. I pointed out that he had not yet asked for my forgiveness – but that if he wanted it, I would give it to him.
Jesus is my inspiration, simply put. He walked the Earth & was abused beyond comprehension, yet he found it in his heart to forgive – and so I can do that too, just as I’d want someone I wronged to do the same for me. That doesn’t make his behavior “right” but resolving this chapter in my life is my only option. And holding onto bitterness and resentment will get me no where. I’ll say it til I’m blue in the face — our journey here is all about learning lessons and growing from them.
Stories from this very thick, prophetic book talks about an eye for an eye in which a person who has injured the eye of another is instructed to give his/her own eye in compensation. That seems so barbaric, effective, but barbaric. In modern times they call it compensatory damages – not literally giving up a limb, but merely paying for the injury through say, an eye transplant.
But that isn’t my goal, or desire. I don’t wish pain on him. My wish is that we both individually come out alive with sound, solid, stronger hearts.
I feel divine intervention has taken place and am now in a position to truly move on. I will do whatever I need to do to protect my heart from future proverbial beatings [from any man] and hope he will put down the club for good and understand what it means to feel compassion.
March madness.
Closing in on week two of my road to enlightenment aka a locally based reality show version of ABC’s The Bachelorette “most dramatic rose ceremony ever” – the aftermath ride so far has literally felt like a rollercoaster. One moment I’m sad with stomach-flipping twists, and the next I’m literally laughing [out loud] at the ridiculousness as more and more information ebb and flows my way.
The Kübler-Ross model, aka 5 stages of grief, is something I’m becoming intimately familiar with.
I feel intense anger – rage in fact, against Mr. Ex when I visualize his skull’s silhouette. And then suddenly, I take a deep breath forcing myself to remain conscious in the present moment…inhaling peace, and exhaling pity. You see, when someone is so self-destructive that they manage to single-handedly sabotage the pure *goodness & love* in their life, a certified masochist is the only reasonable explanation to comprehend such absurd actions. It is one thing to hurt yourself, but when you start barreling over other people who care for you, that is where the line has to be drawn.
What I continue to struggle with is how cold-hearted a person can be. Do people like that, have an actual, audible beat coming from their chest?
Down to every single layer of my epidermis, I’m full of compassion…so to try and fathom being calculated and conniving to another human being or any living creature for that matter is simply inconceivable to me. The guy played me for a fool, lied to me behind my back, put my health at jeopardy by sleeping with multiple women, led me to believe I was “the one”, but he can’t even give me an ounce of respect.
The one and only thing I asked him to do during our concluding conversation was to please send me my set of professional pictures back. I’ve yet to receive anything in the mail. Is that supposed to hurt me? But more importantly, why after all the damage he personally caused, would he even want to hurt me?
If that isn’t bad enough, the guy joined Match.com. Here’s the thing – in conversation a few months ago he jokingly said, “If this doesn’t work out between us, maybe I’ll just join Match” – knowing that I have been an on & off member during our breakups over the years. To which I responded, “Hell. No. That is my turf. You don’t get to go on The Match.” My reasoning was a) That’s just creepy to both be on the same dating site b) Most women on that site are looking for real, meaningful relationships & clearly he is not so that would be misleading c) He can meet girls all over town, that part isn’t his issue – so just let me have this one digital spot to date freely without a hovering Ex.
But once again, he can’t respect that wish either.
When I came across his dating profile last night, my initial reaction was a little bit like oil & vinegar. Heavy coated on the heart, but ultimately overpowered by the acidity. Whether his intentions are to try and hurt me, or haunt me, neither will penetrate my sound mind, or vivid memory.
I will continue down my steadfast road to recovery. The first appointment to weekly healing starts on Wednesday. In the meantime, Mrs. Clinical Licensed Counselor Lady has asked me to read a book [you know I like her already], that frankly — am surprised it isn’t already part of my makeshift library: Men Who Hate Women and the Women Who Love Them.
Yowzahs.
