Life Is Crazy

It is, it really, really is. Things change, things end and begin. Tiny flickers of hope appear in places where you never expected to see them. I have much to talk about and no time to do so. This is merely a promise to myself . . . I will write and I will think and I will learn. I have notes to myself everywhere.

“Write something, dammit!”

I will. But for now, I am having a girl’s weekend, and it’s time to go get something to eat.

Advertisements

Upon Further Reflection

I confess, I don’t always read the comments when I read other people’s blogs. It really just depends on how much time I have at any given moment. Anyway, I clarified a few things in a reply to a comment on my previous post and since I assume that at least a few people share my shameful burden of not always reading the comments, I’m going to repost it here. Because I can and why not. I want all this crap out and over with, you know? I was replying to a person who thought I was sad over him specifically and/or thinking of him.

Oh, I am not particularly interested in how he is. I hope his wife and child are well, and I hope in a vague sort of way that he isn’t crushed by heavy machinery or kidnapped by pirates, or anything ridiculous like that, but in general I don’t spend any significant amount of time actually mooning over (the current reality of) him.

I kind of miss the fake him, or at least the idea of the fake him. Call me stupid and sentimental. Fake him meshed with real me quite nicely. But once I realized, truly internalized, what he did, the cheating on his PREGNANT wife part and the callous disregard for my emotional and mental health part, I realized that the real him is quite simply not a man I want to know. And if real him happened to get a little karmic payback at some point in his future, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. But I’m not wishing for it, either.

My bursts of sadness have more to do with me. I WANT what I thought we had, with someone who is actually deserving of my love and passion. I want that, so much.

I think that last paragraph is the most important point here. And I’ll be the first to admit that it took me a while to figure that out. It’s really only been in the last few days, as I’ve been wondering why on earth I am still experiencing sadness over this, that it finally clicked. It’s about me and what I want from life, from love, from the relationships that I have now, that I may have in the future. Hell, probably ones from the past, too.

I need to figure out what I want out of life. Sounds easy enough, right?!

Endings And Beginnings

I suppose a small (huge?) confession is in order. I have been in regular contact with his wife. You might remember that she’d written me in early November, after she found this blog and became concerned about my emotional state. And, for whatever reasons, we’ve been writing each other ever since. Up until today, actually. The ending was my doing. I am ready to not think about him anymore, a hard enough thing to do on my own. And I can’t not think about him while being friendly with his wife. Which is unfortunate because we seem to actually like each other, but ultimately it is realistic. We said our goodbyes and we wished each other well. It’s all good.

She talked to me because, as she put it, she gained comfort from doing so since I was the only person who knew what had happened, and because she felt lonely with her pain. I can understand that. I don’t exactly know why I talked to her for so long. I’ve given it some thought, as part of coming to my decision to stop. I like her, as I said, and there’s even a possibility that, had we met under different circumstances, we could have become friends. But that is just an interesting side note, not something that explains why I chose to talk to her.

I don’t know if it matters why, truly. I did want to know if they were able to work things out, and they are currently managing to do so. All the good and decent parts of me are very relieved and happy to know that. I do sometimes wonder if the not-so-nice devil on my shoulder wanted to know that they were back together in order to have extra ammunition to use against me in my ongoing battle with depression and self-esteem. The nasty voices in my head really do enjoy having their way with that sort of thing, pointing out couples who seem to have love and delighting in reminding me that I do not currently have the type of love that I would like to have.

My general tendency is to put other people’s needs ahead of my own, and I felt quite a bit of angst and concern at telling her I needed to move on. I normally just write emails and send them, but I must have rewritten that one five times before I felt it was acceptable to send to her. Now that I have done so, and we have said our goodbyes, I feel a rather strange combination of sad and relieved. I am ready to start trying to move forward, I think. My first appointment with my new therapist is coming up this week, and obviously this whole fiasco will play a large role in what we talk about, at least for a while. But I want to look forward, and I want to think about him less and less every day, until he is a distant memory.

I’ve had quite a time keeping my thoughts focused lately, and I have pretty much lost the thread of where I was going with all this. So I’ll stop writing for now. I don’t like this, not at all. I don’t know what it is indicative of, something worth exploring or maybe just a cumulative lack of sleep? Ugh. I hate not being in control of my own mind.

Life is Too Short

Too, too many thoughts in my brain, all fighting for their moment in the sun. My brain will not stop, EVER, not until I finally am able to fall asleep, and often not even then, I can’t always get my thoughts out. It’s often frustrating.

I’ve learned some additional information about his activities during the time we were together, which is making me question my people-reading skills all over again. Not to mention all the concerns that pop up when I stop and wonder whether it will be safe, wise, remotely possible to trust someone again any time soon. And I’ve spent a bit more time alternating between sad and angry. Always a good time.

I have realized a few things, or at least thought up a few more things to ponder in my never-ending insomnia. Which, just for your information, is my natural state, not something that has occurred after the late unpleasantness. I shun sleep. Until the alarm goes off and I’ve only been asleep for two hours, then I LOVE sleep. But then it is too late, of course.

First thing: I thought I was safe with him, but in reality I was vulnerable. I am feeling vulnerable in hindsight, and feeling vulnerable makes me self-conscious and vaguely uncomfortable, like I’ve forgotten something that will surely embarrass me once I remember what it is. Which I think has something to do with having to accept his mean and hurtful message about having used me. I feel like he might be sitting around having a good laugh at my expense. Which is ridiculous, really, as I doubt he even gives me a passing thought. Also not a self-esteem booster, feeling discarded and used. Oh well. Nothing overly deep there, just a thought that dashed through my brain on its way to wherever random thoughts end up.

Second thing: I am changed, irrevocably. There is no going back. I can not be the person I was before I met him, and I can not be the person I was five minutes before his wife spoke to me for the first time. It ain’t gonna happen, so the wisest thing for me to do would be to focus on making sure the changes that are inevitable are for the better, and don’t lead to bitterness or jadedness.

And, that’s all I’ve got for now. The rest is, as I said, bouncing around inside my brain, causing me angst and unrest but not being kind enough to funnel itself into something helpful like painting or writing, or hell, even into an obsessive burst of housecleaning.

I think I’ll have a glass of amaretto and curl up with a book. In the meantime, here’s an excellent thought to keep in mind when the other stuff is trying to keep you down.

Reclaiming My Own

So many things remind me of him, of us, of what we had, seemed to have, all that. And I’ve been avoiding certain things, thoughts of things, songs, places, and so on, because of that. Because of the feelings evoked, of the pain that shoots through me, because I was weak. I’m still weak, occasionally, momentarily, but overall I am strong and I will prevail. You can’t eat me. You can’t have my soul.

I love this picture, it is one of my favorite pictures of me and my son. And I let it be tainted, because it involved him. But you know what? He can’t have it, it is mine. I love it, my friends love it, and I look damn good in it. I’m taking it back. And that is a start.

Anger Is Like Fire

Finally made it through the holiday chaos, relatively sane, or at least no crazier than I was when I went in. Some days that’s winning, right?

So, that anger I mentioned a post or two back, remember that? Holy hell, is it here, with a vengeance. It’s not a constant, but it boils up from nowhere when I least expect it. Rather like the crippling, gut-clenching pain was doing previously. Which isn’t to say that the pain is gone, oh no, but at least something different is happening. I’m going to call that progress. Mostly because I know I have to keep moving forward. Anger is a stage of grieving, right?

Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean. Maya Angelou 

I’m fighting the bitter, and so far I am winning. But I am just SO angry at him, at his callous disregard for my mental and emotional wellbeing, my heart, my sanity. I want him to know that. Not that I want to talk to him, I do not. But I want him to know, truly know, how horribly he behaved, what a shitty, despicable thing he did. I imagine he has an idea of what he did to his wife, but I was in this too, and I got hurt too. Badly. So badly. I want to yell at him. I wish when we talked last that I’d been in a different state of mind other than painfully shocked disbelief. He invited me to yell at him, and all I could say was I love you and I don’t understand. Stupid. Fucking stupid.

I want to scream at him, hurl angry words at him, stand righteous with fury before him. I want to wield a fiery sword and smite him down for what he did to me. Dramatic much? Yeah, I know, but I do. I am pissed, seriously pissed. I just want to matter as a human being, as a woman, as someone with feelings who should have been treated properly, like a decent man should treat a woman, with respect. I want to say fuck you, Dan, fuck you Adrian, fuck you for hurting me so badly, fuck you for seeking me out and doing it again, cluelessly vicious and cruel, fuck you for having no apparent concern as to the consequences of your actions, except as they affect you personally. Fuck you for making me fall ever more in love with you, knowing the whole time that you had no goddamn right to offer me your love, no right to promise yourself to me, no right to do anything that you did. Fuck you for not being willing to stop on your own, for continuing and escalating our relationship, for dragging me deeper and deeper into your bullshit, for setting me up for a devastating fall that you knew would eventually come. Fuck you.

Fuck you.

It still hurts. But the anger, I think it is helping. Time heals, right?

Fuck. You.

 

Bars And Bad Beer

Between the whole I’m-too-naive-to-realize-the-man-I-loved-was-married fiasco and the time spent with my cousin in a few bars and local hangouts last night, I’m really starting to understand that finding the sort of relationship that I long for is not going to be easy. And before anyone says bars aren’t the best place to meet men . . . well yes, I know that, and it’s really not the point. It’s more just that I got a bit overwhelmed with the strangeness of it all, the whole dance, the back and forth, the games.

I don’t know. I think I’m just feeling a bit down. And my ear hurts, which can’t be good news. I’m going to bed. Early, for me at least, barely after midnight. Let’s hope sleep is within reach, I’m getting a bit tired of the whole toss and turn all night long thing.

Oh, one last thought. What, exactly, is the purpose behind men deliberately drinking the shittiest beers imaginable? No one actually drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon on purpose, at least not more than once. Nasty swill, my god. Yeah, I took a few sips, but that is because I’m a nice person and I know how hard it is to approach someone. But here’s the deal . . . we’d have talked to you anyway. Next time, if you want to buy a round, consider asking us what we want first. Thank you!