Relapse

Every couple of weeks, I take a few steps back. Back to lonely. Back to sad. I go from feeling relatively safe and stable to fragile and destroyed overnight. And no, it’s not a meds thing – my meds are in order – I take a handful of the good stuff each and every morning. They do help. I should have sought psychiatric care sooner than I did, for sure. Better late than never, had I not sought help when I did, I most certainly wouldn’t be here right now – I’d be in a box, maybe waiting for someone to decide where to sprinkle me … the Rocky Mountains? Coeur D’Alene Lake? Maybe just sprinkle me in the dog yard at the shelter.

Last weekend felt okay – I nurtured myself and my cuteaf condo. I went to IKEA for a throw rug, duvet cover, and some trinkets. How I’ve avoided IKEA for nearly 8 months since the move to my place is beyond me. Driving to Hoodbridge is just not on my agenda if I can avoid it. While I was in the area I stopped in the driveway of my old home. The tree out front was still standing (amazing), but the storm door must have blown off in Windmageddon, laying awkwardly in the front yard. The place falls further and further into disrepair, an eyesore for the community and a cold reminder of the disrepair in our relationship.

I’m sure that part of this sadness relates to what was happening around this time last year. Everything was changing, but I didn’t know it yet. Love Bomb was beginning her next chapter and I was just puttering along as if I had nothing to lose, as if we could – as if we WOULD – work through any struggle together, just like we had for nearly 19 years. I felt safe in the consistency of our rather boring lives together while she was out there courting another, someone to take my place before our bed cooled.

The hard part isn’t the being alone, really. I like alone time. I’ve always looked at little cuteaf places like the digs I’m in now and felt a bit envious, and wished that I hadn’t bagged out on my last cuteaf place to move in with Love Bomb.

The hard part is the being replaced – that the person I loved for so long could simply disengage, change gears and never look back. That she gets to carry on as if there weren’t a huge hiccup in her life, because for her, things just got better. She didn’t have to do any of the hard work involved in breaking up. She couldn’t even do the dirty work of actually ending it even though she was the only one that wanted to. She just agreed with me when I asked, “Are you breaking up with me?”, one spring afternoon. “I guess so”, she replied. It’s no wonder I didn’t believe her, trying and trying to make it right, to find solutions, working to improve in every way for several more weeks before she left that horrible letter – the one that pointed out what a miserable person I am to be around.

Maybe I am.

THIS is the person Love Bomb hated … the depressed, hopeless, thoughtless lump of self-doubt, boredom and anxiety that fell into relationship complacency many years ago. I suppose if she were to read this blog she’d think, “same ‘ole, same ‘ole”, thankful that she’s moved on to someone more energetic and driven than I ever was.. Someone with a fun accent and money to burn. I didn’t stand a chance.

Sometimes, I still miss her. I miss my best friend, the person I told my everythings to. I miss having someone to come home to and share my day with. I miss sharing the bed with another human. I miss feeling that I am worthy of love. Beyond that, I miss my family. I miss my dogs the most – two went to me and two went to her – I miss my babies, who now know some other lady as “Mama”.

Sometimes (more often than not) I fucking hate her. I hate her for leaving the way she did. I hate her for throwing me away, so quick to move right along in lustful bliss, never to reflect or mourn, like it meant nothing to her because I mean nothing to her anymore. She went from being my best friend and biggest fan in the blink of an eye – as soon she settled her gaze upon someone else.

I’ve been working so hard to finish up the mourning that only I have been doing. I go out with friends on the regular, I joined a choir, I exercise and take good care of myself and my surroundings, I joined a few dating sites, I started blogging… It’s been a year since Love Bomb lost interest in me and in us, and 10 months since I really started to realize how over it was. They approach their one-year anniversary as I approach one-year of solitude, reflection and remorse. Remorse for all that was lost – 18 years of good and bad, that only I am forced to face.

Dear Self, please bloom soon.

Shit-list

I had planned to be on a date tonight, but apparently, I musta offended the other half of the arrangement because I’ve texted a few times … <chirp> <chirp>.

I don’t like to be on anyone’s shit-list, but honestly, the girl was already clingy and we hadn’t even met in person, yet. When I wouldn’t respond to her texts, like, immediately, she’d get sensitive – “Are you ok”? Uh, I am at work, it’s a Friday afternoon, calm down. She sent texts and photos of the event she was attending all weekend. When we discussed her return to the area, she suggested we have dinner together on both Sunday and Monday nights. I brushed that off and leaned in to Monday. Random texts kept coming in, topics ranging from “do you like leather?”, to “is it snowing where you are?”, and finally, last night: “May I call you?”, to which I didn’t reply. I texted this morning, apologized, and explained that I hadn’t been feeling well last night, followed by another text about where we should meet for dinner. It’s 6pm now, and nada.

In that case, I’ll go ahead and pop open a beer now.

If you’re going to be that weird about an un-replied-to text on a Sunday night, well, I don’t need that sort of drama in my life.

Perhaps she already rented the U-Haul. Fucking lesbians.

So, now, here I sit, conflicted and sad. Maybe this whole dating thing, even this being partnered thing isn’t my deal, at least, not anymore. There’s no doubt that I’m lonely, but I’ll admit that the thought of sharing time and space with anyone isn’t terribly appealing these days either

It’s a conflict, for sure. I sit here alone so often I’ve actually worn a solitary indent into the couch.

It’s hard all the time, but tonight feels worse than most. I sit in my crevice and wonder if I simply deserve this pain, and why … because I wanted a baby? Was that not painful enough? Can we call it a fucking draw, now?

I wish I could vaporize, I’d turn myself into a pink haze and disappear. No more pain. No more hate. No more jealousy. No more sadness. No more. Going. Going.

Gone.