I wrote yesterday that it’s been nearly a month and a half since I last spoke to him. Every day past the month mark is uncharted territory, a new scar on my heart.
So, tonight, I visited a profile of his I stumbled upon online some time this summer. He’d written it when we were together because it says he’s 29 in the text (we were together from 27-30) and that he’s “single and employed.”
I went back there tonight to remind myself of the pain, the marrow-slicing deceptions I lived through with him and why I am better off alone and away from him.
And then I think, “If he came back to me, hat in hand, willing to be honest and come clean and work on whatever hurdles we had I might…”
I might do something.
I might yell, I might sob, I might even throw something — at him, but mostly at me — for being so trusting and so loving and so still in love with a man whom I didn’t really know. I might take him back.
I read others’ pain, Charlie’s in particular, and I feel her words as if they’re my own. This sense that I have only myself to blame because he was always up front with me: he never wanted to make us real or lasting.
And once we fell in love — at least I hope he loved me — I suspect he did what he had to do in order to remain separate and distinct from me and so he opened or maintained online profiles claiming he was single.
My wounds over accidentally discovering these things are not healed, indeed, they appear to be as deep as ever; I am leery of men and of people in general. Couple this with my recent experiences of being catfished and basically abandoned, months worth of awful dates and the hundreds of insignificant texts and ridiculous emails I’ve had to wade through and I am drowning in the waters of dating duplicity. I don’t know if I can ever trust again. And that breaks my heart all over again.
I was once proud of my ability to trust in the face of adversity. Now, I scoff at it. What a silly woman I was.
I scroll through my phone and cringe. Cocks with big, meaty hands wrapped around them — some of which I don’t even recall — mixed in with my angel’s face, my family, my dog, peppered with more of my iniquity, my tits and ass. I feel dirty and desperate, powerful and prideful. I don’t know what I’m doing.
I read an old post of love and lust between us and I question its reality while I heavy-handedly wipe my tears away. Were his words true or were they convenient? Did he ever love me? That question sits on me like stink on shit.
I told him I found his profiles left sprinkled on the internet this summer. He became angry with me. I told him they were public profiles and I was curious, I needed to see. He said he’d never pry at my profiles.
“I need to be hurt so I can move on,” I explained.
“I avoid them because it hurts,” he replied.
“Well, that’s how we’re different.”
The night I told him I could no longer have him in my life he said he might call me despite my rule not to, “Just so you can hang up on me.” I felt hopeful he might, but the truth may be closer to that of me never seeing or hearing from him again. It wouldn’t be unlike the others who slipped out of my life this year, The Russian, The Soldier. It’s what I expect.
With each passing day I lick my wounds and try to be hopeful and confident, but I am more or less reminded that the men I meet don’t tend to find me all that important beyond my “perfect fucking nipples.” How many times have I heard the refrain, “I wanna suck on your gorgeous tits”? Enough, already!
I have tried dating too soon, not at all, and at the right time, but I am only exposing myself to more emotional vandalism. Tinder and Bumble increased the tempo with which I had to swat away impertinent comments about my looks or willingness to fuck or brought me quintessentially unavailable men.
I found a sexy, smart, striking fellow who spoke attentively to me for hours and drove me home where we made out in the cramped cab of his little pickup only to have him text me the next morning to tell me has a girlfriend. Fucking great.
Adult Friend Finder passes my way men who want to drink my piss to help with their allergies or men whose drive for sex is so great they seem to forget that there is an actual woman attached to my vagina.
“Why can’t you call me?” the no-name, pushy man asked me last night after sending me washed-out and glistening pics of his erection.
“Dude, because I can’t.” FUCK. OFF.
I wonder how he’s doing in all of this. His car is often gone now that he’s a man-about-town. On the one-month mark my stomach clenched to think he was languishing on some woman’s couch, happy and lazy, periodically getting up to fuck her, to love her. Not leaving.
That’s the thing: he was always leaving me. Every day, every week, every month. Always leaving, always having an eye to get back to whatever it was he was doing at home. I tried to focus on all the time he did spend with me, but I knew he’d rather be at home. He’d say, “Hy, I spend more time with you than anyone else on the planet — you’re my favorite person — but yeah, I’d always rather be at home, you know that.”
I am better now that I have shut the door, but I am left with the locusts that made it past the barn door and I struggle to keep them from destroying what I have left inside of me. I’m trying not to be eaten alive, yet I am the nectar to their greed.
This is not a call for platitudes, simply an honest acknowledgement of the tatters I now seem to call Me.
I want to believe that his feelings for me were real, but as our relationship shrinks into the distance of my life I am left with the humiliating idea that it might have been my desire for it to be true and not reality. A small, sharp thing to hold in the palm of my hand that I might keep in my grip, to not believe in anything so much again.
I have hidden so much of my pain because I am embarrassed by it. I want to be stronger and more rational, but the truth is I am not either of those things. I loved a man very deeply who did not return my feelings in kind and that kind of wound breaks a person, her belief in hope and herself.
I am working on repair, on mending my broken spirit and heart, but I worry that they will not make a full recovery. Perhaps I will carry the memory of it all with me like a limp and be functional, but obviously different. Perhaps I will struggle to love again, but never achieve it. Or perhaps, I will just sit here quietly alone and wait for things to knit back together.
And thanks, strange dudes I don’t know, but I don’t give a fuck if you think my tits are great. I’m trying to remember it’s what’s underneath them that’s most important.