Love isn’t perfect.

Hy broken hearted

I have been heartbroken before, but not like this.  This time I am bereft, alone, hopeless and helpless.  And I am keening.

I heard a thing on NPR today, the TED Radio Hour or some such, and their whole program was about love.  Turns out some people did some studies on the chemistry of love — and of heartbreak — and it all centers in the same parts of the brain.  And because it is all encompassing, totally twisted around our marrow, when it leaves us it plummets us in as much depth as it does exalt us when we have it.

Since he told me quite succinctly that he didn’t want to date me anymore Wednesday morning we’ve had 3 conversations.  The details aren’t important, but the message is: he wants to be alone, he’s always felt uncomfortable with our relationship, it’s not me, it’s him, he desperately doesn’t want me to hate him, he might have sex with other people (I’m allowed to, as well, we just can’t tell each other about it), he has felt like leaving me for a very long time, he loves me, I’m his favorite person and best friend.

I think I have done a very good job of being honest about our situation.  There were many things that I was unhappy with, but because we loved each other I was willing to accept.  I wasn’t blind to the writing on the wall, but he swore to me it wasn’t anything serious when all along it was very serious; our relationship was always on the line until it was over it and I couldn’t do anything to save it.

His loss, right?

Well, no.  My loss, too, because I love him.

We are wonderful partners and compliments and with some tweaking and elbow grease we could have lit up the world together.  Granted, we could not go on like we were forever, but I felt like we were in a place to take stock and regroup.  Apparently I couldn’t have been more wrong.  It wasn’t the moment before the plunge, it was the moment before the withdrawal.

I am disappointed and devastated.  This entire blog has been nothing but about him.  I have new lingerie he will never see.  Every time I cum I cry because it reminds me of him.  The gym class that I love reminds me of  him and I can’t go.  Everything reminds me of him.  It all feels hopeless and sad.  He doesn’t want me and I can’t understand for the life of me why he’d want to be my friend — “You know, we hang out once or twice a week, I read to Peyton occasionally, we go to a movie, watch TV together, have dinner.”  That’s him getting everything and me getting what??

I’m looking at anger.  I haven’t embraced it, but I can see it and why it might benefit me.  This may not work out in any fashion whatsoever.  The thought of him sticking his beautiful cock into some other woman makes me want to vomit, but I’m supposed to hang out with him while he keeps it from me?  He knows that’s a tall order and I could see him shut down and move away from me as I pointed that out, almost visibly.

I still think this whole thing is a giant, stupid mistake, but I also know there’s no turning back.  He’ll never come around and say he wants me.

The world turns, as they say, and we’re all just supposed to hold on.

So here I go… holding on.




A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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