I feel tears somewhere in my throat, or maybe packed deep behind my face. If I allowed myself to sit with my feelings they would be there, but I don’t have the time or the space. I should be working right now, but I recognized the pull to pour it out, so here I am pouring away.
I said it before and I’ll say it again, I have to teach people how to treat me and I am no longer going to accept scraps.
Since Peter became single and took up with One-Month-Girl he’s been a total shit. When he had a girlfriend being second fiddle (or 13th) was fine, but now that he has the freedom to spend more time with me, his friend and confidante of three-and-a-half years, he isn’t. In fact, I am being treated like the ex-girlfriend, and I am not here for it.
Last Friday he texted to say Hi and tell me he felt good as new and incidentally was too busy to see me that weekend. Well fuck that. I haven’t heard from him since.
I texted this morning asking if he could hang out or at the very least have a quick chat “to say Hi (and other things).” The last time I drew a line in the sand regarding how someone treats me was three weeks ago – with him – and he essentially talked me out of it. So today the line will be deeper and possibly scratched in wood.
And before that it was with The Neighbor and he cried and begged me not to – repeatedly – and I ignored my gut and flapped in the wind for three fucking years wondering when he’d leave me or I’d finally catch him in a lie.
I’m a little crushed.
I’ve recognized that my damage extends to my appearance of having no vulnerability or neediness. If you met me in real life you could see quite clearly that I don’t need anyone. I am an island, self-made, big and tough. I have weathered an absolutely brutal post-divorce relationship with my ex-husband and my heart breaks every single fucking week my baby leaves me. I’m like a fucking soldier in a 20-year war.
I run my house, have 3 animals, have built a career from literally nothing, and take care of everyone around me. I don’t need anyone. And men need to be needed. Peter has made that abundantly clear.
He just texted while writing this – his tone seems different and he confirmed he’s “back at OMG’s.” Yeah, duh. He says he wants to see me still.
I’ve effectively erected walls to block out The Golfer from my consciousness with varying degrees of success. I can’t think of Peter without thinking of TG. Together they were a great pair for me: one was sweet and kind and caring and the other was passionate and intense. Also combined they were a colossal butt munch: TG forever lost in the mist of alcohol and golf and Peter submerged in lies and betrayal. But their basic unavailability felt safer than them being available and still rejecting me – which is how I feel with Peter now.
I’ve had to tell two other men that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything because to be honest, my heart isn’t in it. I feel so worn down, desperately searching for my center. I’ve considered so many “themes” for July that I’ve decided to literally take each day one at a time. Is it a “dry July”? Do I throw myself into working out? Do I not date? Do I abstain from contacting TG? Do I indulge the skin crawling urge to smoke or do I just loosen the belt?
We’re going to try to see each other tomorrow or later in the week.
I’m so busy this week I’m not able to schedule moving my body and am desperate for it. I almost want to hyperventilate over it. I contemplated going this morning just past dawn, but the spiders are busy spinning their beautiful little traps and I’m not really excited about walking through 30 of them. The last time I tried that I was moderately traumatized and began jumping at wood formations that lurked in the corner of my spider-seeking eyes.
Everything feels like I’m holding back and in. My breath, my feelings, my life. I need to exhale, let it out in one big whoosh. Yell from the rooftops. Something.
TG has summarily ignored all my attempts at interaction and I have resigned myself to it: he has been completely honest about what he’s willing to give and so long as I continue to stand with my hand out, I only have myself to blame.
And yet I know that the second I see The Golfer’s name pop up on my phone the butterflies will dance in my belly and I’ll forget to breathe all over again.