Small Victories

Sometimes it seems like i forget to record the good things I do, the moments of triumph when I get over something or demonstrate growth.

Last night Slutbag text messaged me a hello. I texted her back, saying I wouldn't be calling her for another hour because I was out drinking with my UK buddies. When I did call her, she was watching Spanglish and wishing I was there. "I'd really like to be in your arms right now," she said. I didn't get an emotional high off of it. I let it be, telling her that I'd be happy to snuggle with her when I got back next week. No sentiments of missing her, no reminding her that she chose this path, and no internal rejoicing at her "need" of me.

"What are we going to do?" she asked at one point.

"I don't know," I responded, and for once I didn't wonder if we might get back together. I didn't long for some feeling of belonging long since past and ever elusive.

I felt a little bad, but I reminded myself that she is seldom there for me. That she deserves to feel this way, that she chose this, that I am not at her beck and call.

Then I got off the phone with her and called Robin. :-) For a girl I haven't even met yet, I sure am excited about her.

Lonely weekend

I went out with Sarah Sperry Friday night. The date was great -- she came to my place, we had sushi, shared some alcohol, and made out on my couch. After she left, I dreamt about Lolo. I woke up a wreck, not wanting to face the world or myself. I was forced into action by duty and professionalism, meeting a client midday. Then I went to the gym, met Shane for basketball, and proceeded to stay for two hours after he left. Talk about channeling your passion. I got invited to courtside Warriors seats by Tony, the Raiders trainer from Houston. I declined. Then I got invited to a holiday party with Corban. He told me I needed a date, so I called every girl in my phone, hit on the weekend receptionist at the gym, and even called Rachel. She invited me out with her friends, which is where I ended up. Basically, I kept myself busy. A multitude of invitations, a dozen rooms full of people, and I still went through the entire weekend feeling alone. Today I woke up the same way. I don't think my dreams were so vivid, because I missed her less, but I still didn't want to face the world. I tried to go back to sleep twice. I suppose the good thing about sleeping on the floor is that your bed isn't comfortable enough to keep swallowing you into it. When I finally emerged from the cocoon that would no longer accept me, I did business and called back a girl or two out of duty. I made a date for tonight, only to break it two hours later. I made a date for Tuesday night, too, which I'm breaking tomorrow morning if I still feel this way. I cried today. Twice. Once after my shower, as I stood in front of my closet and wondered what shirt to wear. (Yesterday SUCKED on the clothing tip, btw. I put on two shirts on two different occasions and pulled Burckey hair off of my shoulders. Who knew that it would stick even through the dryer?) The second time was just a moment ago -- some sappy song turned up on iTunes and had to go scream into my pillow for a minute. Rachel reminded me last night that Lauren did exactly what I predicted she would do -- change her mind about me the moment I committed. Just like she'll call the moment I stop missing her. You know the biggest secret? A little tiny part of me likes crying. I'm not sure if it's because it's familiar and comfortable. The psychoanalyst would probably say so. But maybe it's just because it makes me feel human -- fallible, hopeful (wouldn't be here without that wager of hope), still able to love. The Killers' "Smile Like You Mean It" just spun up on iTunes. Damn you, Burckey. Damn you. I'm gonna go cry again for a little while.

I need

...a new job. One that doesn't make me travel.

My existence the past few days has been akin to the one I survive through when I'm living a million miles from "home". How did this happen?

It used to be I loved being at home. Then I got shoved in the field so much that I lost that feeling... and now I don't feel at home anywhere.

Travel is fun when you have something (and someone or several someones) to come home to. It's a relief when "home" is in quotes.

Part of it, of course, is that I just miss the Ex. Or something like that.

New beginnings needed

I watched a couple of episodes from last season's Boston Legal tonight while sipping a glass of Chardonnay. And I sniffed a pillow a couple of times whose case I should have washed a couple of days ago.

Watching video on my laptop alone while missing my girl. I may as well be in the field. Except for the basketball court I frequent that has familiar faces, a little California weather, and a couple of hours in a familiar coffee shop with a friend, "home" is no different from a million miles away.

Something is wrong with that picture.

I missed her today. I wanted to call her sooo bad. Just to hear her voice, just to hear an "I love you" and tell her how much I need her...

Why does it hurt so much?

What I actually Said/Sent

(Slutbag),

There are some things I need to get off my chest. Everything below is, in a word, raw. The first part is kind of a rant. It comes from my own need for closure. The second chunk I say because I care so much about you -- I feel, in some ways, if I had said this sooner we'd still be together. And lastly, I ponder the question "where do we go from here".

You can skip right to the end and read it backwards if you want. It might be more fun that way. :-)

I miss you.

(the rant)

I've been spending a lot of time with friends... the ones I hang out with all the time, plus some I haven't seen in ages. I've needed to... as you may or may not be able to relate to, I'm devastated, and being alone is very hard.

The thing is, everyone says the same thing. The responses are so consistent that I wonder how I could have believed that it was even possible for me to forgive you so quickly, especially just on your word.

And that leads into what I want to say... I already kinda said it before, but I need to make it absolutely clear.

You said you felt that you had never given "us" a fair chance. You were never sure that it would or wouldn't work, and now you are -- it wouldn't.

You're wrong. You never gave us a fair shot. You never returned the loyalty, devotion, and respect that I gave you. When you ended those other "relationships" in October, it was too little, too late.

What you did was cheating. It was wrong. My response since then, my insecurities, my passionate pleading for you not to do things (or wear things) that remind me of it... all of that is, actually, relatively normal. (Even throwing your shoe. It was a temper tantrum, and I was drunk and felt trapped. The shoe, unhurt, forgave me.)

You don't understand my behavior because you don't think what you did was wrong.

And that's the single biggest reason why I couldn't forgive you. You saw my pain and empathized, yes, because that's Lola. But you didn't -- and, I believe, still don't -- understand just how incredibly wrong, disrespectful, wounding, and, in fact, abusive what you did was. To put it in perspective, I would rather get physically hit than be cheated on. Even the admittedly watered-down version of cheating in LolaLand.

Girls don't "do that all the time". At least, good girls who love their boyfriends don't. Or even good girls who don't love their boyfriends, for that matter. It doesn't matter what Rose says. She's not qualified to make that call. She's not exactly girlfriend material, as I think you'll agree. Granted, she probably will be someday, but that's irrelevant here.

And so I come to the final point I want to make. We didn't break up because I wasn't "the one". That's a cop out. We broke up because of your cheating. The only thing I ever did wrong was to take you back so quickly. Maybe if I hadn't wanted to believe in you and "us" so much and had instead let you experience the pain of your fuck up you'd understand a little better just how bad a transgression it was.

Instead I was left to feel the pain all alone, showing you mere glimpses in moments of weakness when I couldn't bear the burden single-handedly. Remember that I couldn't even call upon my friends for solace or encouragement... to share that with them would have doomed us even more quickly.

When you looked at me, as we were parting, and you said I deserved better, you were right. I was really, really good to you, and you spat upon my devotion to you. And that was our downfall.

My rant is finished. I don't intend to bring it up again -- not to you, not to my friends, not even to my journal. No matter how our relationship (friends, romantic, ambiguous, whatever) moves forward in the future, this will never again be an issue.

(the request)

One thing I would ask of you -- beg of you, in fact -- comes from a good place. Get some help. You have things you need to talk about, get out on the table, and deal with. While in some ways I just don't know you, and perhaps never will, I feel that the behavior I've seen you exhibit and the rhetoric you've expressed towards both sexuality and dating just doesn't fit in with how empathetic, introspective, and caring a person you are. I know that's not my rose-colored glasses talking, it's the truth. It's why I'm so very much attracted to you. I see other things in your everyday behavior that might be related, too, but they're far more subtle.

You need to seek out the help you need to get your darkest shadows exposed and expelled. How you do it is your own journey, but it's important. Just remember how happy you were -- yes, with me -- in October before I found out. One day you'll find that bliss again, and you'll sabotage it again if you don't get your head fixed.

I suppose in my own delusions of grandeur I thought I was strong enough to weather the course, that doing so would somehow help you deal with your trauma. I'm sorry about that. The pain we've felt over the last couple of months probably could have been avoided if I'd been able to be more objective on and immediately after October 13.

(where do we go from here?)

Now that I've said all that, I love you and I miss you. While I no longer think that being in a committed relationship with you is a prudent choice, I do want you in my life in some form. Maybe that means dinner once a month when I visit the Union St law office. Maybe that means Chipotle and style advisement. Or maybe that means a return to ambiguity, which would perhaps be nostalgic, yet somehow healthier than how we've been since our "tragedy". I suppose if we're both destined to date superficially for the next several years, we may as well be superficial together, knowing that, deep down, we both love each other.

I guess we'd need to talk about that.

Love Always,

Things I want to say

No matter what you think, no matter how you rationalize it, this “you’re not the one shit” is NOT why we failed. We failed because you damned us. You cheated. And no, just become some slutbag that verbally questions your friendship because you want to close the hotel room balcony door tells you “oh, that’s nothing, all girls do that,” NO, the ones that want their relationship to last and actually love their boyfriends DON’T. That’s some fucked up shit, and 19 out of 20 guys would have never spoken to you again. I loved you that much. Go ahead and ask the Michaels and Firefighter Daves and Kevin Conners and Matt Garveys and Josh Van Whatevers. Just make sure you tell them how I caught you in June and you lied about it, made me feel bad for not being “confident”, and then proceeded to take and send both old and new photos “of a graphic nature” (make sure you include the fact that there were penetration shots, foot fetish shots, and spread pussy lips, along with all the talk about touching, rubbing, and sucking another man’s cock) for the next four months all while telling me you loved me every day. Oh, and then add in the fact that some 50 year old got you to pee on him for money and was having ongoing dialogue with you about your relationship with me at the same time.

No one would have stayed. For me to be insecure, for me to try to work through it, for me to bring it up once a week and beg you for reassurance wasn’t what caused us to fail. It was FUCKING NORMAL. Anyone who tried to stay (probably foolishly) would have been insecure, begged you for reassurance, and needed lots of attention. Because that’s what happens when one is BETRAYED.

You’re a liar and a cheater. Rose isn’t normal, and comparing yourself to her is just extra fuel for fucking up your already twisted head. You need to go get counseling. You need to work through your shit. You need to recognize that the best guy you’ll ever meet just walked out of your life and you pushed him away on the pretense that HE wasn’t right for you because HE couldn’t deal with YOU FUCKING UP.

Anyone would have been weird. Anyone would have engaged in a little obsession. You should have dealt with it with a smile, understanding that it was your own goddamn fault and thanking your lucky stars that I was willing to try and forgive you.

I was good to you. It’s not that I was better to you than anyone else. It’s that I saw the worst and all I did was insist you not wear shoes that reminded me of your blatant transgression. I never called you names (you deserved it) and I never gave up. To the very end, I defended your honor, even when I questioned whether there was any worth defending. To the very end, I loved you with all my heart. I laid my soul upon the ground for you to walk on, and even when you spat on it, I still offered it to you.

I’d have loved you forever if you just loved me back. Even after my angelic image of you gave way to the slut you apparently always were.

How dare you try to make this into my shortcoming for “not letting ‘things’ go”. How dare you try to pin blame on me, focus any wrongdoing on me. Fuck you for that.

–

How can you be so city-snotty? How can you be so yuppie? I see them, in clubs, in bars, in your circle, and the girl I know is NOTHING like them. You’re down-to-earth with a bit of self-serving ostentatiousness. They’re yuppie bitches who want 3 lovers, are selfish, self-centered, and oblivious with the occasional flash of insight (like when the guy their “best friend” is dating tells them they’re rude, selfish, whorish alcoholics — I say “best friend” because what best friend questions their friendship… ever? That’s not a best friend. That’s an asshole. Who kicks their best friend when they’re down?)

The city is full of people who, according to you, are just like you. Young people, in their 20s, eager to be “independent”. I’ve been independent… more independent than you’ll ever be. It’s not so very cool. In fact, it’s just about the uncoolest thing known to man. It’s called HAVING NO ONE.

Well I want nothing to do with your city. I want nothing to do with San Francisco and the elite self-centered bitches that live there. Fuck your city, fuck your veiled alcoholism, and fuck yourself. Go ahead and have stupid superficial relationships with a bunch of yuppie small-penis selfish idiots with no abs.

In your introspetive moments a decade from now, I’ll be the one you wish you kept. I’ll be the one you wonder about… why you were so stupid, why you let me go, why you cheated, why you gave up the closest thing to a perfect relationship either of us will ever have to have foot fetish cybersex with some nobody.

I’ll probably be dead by then. I hope you blame yourself.

Part of it will have been your fault. I believed in you that much. I thought you were “the one”… and that doesn’t just mean a mate. That means a best friend. That means family. That means everything.

It's not fair

I've put so much love out there into the world, and it's still not good enough.

I'm a good man. Really, truly, deeply. I'm considerate and kind, I examine myself constantly, trying to become a better person, and I'll help a stranger in need. I care.

I think I care too much. The world has given me little except hate, and no matter what I do, how hard I work, how strong I am, how smart I prove I am... no matter what I do, I'm left with nothing. Women who cheat on me and don't even think it's wrong. Women who cheat and simply don't care. Women who don't cheat, but pretend to, just to see me get upset about it.

I don't have the energy to hate anymore. I want to. I want to be angry, I want to cry out in anger, frustration, and pain, but all I have left is the pain of self-pity and the tears of abandonment.

I thought she was the one. I was so good to her... I never ever called her a name. In the end, on that last night when she decided it was over and I knew, I showed my worst colors to her. I was defending her from her best friend. "Don't call her that" I said, and it all blossomed from that. And all she said to Slutbag was that she was a bitch. And that she questioned her friendship with her.

But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how good a man I am or how emotionally intelligent I become. It doesn't matter that I'll shake a homeless man's hand or wait for the smile every time I tell someone to have a good day. It doesn't matter that I treated her better than any woman has ever been treated by any man. It doesn't matter that I conducted myself with mental health, reasonable requests, and articulated feelings in the absolute worst of circumstances.

I was in the city tonight dancing. Every single girl in that club noticed me. I danced with half a dozen at least and could have made out with most of them.

But none of them were Slutbag. And so they all fell short. Roxanne, Amanda, Lynn... too tall, too drunk, too married. The others were all just too much like Rose. Too full of themselves, too slutty, too blonde, and too yuppie.

I don't know what to do. I'll never move there. I can't stand it -- that crowd, that aura, that feeling. That ignorance. That bliss. That superficiality.

I don't think I'm going to make it. I think about my life, what I've done, who I want to be, and where I can go from here, and I feel empty, hopeless, and choiceless.

I'm so sad I want to die.

If it were easy, if no one else would be hurt, if someone else could benefit from all my hard work in spite of my emptiness, I might just do it myself.

It's sad, I know, but true. I have nothing to live for.