I’m still on spring break; therefore, I’m enjoying my daytime buzzes during sunny happy hours, and I refuse to feel guilty about it… For (further) clarification, I began this post yesterday, at the cocktail hour. Not today, before noon.

I’ve been ruminating on the last few correspondences I had with my ex. I had blocked his number after a fight ensued on Monday; it started with a belated birthday wish, but then turned into an insinuation that I had goaded my friend into confronting him and humiliating him in public. I told the truth: I literally had no idea that had happened, until the next day. My friend actually felt guilty about his actions…

…But with some people, at a certain point you realize that your increasingly ferocious frustration is due to the fact that making a point seems as futile as yelling at a brick wall. Eventually all you can do is stare at your phone, disbelieving and slack-jawed. I don’t hate the dude, but our conversations increasingly became insults poorly disguised as apologies. Even in his last letter to me, I still read apologetic sentiments glittery with little jabs and digs: about how much I drink (which rarely seemed to bother him before. My only explanation for that is we went from seeing each other during the week, when I don’t drink much… or at all these days, to only seeing each other on weekends. That’s when I let loose… cause ya know…. it’s the only time I can). He called me out again for shitty things I said (and yeah, I can’t claim maturity here. He knows how to push my buttons like no one else, and yeah, I said some horrible shit to him. However, he simultaneously admitted that he said mean things to me, but mine were worse. Which I would disagree with… I won’t elaborate here to maintain some level of privacy, but again, when you know exactly how to hurt me, you know what to say to really stab me in the heart. Just because I know how to do that too doesn’t mean I’m more mean, more heartless, more of a bitch).

He admitted his role in exacerbating my anxiety while he painted me as some brittle, barely-holding-it-together nutcase. I’m not a nutcase; you couldn’t give me the sense of security that I needed, especially once I moved away. Maybe you’re incapable of providing that. I can accept the notion that I need more security than other women. I have trust issues, especially with men. But I don’t think I ever hid that defect… I don’t think I ever expected that much. *Sigh* Maybe I did.

He told me I used ‘sex as a weapon’. I could see how someone might see it that way…. except I always had this distinct impression that not only did he hate me, but that he didn’t put the same pressure and importance on sex that I did. He was the ‘laidback’ one about it while I was on the ‘uptight’ side. My desire for physical connection fostered out of loneliness and pain, not spite. Based on both the way he had spoken to me, and his recent torturing silence, I was determined not to reach for him on my birthday. Because I have more self-respect than that. He didn’t talk to me the way you talked to me. He didn’t belittle my feelings the way you did. I’m sorry if it hurts to say that, but it’s the truth. Did I fuck up? YES. I’ve admitted it time and time again, I’ve even groveled, and I didn’t get any compassion in return. Your empathy now seems half-hearted; too little, too late.

Did I want to be friends with you? Of course I did. We did have a lot of fun together. Before I moved away, things were amazing. I was so happy, so fulfilled, and I think you were too. But, I suppose, there’s the rub with long distance relationships. In the end, we are two people who are quick to force the mirror back on each other. We call each other out for our worst flaws, and that’s a hard reality to face. I think the ball dropped because neither person was willing to take the dive. We were both of us too proud,  I suppose.

God, the wound is still so raw. Such an inflamed, weeping sore, seeping pain into the late night beneath a windy, overcast sky.

Current Jam: “Bullet” Mason Jennings

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