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 We had been sneaking around for a
month – it was all very West Side Story. The rumors were starting to leak; Ricky, my roommate, learned of my love
affair when they met in the hallway one night. Ricky wasn’t thrilled about my return to the
“situation”, but he didn’t say anything to me about it. In fact, if I mentioned His name the topic was ignored as if the
words I had just spoken never escaped my mouth. He had become my past to
everyone but me. No one wanted to hear about it anymore and I was too
embarrassed to admit I had relapsed to him once again.
No
commitment with off the wall sex on random nights of my life, it was the
perfect situation - right?
It had begun innocently
enough. We hadn’t seen one another
in a while and a night at the movies turned into sexy time all over my
apartment. Naively we thought we could ignore
the differences invading our space, yet all the while we knew not so deep down
inside, it could never work. There was an expiration date on our love, actually
no, not on our love, just on us. I realize now we’re the ones who put the date
on it. But I mean really, how weird were we - spending our time together
talking about how much we would miss one another once we were apart? Point in case: The last time we were
together we watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind because we’re both a
little demented. We laughed at how much it reminded us, of us. “You
are so gonna miss me when I’m gone”, I would giggle through my words and
snuggle my face into his neck. He would laugh and inhale my scent, “I’m
gonna miss your smell.” And we would start making out and forget about all the
things that were wrong with us. Things I didn’t know how to change and things he
didn’t want to change.
As
time ticked on, the voice in my head grew louder, angrier and I fought tooth and
nail to avoid it. The fighting in my spirit made me depressed and without even realizing it I found
myself beginning to subconsciously attempt to develop what could never form
itself between us before. I am a hopeless romantic and want so badly to believe
that love conquers all, but it doesn’t, it just doesn’t. And here’s the kicker,
that fact is absolutely okay. It’s completely healthy for something not to work
out because as Marilyn Monroe once said, “Sometimes good things fall apart, so
better things can come together”….or something like that, I’m not sure of her
exact words, but I know she said something to that effect. And on some level I
sympathize with Ms. Monroe because she was lonely despite the world surrounding
her with love.
But
I wasn’t going down like Norma Jean.
My
chakras were fucked. I was clearly in a situation my energy wasn’t agreeing
with but I continued to ignore my feelings. Not good dude, listen to yourself.
Listen and believe what you feel. Ironically
the sex was just getting better and better (like, fucken crazy good) and only increasing my
disillusionment. The culmination came on a beautiful Saturday morning before my
coffee. Argue, argue, argue, blah, blah, blah, led into….
“I
have to deal with it because I’m the one who’s fucking you,” his voice was
angry and distorted.
“I’m
the one who taught you how to fuck!”
Okay that’s not what I said and it was completely off topic, but it does sound
like some crazy shit that would come out of my mouth. What I did say was, “Let
me help you with that. Don’t you worry about fucking me, anymore.”
“G,
I only said that cause you said it once before,” his voice was venom on the
other line. I knew I had spit poison at him before and this was him just
throwing it right back at me – it sucked being on the receiving end.
“Can’t
remember shit that I say, but you can quote me on that verbatim Nice.” I could
feel the somersaults in my belly. “This is so wrong. Everything about this
moment is incorrect.” But it
wasn’t, everything about that moment was on point, I just didn’t see it at that
second.
I
don’t remember the last of the conversation, but I know it was love that had
spoiled, kind of like fruit. Fruit is colorful, juicy, a gift from God, but if
you don’t eat the darn thing it gets green and moldy and smelly and mushy. It
gets so disgusting you forget the original state of that piece of fruit and
instinctively throw it away - because it clearly belongs in the trash. I hung
up and flung the phone across the room.
I ripped the frame he gave me off the wall and smashed it into pieces.
My towel dropped and I stood their naked, still wet from my shower, crying like
a baby. I dropped to my knees and released two years of frustration. I’m not sure how much time had passed,
but my eyes fluttered open to the sun hitting my face. I peeled myself off the floor and
picked out a few pieces of glass that had been ingrained into my shin. It hurt,
but the physical pain distracted me from the pain in my chest and that
ironically, felt good. I promised myself this was the last time I would pick
myself up off the floor for this guy.
I
got up and took a long hard look in the mirror. There was a very sad girl
looking back at me – a hot, naked sad girl, but a sad girl nonetheless. She
knew exactly why she was feeling that way too but she never had the balls to
admit it. The
best thing about hitting rock bottom is knowing there is nowhere to go but up.
After two years of lingering I had severed the thin red string holding us
together without a word of it to him. I suppose he felt it. The biggest revelation (aka, slap in
the face) was realizing he was never quite there to begin with. Without him my life wouldn’t change all
that much – except maybe I would finally start masturbating (Side note: I don’t
do it. It’s weird, I know. I just don’t play with myself if my boyfriend isn’t
around to watch. I wasn’t about to jump into bed with anyone else for awhile, I
was left with no choice to try this pastime enjoyed by the human race, but
anyway, I digress….moving along…..) Rather than continuing to feel like a
fucken idiot and put myself in that situation, cause I did, consistently and
voluntarily, I made the decision to ignore the fear upon my back and not turn
around.
In essence, you can’t really lose
something you never had. And I promise to you, my readers, and myself as well,
this is the last I’ll touch upon this particular heartbreak. I'm sure it's getting old. In West Side Story
fashion, I’m deading this situation with a quick little stab to the chest.
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