you know who you are. you left me. high and dry. why did you do that to me? you left me without an explanation and without a proper goodbye. maybe we weren’t good for each other, and you weren’t responsible for my happiness, but what you did made me fucking sadder. why did you want to make me sadder? I did my best to make you feel comfortable around me. to feel like you mattered. sometimes you even made me feel like i mattered. even if it was just a little bit. you made me feel smart, also sometimes. but after what you did, I now feel even more like I don’t matter. that my mind wasn’t enough, that my body wasn’t enough, my home wasn’t enough, my favors weren’t enough. you left me. like everybody does. I thought you would’ve stayed around for my birthday. remember how I was only one of two people who contacted you on your birthday? that doesn’t matter. nothing matters. especially not my feelings. and you may not truly believe it, but I do care about your feelings. and your well being. and most of all, how you made me feel when we were TOGETHER. why can’t you remember that? remember the times we spent together. why did you make me sadder? why did you leave me without an explanation? what was the point of all of this? if I knew Sunday was the end, I would’ve at least hugged you one more time. the perfect hug where my head fits right below your chin. and I can hear your heart beat. I’ll never understand why you did this. I don’t think I deserved it. but then again, I’m just a piece of trash, right? disposable and gross. thank you for solidifying that for me. you took a piece of me with you. the secrets I told you. the things you now know about me. you carry those with you now. and I carry yours with me.
Sometimes on the dating apps, romance doesn’t bloom (blossom? Which one sounds better?). But a friendship might. And that’s what happened with one of my Tinder matches: Let’s call him Andy. I wrote my name on the bottom of Andy’s shoe, and now we are friends. He’s got a friend in me. Etc. Etc. We are strictly friends. We just have fun together and it doesn’t matter that there is an age difference.
Andy is well into his 20’s but I am 18 years older than him. In my defense, I look ten years younger than I really am. But only sometimes, apparently, because the funniest thing happened to me a few days ago, but also the most horrifying:
Andy and I rolled up to a convenient store one night. Let’s just say that Andy isn’t the most conscientious guy when it comes to shit going on around him. Clueless! He jumped out of my car, and was practically at the door of the store before I even closed my car door. I was able to witness his BLOWING past an older lady (Older than me, thank you!), limping, of course. Leaving us both in his dust. Not surprisingly he didn’t bother to hold the door for either one of us.
Out on the store’s front stoop, I apologized for “his behavior” and gladly said “Please, you first” while hobbling up the walkway. I was able to hold the door for her to go in before me, when she turns back to declare:
“I’m so lucky. My son is very polite.”
For a nanosecond I tried to figure out: ‘Wait, does she think Andy is my son…’ but almost immediately, I agreed with her. Because, why not? This is hilarious!
“You ARE very lucky. I wish mine was.”
And once I got into the store, I made sure I went up to Andy and very loudly asked, “Did you hear that? Her son is polite! You embarrass me.”
And without missing a beat, Andy says, “Sorry, mom.”
Then we laughed. It was cool. No big deal. OMG, I look old enough to be my friend’s mom. Shoot me! When did I get so old??
After that I wondered, should I have just announced “Oh, that’s not my son – We’re fucking!” But I couldn’t even say that since it’s not true. Granted, neither is our mother/son relationship. Oh well. Maybe next time.
Andy’s “mom” has got it going on,
“I’m happy your husband cheated on you!”
That’s what someone said to me, as an insult, not too long ago.
I responded by declaring, “So am I!” Insinuating that I’m now better off after the man that I loved, trusted and married got his boss pregnant less than a year after we got married.
Yes, I’m happy too! He got married to his pregnant mistress and had another kid after the “oops.” They moved to Florida, where I always wanted to move. Into a big house with a pool, two kids, and a dog.
So happy that while he was off vacationing with her where we honeymooned (during what would have been our first anniversary), I was scraping myself off the bottom of the barrel after trying (and failing) to end my life. Sometimes seeing up to three different therapists a week. Happy.
Happy that while I have lost 157 pounds, he is obsese and bald: yet he’s still married. And no one has declared they loved me since the last time he ever told me. But so, so happy.
In all seriousness, my ex and I shouldn’t have gotten married. I learned a lot of life sessions then, and since then. I honestly do not care about him at all. But does it hurt me that my life never got better after his betrayal (and lack of any explanation or apology) while I put on a smile for all of you? It really fucking does.
I don’t know why men don’t like me. I know I’m tough to love, but so are a lot of other people who have somehow found love. I feel like the universe is punishing me but I have no idea why.
And before you tell me that I will find love when I’m not looking, just please go fuck off into that good night. How many lonely holidays and birthdays must I “celebrate” while I’m not looking? Since 14 isn’t enough, maybe 15? 20?
I am definitely crying writing this. As I hit middle age, I mourn the life I thought I was going to have. Panic when I think about the life I currently have (and don’t want). I don’t have a purpose. I have no love. I have nothing. I wish I died that day. Because right now, looking back on my life and struggles, it just hasn’t been worth it.
Anyway, that’s where I am mentally right now. It’s a bad place. I just want to be someplace else.
I just want to be happy.