Parce que je le vaux bien!

As you perhaps expected, my resolve in Friday’s post to never contact RG again faded by the end of Friday and into Saturday morning. I even drunk texted him again saying that if we were to see each other at some point again in the future he should come to my place since – in my poor deluded mind – I felt that this would give me more power. He replied saying he was OK with this, and that sparked off all these fantasies of him coming round, us drinking red wine, smoking some weed and having amazing sex. I even went so far as to look at duvet covers in the “Bed, Bath and Beyond” online store since I decided that my bed could definitely do with a little bit of sprucing up for RG (I bet he never even changed the sheets between fucking me and having his “friend” from Colorado over. Ha!).

I then started to obsess about how much time I should let elapse before contacting him again for sex. One week would obviously appear too keen, I told myself; hmmm, two weeks might be a bit too soon, also; what about three weeks, then? A month? I think I eventually settled on waiting until his birthday on November 20th.

I imagined RG sitting at home waiting for me to call, wondering why I hadn’t and realizing he had been a fool. I didn’t expect him to call me, of course, but obviously this would be because he’s a wounded little animal right now, terrified of commitment. Really he’s crazy about me, but just can’t admit it to himself.

How can it be that I continue to create these little fantasies about his supposed “feelings” for me?!. I’ve even written on here about how there was never anything between us, and that I had just created everything in my head. Why is it that I then can’t stop myself from creating more fantasies? Why can’t I remember the harm these fantasies cause? I need to fucking remember, goddammit!

Last night I went to get a Brazilian wax done, and thank God I did since my aesthetician is amazing. She actually managed to talk some sense into me. She’s this feisty Mexican-American with a trace of Spanish in her accent when she speaks English. I love her bawdy sense of humour and the way she cuts through your bullshit in a really warm, kind way.

It wasn’t that she told me anything new (um, that RG is a huge fucking loser and that I’m wasting my time) but I guess I was just finally ready to hear what people were telling me, and she was the perfect person to listen to.

You probably don’t believe me but I am soooooo ovaaaaaaah that motherfucker. True, I occasionally have wee pangs when I think about the sex we had, and if I saw him again in our local bar, I might have a “relapse”. This is why I am going to be staying away from that place for a couple of months. But, really, I can see him for what he is now. A fucked-up, alcoholic loser with no job who I let take advantage of me! I don’t know whether to be more disgusted with him or with myself. I can’t believe that I actually chased somebody like that.

I have chased men my entire fucking life. Now, don’t get me wrong. 99.99% of the time I am not desperate in the slightest. In fact, I am not romantically or sexually interested in the vast majority of men I meet. However, here is the lethal combination for me:

sexual attraction + emotional unavailability + emotional intensity + “little wounded animal” man

The problem with most men like this is that they they love sexual conquests, so they will do their everything to “hook” the woman. Their low self-esteem and fragile egos need to have as many attractive women as possible interested in them. To this end, there’s a fucking charm offensive. RG was like that, making me think that he was “sensitive”, that he “understood” me, that he, too, was “in pain” right now’. Everything was so fucking intoxicatingly intense. They know this is what women love to hear, and then you’re hooked! But the problem is that once you’re hooked, you want more of the same, but then men like RG freak the fuck out and back off; this makes you panic, so you chase, and they back off all the more.

I do think that RG liked me in the beginning but I think my “love me now!!!!” behaviour turned him the fuck off. Why wouldn’t it? And I made everything so fucking easy for him. Offering my fucking pussy up on a silver platter. Thinking that texting him saying “I’m soooo horny. Coming round to fuck you!” was the epitome of modern womanhood. It would be if I was in a committed relationship with somebody who actually respected me, but RG saw my high sexual drive and thought “Slut!”.

I have spent my entire fucking life refusing to believe that what I’ve got between my legs is some kind of relationship currency. I just could not accept that if I was 100% honest about my feelings for a man and slept with him “too soon” (in the eyes of society anyway) that men would not respect me. How naïve. Not just naïve about men, but about human nature in general. Nobody – man or woman – wants what they can have too easily. I have this guy friend in Brooklyn who’s interested in me, and who constantly calls/texts although I usually forget to respond/return his calls. Despite this, he still calls/texts me again. I hate to admit it, but there is a huge part of me that does not respect him for that.

I am sorely tempted to purchase “The Rules“. I’ve spent many years secretly wanting to read this book, but not allowing myself to do so because it has been considered “anti-feminist” and manipulative of men. But, honestly, I’m at the stage now where I need some fucking external rule system to teach me to respect myself, and how to deal with/approach the men in my life.  I haven’t read it yet but, honestly, from what I can gather it just teaches women to have their own busy, successful lives instead of obsessing over a man. Yes, there are some so-called “manipulative” strategies (rarely returning phone calls etc) but, when I think about it, there are so many manipulative things that I do already to make sure a man is interested in me/will spend time with me (e.g. getting involved with them sexually too soon). How is the fact that I’m currently unconsciously manipulating men any better than consciously manipulating them to make sure they know I’m a strong woman?

In an ideal world, neither conscious or unconscious manipulation would be advisable, but, fuck it. I’m tired of being played. I’m cynical and broken down. I’m sick of chasing men who don’t give a rat’s ass about me even though they’re the ones who are not my intellectual, spiritual and emotional equals. I am not going to manipulate men to screw them over (hell, I’m not a bitch) but men are as sure as hell going to chase me now. And why? Because in the words of that cheesy L’Oréal Ad:

“Parce que je le vaux bien”.

Closure

Well, you are not going to be happy. After having a wee glass of rum mixed with strawberry/banana soy smoothie (I tell myself that this mixer makes drinking healthy) I texted RG. Don’t worry – I didn’t declare my undying love for him, and beg him to come back. I said this:

“You know, its 4 the best that we don’t see each other. I realize this. Neither one of us is in a good place. But it kinda sucks that u couldnt just say that because i liked you quite a bit. Oh well. I hope you take good care of yourself.”

What I got back was this:

“If you need some hugs let me know. i just can’t commit to anything now”.

Oh, the euphemistic use of the word “hugs”! When we first started seeing each other, one of the ways he hooked me was by telling me that we didn’t need to have sex (I told him I wasn’t ready. Ha!) and that he could just give me some “hugs” instead.  I thought that he must be a really sensitive, sweet guy. I just didn’t realize that it would be my vagina getting all those “hugs”.

You will notice how my text message was sweet and sad. Once again, I put myself out there by telling him that I like/liked him, and yet I got nothing back except a cheap offer for sex . You’re probably now thinking that I must be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. But no! You are very wrong!

I am glad that I texted him because, well, it really was a bit sad to think that I might never hear from him again. I mean, God, we must have fucked like twenty times in the space of a month, and, whether you like it or not, some kind of bond, no matter how tenuous, is formed through that. I was actually kinda surprised that he even texted back and I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t because then I could have written him off as a complete douchebag. It’s always easier to get over somebody if you think they’re an idiot or if you’re angry at them.

I countered his desire for me to let him know when I want “hugs” by suggesting that he contact me if he wants to hang out. At first I kicked myself for doing this because I felt like I’d given away all my power by letting him suggest a meeting time, but now I realize that I did exactly the opposite. RG is so afraid of commitment that he doesn’t even want to be the one to suggest meeting up for casual sex. It was very convenient for him to have me be the one who suggested all the booty calls. Ever the Catholic school boy, I think he feels guilty deep-down for having casual sex so, oh how convenient, when the woman is the one who suggests it. That way he can’t be blamed when the woman’s feelings get hurt because she knew what the “score” was.

You probably don’t believe me, but I will not be contacting RG again for a hook-up. I’ve not seen him for 6 days, and, during that time, most of the rush I get from the sex and just being around him, has worn off. Obviously I’ve also had time to reflect. I don’t want a relationship with him, and I never did; I was just lonely and horny. I did like him, though, so in my loneliness and horniness, I got all confused. The boundaries were so blurred. I could just be flattering myself, but I think he might have been confused, too.

But I have decided: if we’re going to be fuck buddies, he’s going to be dancing to my tune this time. He can contact me if he wants to meet up, with advance notice! And he will be coming round to my place. I had never considered how vulnerable I was making myself by always going over to his place, and seeing his brother, his friends…his life. If we are going to fuck, I don’t need to see how he lives his life, and with whom he spends his time. I will have the upper hand if he comes to my house.

The sad thing is that I don’t think that he ever will contact me. I sense that he has made a decision that whatever we had going on was “too complicated” (he said as much). Even if on some level he does like me, he’s an alcoholic and is really good at shutting parts of himself off. I imagine that it will be much easier for him just to find some random girls to fuck instead. Much less “complicated”. It’s also sad because I long for his body, for his smell. It makes no rational sense whatsoever, but I just do. As wrong as he is for me, he did something to me, and, oh how I wish that he would do it again and again and again.

Despite my sadness at the thought of never having his large, perfectly formed cock inside me again, I am at peace for the first time all week. Now I know that this situation had nothing to do with me; it’s all about him and where he is at in his life. I don’t feel rejected anymore. I am ready to move on (although if I’m totally honest I do live in hope that RG will contact me again one day….a hope that will surely diminish with time).

Meanwhile, there are other sexual opportunities on the horizon! Given that I am going to attend a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting tomorrow morning, it is perhaps not good at all for me to be getting involved with other men. But, you know what, I don’t fucking care. I am so tired of analyzing everything I do and think. I have just rediscovered my libido, and I will be damned if I become a cloistered nun. There have been far too many periods of my life when I didn’t have sex for ages. I’m not doing that again. I’m going to enjoy being a single woman.

Last night I went to my friend’s girlfriend’s dinner party, and there was this guy there whom I will refer to as the Naïve Libertarian. He was this adorable 25-year-old Hispanic guy who was obviously very smart and intellectual (but he’s not quite as smart and as intellectual as he thinks he is). We got into this huge political discussion because I hate libertarians and always want to prove to them that Socialism is the only true way. His opinions were quite ridiculous but also extremely charming as only the opinions of a 25-year-old boy could be. I made fun of him, and I thought it was just delicious when he became all petulant and outraged, and refused to let anyone else speak until he had defended himself. Oh, the ardour of the young!

Anyway, the Naive Libertarian walked me to my car, still passionately spouting all his libertarian opinions. I was growing tired of him , so I grabbed him and said “Oh for God’s sake, shut the fuck up!” and then I kissed him. He resisted for maybe half a minute – “No, but… but let me finish!”, but quickly succumbed to my kiss a few moments later.

I can’t say that I was incredibly attracted to the Naive Libertarian, but I do think that there’s a lot of fun to be had with a 25-year-old boy. I definitely see myself in a sort of Blanche Dubois/Mrs. Robinson role. There is so much that I could teach him! I gave him my number, so let’s see if he calls…

He’s Just Not That Into Me

Yup, more than 72 hours have now passed without receiving a text from RG. However, to frame this in an entirely more positive light – it’s also been more than 72 hours since I last contacted that no-good, lying, cheating, man-whoring, head fucking, immature, drunken bastard!

I can’t say I haven’t been tempted, though. I spent most of the day feeling really upbeat but then, on the drive home from my therapist’s appointment, I became melancholy all of a sudden. I started to feel very sorry for RG. I do genuinely think that he is, behind his cocky attitude, kinda sensitive and suffering from low self-esteem. He once told me that he cries every single night, and my heart melted. Honestly, I do think that this guy has a lot of pain. I wanted to send him a wee text, saying “I know things are over, but I wish you all the best”. But, you know what? Fuck that shit! What about my pain? I bet he’s not sitting at home blogging about me and feeling bad about my pain. Nah, he’s probably sitting in the local bar right this very moment without a care in the world. Pffft.

I don’t get it. What is it that I see in these damaged men? Why does their pain melt my heart and make me think I’m in love with them? Why?! Why?! Why?! I can’t fix them. What a fucking colossal waste of time!

While I was still in my “ooh-we’re- connected-cosmically-because-we-share-the-same-pain” mode, I googled RG and discovered that – in a past life – he was into gardening (he had actually mentioned this to me before) and that he had once been a boy scout. My mind started conjuring up all kinds of possibilities about the future RG. Let me tell you about them:

Fantasy: RG will go into rehab, get himself all fixed out, and then we’ll have this great relationship. We’ll grow all kinds of beautiful flowers, vegetables and fruit in our garden. Each night as the sun sets we will wander through our garden, hand-in-hand, looking at what we have grown together. It will be a fucking bucolic paradise, symbolic of the deep and pure love we have for each other!

Reality: All the vegetables in the garden will rot because RG will be too wasted to tend to them thus turning the garden into a stinking, pestilent morass. Instead of fertilizer in the flower beds, there would be vomit from yet another one of his drinking binges.

Fantasy: I will give birth to RG’s children, and our son will be a boy scout, too. Off he will go on his camping trips, with the scoutmaster smiling benignly in the background, to learn leadership skills and develop a strong character. He will be a fine, upstanding citizen our boy!

Reality: RG will be arrested for a DUI on his way to the Cub Scout Den to pick up our male progeny. The poor wee soul will be left standing there for hours and will consequently be molested by the scoutmaster, an event that will cause him to have a drug and alcohol-fueld psychotic breakdown fifteen years later.

But enough about RG…I am so confused about men. I find myself googling stuff like “When is the right time to sleep with a man?”. There is a lot of really fucking confusing stuff out there, but the most useful tip I read was “whenever you are sure he is actually interested in you, and doesn’t just want to get into your knickers”. I like this advice, but it’s a bitter pill to swallow because I’m not in the business of just using people and taking from them to gratify my own ego. It kinda sucks that I have to think that some men think this way. My own mother once told me: “Men don’t respect women who sleep with them too quickly”. My mother was a prudish old cow, so the sixteen-year-old feminist me thought “Fuck that shit! I will do what I want whenever I want”. I hate to admit that she was fucking right. It’s the fucking 21st century, though! Why do I have to worry about men thinking of penetrative sex as some kind of conquest?! Shouldn’t we be beyond that by now? Ugh!

I mentioned to my therapist that I am going to attend the one and only women-only Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting there is in this city. I’ve been to mixed-gender meetings before and it was kinda icky to hear men talk all about their porn addiction or whatever. I mean, it’s great they’re trying to work through their issues, but I just don’t need to be in a room with male sex addicts. No thanks!

I also mentioned to my therapist that I would like to try online dating and start another blog all about that. She was, like, “Noooooo! Not a good idea! You need to focus on yourself and your interests”. This is perhaps the only time she has ever come out and said I shouldn’t do something. Part of me thinks “Hmmmm, she might be right”. As a potential sex and love addict, could I just be trying to create a new way for me to get my fix from men and romantic intrigue by spinning this whole tale of needing material for a new blog?

I know I’m not ready for a relationship but, at the same time, my libido was reawakened by RG (one of the few positive things to come out of our “relationship”) and I find the idea of abstaining from sex completely depressing (is this something you even need to do when you attend SLAA meetings?!). I feel like I would like to date a few men casually just to learn how to take things slowly, and to have the means of comparing men. For example, when I went out with Mr. Ford Galaxie 500 last Friday, he took me to a fancy French restaurant and bought all the food and drinks. I’m not suggesting that I’m a spoiled princess who wants to be pampered by men but, well, MM was always too much of a skinflint starving artist to go to restaurants with me and RG never took me on a proper date (although he did ask me at one point and I freaked out about it, and told him I wasn’t ready). It is just nice to have a man wine and dine you on occasion, and when you have one man do that for you, it’s easier to see that the one who is too lazy/disrespectful or broke to do so should be kicked to the curb. All my life I’ve either been single or I’ve shone my love headlights obsessively on only one man at a time.  Quite frankly, it would be nice just to date casually and see what’s out there, instead of meeting one guy who pushes all my buttons and focusing my everything on him.

Finally, dating would be something to do one night a week. I know that’s a terrible way of looking at it but, well, my friends always want to go to the same places/do the same things, and it does get a tad boring. It seems kinda fun to meet a brand new person each week, and to go to different restaurants or places with them.

Honestly, I really am quite taken by the idea of blogging about my dating adventures. Not in a manipulative way, but more along the lines of “well, I’ve chosen really bad men before, so let me try something new”.

Then again, maybe it’s completely unhealthy to see men/dating as an exciting thing to do at the weekend. Maybe I should be creating my own excitement. Am I just looking for more sexual and romantic intrigue?

What do you think? To date casually or to not date casually?

Borderline

I am back! I am back to being my sexy, sassy, smart and sophisticated self! I feel so confident! I don’t feel lonely. I don’t feel that the world is a dark place. I feel that it is exciting! I feel that things will be OK! I don’t give a fuck about RG anymore. Fuck that immature, spiritually and emotionally bereft scumbag!

And yet…

Earlier today I was not doing at all well. I found myself sobbing when I thought about how RG might not contact me again. And when I say “sobbing”, I don’t mean that I was all “boo hoo hoo sniff”. I mean really fucking sobbing. I was also overcome with raging paranoia. I couldn’t seem to understand who RG was, or what had just happened. I began to think of him as this evil person, and for a little while it felt like my world was totally shaken because I asked myself “Who can I trust?” If you’d walked in on me, I would have scuttled into a corner like a wounded, wild animal and I’d have lashed out at you if you tried to get near.

A little while later, however, I started to think “Oh, RG really isn’t all that bad”, and I’d imagine how great it would be to go out with him.  Later still, I’d switch again, and understand that things are probably over between us, and, oh, the world seemed so dark. I wish I could describe to you just how dark things seemed, but it’s hard to find the words. There was just this void inside of me, and I felt that I had nothing or nobody.

Around 5:00 p.m. I had some lawyer-y stuff to deal with regarding MM which set me off into another paranoid episode. I actually started to think that MM had hired private investigators and that they were probably watching my every move. I even went outside, fully expecting to see some dude sitting in a car with a long-lens camera to take pictures of me à la Kristen Stewart. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t entirely cuckoo for me to be a little concerned, but there was really no need for such paranoia.

And now….well, now I feel just hunky-dory. It is not normal to have so many mood swings in one day. It just isn’t. And don’t try to tell me that it’s normal because I’m going through a break-up. This is how I am all the fucking time! The worst thing about this is that it makes my sense of reality very precarious. Since my moods, sense of myself and other people change so fast, it is really, really hard for me to know what’s real.

When I first started to notice my mood swings, I knew something was up so I spent hours (hours!) googling bipolar disorder, hoping that this was what it was I had. Now, I don’t mean to diminish the suffering of anyone who actually does suffer from bipolar disorder but, well, let’s face it – bipolar is kinda “sexy” as far as mental health diagnoses are concerned. Think about all those famous people who were said to have bipolar disorder – Virginia Woolf, Stephen Fry, Kristin Hersh, Sinead O’Connor, possibly Sylvia Plath etc. All of these people are extremely creative and smart, and it’s often said that there’s a link between bipolar disorder and being a genius. Since I am clearly a genius, this diagnosis seemed to fit for me.

However, the information I found online about bipolar mood swings said that they come usually out of the blue. This is not the case for me at all. It is very clear to me that my moods are caused by some external event or trigger.

This led me to discover another psychiatric illness which is decidedly less than “sexy”- borderline personality disorder. Some of you might not know what this is, so this website will tell you everything you need to know, plus give you a list of “symptoms”. I could practically tick off every box in that list of symptoms. This did not make me happy because well, first of all, borderline personality disorder is a pretty sexist diagnosis. It is also a diagnosis which has a lot of stigma. Can you think of one single public figure who has ever admitted to having it? Who are the role models for people suffering with BPD? Let me tell you – nobody!

Basically, people (or, more likely, women) with BPD are seen as being crazy-ass bitches. The depiction of BPD women goes something like this:

I hate this potential diagnosis. I do have a psychiatrist who has diagnosed me with having a “mood disorder” which is marginally better.

The problem with having a “mood disorder” is that it’s pretty hard to take your illness seriously when 50% of the time you feel absolutely bloody fine. Right now I have no desire to contact or see RG. I can see clearly that he’s no good for me, and the idea of not having him in my life does not make me want to slit my wrists.

And speaking of slitting my wrists, sometimes I will seriously contemplate suicide, and I will be deeply depressed, but a couple of hour later I’ll be dancing around the house singing cheery songs.

I’m hoping that writing about all my dark moment in here will help me remember that I do still need to seek help although sometimes I feel fine. I’m thinking of going back to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings and – since there is just one weekly women-only meeting in this town – it might also be a good idea for me to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, too.  If the truth be told, I don’t think I’m an alcoholic at all, but I don’t think it’s good for somebody with such intense mood swings and problems with impulsivity to drink. I don’t know if I should go to AA, though. I mean, I would be really sad to think that I will never again drink red wine, and while I am fine with having a prolonged break from alcohol, I have no intention of stopping completely.

One Day At A Time

It is now nearly twenty-four hours since I sent my last text to RG  asking him if he wants to get together on Thursday night. He still hasn’t responded. He was never someone who replied to texts straight away, but he has always responded before this. I guess this silence of his just means “no” but he is not mature enough to call me to tell me so.

I’m about to take my dogs to the park, and I was sorely tempted to text him to ask if wants to come with me, but I have managed to restrain myself. He would probably just ignore that text as well, and then I would be in even more pain than before. I just have to face the fact that he very well might not ever contact me again, and that he doesn’t want me.

I’m trying to take it “one day at a time” as they say in AA. If I tell myself that RG will never contact me again and that I should not contact him to chase after him, I start to panic. But if I can just get through one day at a time I know the pain will start to subside. It’s already nearly twenty-four hours since I contacted him last. And if I can get through tomorrow, then it will be forty-eight hours, and the day after that it will be seventy-two hours…

I’ve been through this very same thing ten years ago – obsessed with a guy who was emotionally unavailable. There was this dance of him pulling away, and me pushing, chasing after him, which of course made him pull away all the more. When that relationship ended, I think I had a nervous breakdown. To this day, it was the absolute worst period of my life. The break-up with MM doesn’t even begin to compare although I was actually married to him.

I survived, though. I’m still alive. “Time heals” yadda yadda yadda. If I can just sit still, feel the pain, but not let it drive me to take extreme measures, I know I will be OK. The scary thing is that “OK” is not the same thing as “happy”. Ten years after that last obsessive relationship, I am still incredibly lonely and empty inside. Every so often that guy still pops up in my dreams. This makes me worry about the RG situation as well. I know I’ll get over it, but what’s the point, I wonder, if there’s not this new, happy existence on the other side?

Between the ages of around fifteen/sixteen I was bulimic. It was never serious enough for me to be hospitalized but it still fucked up my life (and if you’re wondering what the fuck this has got to do with RG, I will tell you in a second). I was obsessed with food, and thinking about it and how to lose weight took up so much of my brain space. When my bulimia reached an all time nadir, I finally realized that I couldn’t continue to devote so much of my energy to obsessing over food. As a feminist, I felt that my all-consuming focus on my body was a betrayal of all the strong women who had fought for women’s rights, and for me to fulfill my potential. So, instead of dieting, and then binge eating, I forced myself to sit down at the table three times a day, and eat a healthy, balanced meal. It was torture at first, but, quite quickly, I got better. My poor body, which had previously yo-yoed between starvation and a carbohydrate high, was balanced for the first time in years. I actually lost weight without trying.

I think I should try a similar tactic to get through this situation with RG. Even though my heart doesn’t really believe it yet, my rational mind knows that I am smart, funny, beautiful and creative. RG does not appreciate me, and he never will. What  a travesty, then, for me to waste all my energy on romantic intrigue! Why can I not channel this energy into something much more positive and creative, like my writing and singing?

The answer to this is that I can and I just fucking have to. It’s a matter of survival.

Things That Fall Apart

I think I might be on the verge of a fucking nervous breakdown. I’m siting here sipping a rum with cranberry juice because I need something to reduce my anxiety.

I texted RG about an hour ago, saying that I would like to meet up with him on Thursday evening. He replied immediately, but the only thing that was in the text was ” : -) “. I asked if that was a yes, but got no reply. This has made me spiral into a deep depression.

My moods are all over the place. I think I have built up this little fantasy all around him. What sort of woman falls for an alcoholic loser? Because once I peel off the blinders that are obscuring my vision I can see that this is what he is.

Two weeks ago, he needed to pick up his uncle from the bus station. He asked if I wanted to come with him, and when we went outside, his car had a flat. I’d been inside his car before, and it was a fucking mess of cigarette butts and fast food wrappers. It turned me off that his car had a flat. It wasn’t a surprise at all.

When we got to the bus station, his uncle wasn’t even there. It turned out that RG had got the wrong day. Yet again, I had a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach that the guy was a loser, but I immediately pushed away that thought because I wasn’t ready to deal with it.

We went for something to eat, and RG said he needed to smoke a cigarette and that he’d be right in. He disappeared for 10 minutes, and a feeling of abandonment and panic set in. I knew that it would always be this way, that he’d always be skipping out on me, abandoning me. I eventually saw him come back, carrying a plastic bag in his skinny hands. I knew what was in that bag because I could see that he’d left an opened bottle of beer sitting on the hood of my car. He needed his fix so badly that he couldn’t wait until after we’d eaten. Again, I was flooded with the awareness that the guy was no good, but I refused to think about that because I so badly needed to believe in some sort of bullshit romantic fantasy.

He came into the restaurant holding three carnations that he’d bought from some flower seller in the street. I  was charmed, but somehow deep inside I knew that this sweetness and thoughtfulness was something that he put on for all the ladies. By this I don’t mean to suggest that he manipulated the ladies consciously, but he had at some point understood what he needed to say and do to get the ladies, and now it was second nature to him.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I have created this little story that he likes me a lot but is just too scared to get involved with me because his feelings are just too intense. Hahahahah! What a fool I am! What a master storyteller! I could win the fucking Pulitzer Prize for fiction. He has also helped fuel this little fantasy of mine because he jokingly says that he “hates me” because I have upset all his plans. This is the only time he has ever given me any indication about what he feels for me, and I clung to it the way a drowning man clutches desperately at a life raft. I interpreted it to mean that he is falling for me despite his desire not to.

Last week, after his “friend” from out of town had left, I kept on hoping that he would send me a text saying that he was sorry about what happened, and that he missed me. He did eventually send me a text but all it said was that he needed to give me back the Netflix movie I had left at his house. Again, I chose to interpret this as a sign of his feelings for me. I told myself that he missed me, but that he was too proud to say it, so he used the movie as an excuse to see me. I asked my friends what the text could possibly mean and they were, like, “Um. He just wants to give you your movie back”. My desperate hope to see something that is not there is so ridiculous that I almost want to laugh out loud at the sheer comedy of it all.

Last night in the bar, when I was sitting with that other guy I had picked up, I saw him come in, and laugh and joke with some people he knew. It looked like he didn’t have  a care in the world. Of course I know better. I know that he comes to that bar because he can’t stand being alone by himself for a second. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes me or not. He is an alcoholic, and his disease means that I will never be in his mind for very long. I go out and socialize, too, but every time I do, I can’t stop thinking of him. I tell myself that I need a rebound guy to get over my rebound guy but I’d probably be thinking of him if I fucked anybody else. RG, however,  doesn’t give me a second thought when he’s in the bar.

I need to stay the fuck away from this guy. He is dangerous for me. Every time I see him, I am filled with such an intense longing for his affection that I spend the next fews days in a state of extreme emotional instability.

On Friday night, he finally called his father asking for help. This was a huge step for him, and he told me it was probably the hardest thing he has ever done in his life. I was cheered by this, and imagined myself being there for him as he finally kicked the booze. I felt hopeful that he admits he’s an alcoholic, and that he has asked for help. However, he seems to be in denial about what going in to rehab actually means. He doesn’t appear to understand that this is going to change his life forever, and that it’s going to be really fucking hard.  He thinks that he’ll spend a few nights there, getting through the DTs with some medical assistance, and that then he’ll leave, and that everything will be OK. He doesn’t get that entering rehab is very first teeny tiny step on a long, long journey. What is this man going to do who, even when drunk, has to head out to the bar to stave off loneliness? How is he going to be able to stand the emptiness and the pain when he is sober? How is he going to replace the bar which is at the very centre of his social life? I ask him all these question and he breezily answers that everything will be OK.

Everything is not going to be OK. Most addicts attempt to kick their habit seven times before they finally manage. Or they just don’t manage it. He needs to hit rock bottom but he is not even close.

But I’m only focusing on RG‘s issues because that’s easier than dealing with my own. I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m a love addict. Some people don’t think that it’s possible to be addicted to romance or relationships but, oh, let me tell you – you can. I can’t even begin to describe the pain and the feelings of desolation I have when relationships ends or when my little romantic fantasies are blown to smithereens. If you knew how dark my world was then you would believe in love addiction.

The irony is that RG is probably a step ahead of me in terms of curing himself. At least he admits that he’s an alcoholic. When I’m still feeling the pain of rejection, I believe wholeheartedly that I’ve got some kind of addiction problem but as soon as I get over that feeling and my life returns to normal I think that I’m OK. The trouble is that there are only certain men who trigger my “love addiction”. They’re broken men that I want to fix and who give me enough tidbits of affection that I just can’t let go. RG is just number three. Just three guys in 34-years. This is why he leaves me feeling like shit. Meeting somebody like him is a huge fucking deal.

The most annoying thing is that RG senses my desperation, my urge to cling. He is backing off, running away, but not because he can’t deal with his feelings for me. It’s because he can’t deal with my feelings for him. He doesn’t want to get sucked into my vortex of neediness. He tells me I’m “intense” and that I’m “a lot of work”. I would be too much for even a healthy man to handle, and it certainly doesn’t feel good to be given the heave-ho by an alcoholic fuck-up like RG.

I’m not stupid. I know that I need to fill my life up with healthy things-  friends, hobbies, creative things like writing in this blog and singing. I will do this. But I doubt that any of this will help. It is just too fucking hard to live thousands of miles away from my friends. It is too fucking hard not to have any family, not to have unconditional love. It is too.fucking.hard. No matter what I do, I think I’m going to always have this emptiness inside me and I am always going to be alone. There’s not a man alive who could deal with my shit.

I need somebody to help me. I wish I had a father I could call for help. I wish I could go into some kind of rehab. I wish I could be strapped down to a table until all the withdrawal symptoms had disappeared and I could go out into the world, trying to re-build my life from scratch. But there is nobody there, and I don’t think I can do this all by myself.

The bottle

You didn’t need your drug. You could take it or leave it.

At first you only half noticed the way the light reflected in crystalline prisms in your glass, and the warm, comforting, back-in-your-mama’s-womb feeling as the liquid worked its way down.

You didn’t need your drug.

It was just something that happened to be there. What was the harm? It made your anxiety disappear for a few hours; you could talk to girls and make them laugh; you could take one home and fuck her, not thinking about anything other than the pleasure of grinding into her. When you woke up the next morning, the sheets stained with cum and sweat, she’d be gone. Or maybe she wouldn’t, and you’d spend the next week ignoring her calls.

You didn’t need your drug. The bottle stood on the countertop, blinking back at you knowingly as your eyes caressed its smooth, perfect sides.

And then you did need your drug… And then it was too late.

Everybody has a drug. You are mine.

A healthy woman would run a mile. I keep coming back for more. I can’t stay away. I step over the piles of unwashed clothes littered across your room, and make my way to your unmade bed with its filthy, crumpled sheets. I can’t wait until your cock is inside me.

The sex is amazing,  but it always leaves me feeling sad and hopeless. You look into my eyes as we fuck, and I stare back, but all I see is emptiness. I don’t know where you are, but you’re not with me. As soon as we’re done, you grab yourself another beer and smoke a cigarette. You always pull on a pair of shorts after we’ve finished fucking. You never let me see you naked.

I tell myself this is just a sex thing. I tell myself that I’m only into you because you’re emotionally unavailable. I stay away for a whole week, while you’re fucking some other girl, and I even go out on a date with another dude who picks me up in his 1964 Ford Galaxie, and who wines and dines me in a fancy French restaurant. I’m wearing my new 26-inch waist skinny Diesel jeans, and heels, and I look hot as hell. Every single man in the place wants me. But I don’t want them. I want you.

During dessert, I slip off to the bathroom to text you, wanting to meet up afterwards. I lie to myself that it’s only a booty call, and just to save face, just so I can feel that you don’t matter, I make out with Mr. Ford Galaxie on the trunk of the car. I hate it. His kisses are sloppy, and he tells me that we’re in “different places in our life” , and that I’m “wild” and “untamable”.

I’m so horny and desperate to see you that I park my car in the wrong spot, and it gets towed. We spend all night and all morning fucking so I don’t hear the tow truck.

My house keys, wallet and phone are in the car. I’m screwed and you make some mean comment about how I should get Mr. Ford Galaxie to help. I think you’re going to throw me out into the street with no money, no car, no keys, no phone. I’m bare footed because I can’t wear my too-new shoes that have blistered my feet. I can’t see because I threw away my contacts. I want to slit my fucking wrists.

But you do help me.

You’re such a mess that you still haven’t fixed your car’s flat, so you  call a friend to drive me to the towing company. You’re exhausted from fucking me all night, but you still come with me. This might mean you care. Or it could just be your Catholic guilt.

Your friend loves me. He keeps saying “Why don’t you like this girl?! Why don’t you like this girl?”. Your uncle I met the week before loved me. The locals in our bar say we’d be a “cute couple”. You don’t say anything.

You still don’t say anything when I tell you all about Mr. Ford Galaxie…the fancy meal, the drinks, his car, his kisses. You don’t need to say anything. You know I want you.

I go to a party, pick up some dude and bring him to the bar where he’s kissing me when you walk in. I hadn’t expected you to be be there – thought you were sleeping off another hangover – but I’m pleased you see. Your expression doesn’t change at all. I want to slap your fucking poker face. I tell you I could leave with this dude, or stay with you. I want you to fight for me, but the only thing you say is “I hope it doesn’t work out”. “Is that the best you’ve got”, I ask? “Yup, that’s the best I’ve got”. I storm out, but you know I’ll be back.

All my friends tell me to stay away from you. But I can’t. Your smell makes me melt. I breathe it in, and think that I want to have your babies. I love your cockiness and the little flashes of vulnerability that appear behind it. I love your bottle-top glasses and the way that your right eye can’t focus properly. I love the way your eyelids droop. I love – and hate – the way you deflect all attempts at serious conversation with a stupid joke.

I’m half in love with you. Or maybe I just think I’m half in love with you. Either way, it still feels the same.

You are my drug. And I will crawl over burning coals on my hands and knees to get to you. I don’t care how much I humiliate and degrade myself. You are my drug.

I need you.

I am not ready to give you up.

You Do It To Yourself

Way back in 2007, I had this disastrous long distance “fling” (if you can call it that) with this Dutch guy I met in an Irish bar in town. I was drunk, and we went back to his hotel and I fucked him – again without a condom. He had just broken up with a long-term girlfriend, so he was certainly not looking for anything serious. If this wasn’t ridiculous enough, the guy lived in fucking Oman. Yes, Oman. In the Middle East. I do not live in the Middle East. I live in the US of A.

After our one-night stand, he went back to Oman, but we had hours and hours and hours of intense, soul-bearing phone conversations. For a couple of months my body was physically in the US, but my head and my heart were far away on a sandy beach on the Arabian Sea. He was involved in some capacity in the oil business, so he had shit loads of money. He was tall, handsome, blond, rich and charming – with the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old boy. He dazzled me by taking me skiing in the Swiss Alps for five days, and I was supposed to be going to see him in Oman.

I never did get to visit him in the Middle East. Before I could, some young Dutch girl he had fucked a few months earlier at a wedding came to visit him instead. The trip was planned before he met me, so it would have been rude of him to cancel. Plus, I had no right to ask him not to fuck her (hell, we lived in different countries…thousands of miles apart…he wasn’t my boyfriend). But, oh….those intense, deeply romantic long-distance conversations…He promised not to fuck her, but, well…all of a sudden his phone was switched off for days. No way to contact him. You can guess what he was doing. When he finally was contactable, I did my usual verbally abusive thing, and I cut off all contact with him. I googled him once. I think he’s living in Jordan now.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can of course now say to myself, “What the hell was I doing getting involved with a guy in Oman?!”, especially one who was emotionally unavailable. I went through a very dark period after I cut off all contact with him. It was clear to me that I was very, very unhealthy, and had incredibly poor boundaries. I pulled out my old books on Sex and Love Addiction, and I might even have attended some Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings.

I never wanted to go through the same thing again with a man but….slowly and surely, after the initial pain had worn off, the impetus to change and get better disappeared. I didn’t have any man in my life for a while, and  I wasn’t “acting out”, so I thought I was cured.

And, then…a year later, I met MM and he actually liked me. We had sex on our first date (um, again, without a condom…are you seeing a pattern here?) but he didn’t judge me. He liked me. He actually fucking liked me. And then he loved me. And I tried to love him back, but somehow I couldn’t. I’m so commitment phobic and afraid of real, genuine intimacy that I didn’t know how. And I treated him like fucking shit, verbally abused him, ruined his self-esteem, and just generally crushed him.

And now? I was supposed to see RG last night but, curiously, he said I couldn’t stay over. I smelled a rat, as he usually couldn’t wait to have me stay over and have sex. His uncle who has mild Asperger’s was visiting, so I thought at first that he was perhaps uncomfortable with having a girl there while a family member was present. But when I asked why I couldn’t stay over, he said he had to get up early in the morning to pick up a “friend” from the airport. I was now smelling an even bigger, practically man-sized rat. I let it go, thought I was just being paranoid, but, well, the above “Dutch Man in Oman” experience taught me that  the “friend” at the airport usually has a vagina. Sure enough, I was right. RG fessed up when I confronted him with my suspicions.

How fucking stupid am I? I knew that he wasn’t available for a relationship but he seemed so nice. He was tender and sweet. I knew he would probably fuck other girls (a thought I tried to keep at the back of mind) but I told myself I didn’t care. Hell, I was just out of a relationship myself, so I imagined us having this wild and free, and terribly, terribly modern open relationship or some such bullshit. I convinced myself that he just needed to fuck around for a few months “to get it out of his system”, but I was sure that, after that, we would both fall hopelessly in love. He would soon realize that I was the one and only! Oh yes! And he would go into rehab for his massive alcohol problem! Oh yes! And we would be so happy together! Oh yes!

The reality is that he wanted to bang me on Thursday night, and then spend the next three nights fucking his “friend”. I’m not quite sure how he thought he was going to get away with that one. I mean, we’ve seen each other quite a bit since we met, and so he actually thought I wouldn’t notice that he was AWOL all weekend? I suspect that “thinking” is not something his booze-addled brain does much of. I suspect that he wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. He wanted me to be a quasi-girlfriend who came round a few nights a week for sex, but he didn’t want all the inconvenient parts that come with having a real girlfriend…like actually giving a shit about the person, going on dates with them, making them part of his life.

This was a dude I fucked every single time without a condom. This was a dude I let come in my mouth twice. And I swallow, baby. I don’t spit. I feel cheap. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel absolutely fucking disgusted with myself.

After the “friend at the airport” revelation, I managed to hold onto my dignity and tell him that we shouldn’t see each other again. Then a guy friend of mine, who knew what had just happened and wanted to cheer me up, called me and we went out for a drink at the local bar where I had met RG a couple of months ago. I couldn’t let go. I hoped to see him there. He wasn’t there, but he texted me, asking if I wanted to talk about it. I ended up going round to his place after the the bar shut. I walked in, and the motherfucker had this big fucking smile on his drunk face which clearly said “Yup, I own that bitch”. When I expressed my disappointment about his having lied to me about Ms. Airport Girl he told me had always been honest with me, and had treated me well. He had clearly missed the memo which stated that withholding information which lets other people see the full picture more clearly is tantamount to lying. Of course, a normal healthy woman would have seen the full picture without having Ms. Airport Girl thrown in her face, but well…

I only had about three shreds of self-respect left after going round to RG’s house last night even though I knew about Ms. Airport Girl.  I couldn’t have sent out a bigger message saying “I have absolutely no self-respect”. I don’t know why I went …I guess to convince myself that I hadn’t just been played, that he did maybe have some real feelings for me after all.

I was determined not to fuck him, and I didn’t all night long, but after spending the whole night desperately trying to get some admission out of him that he cared for me on some level (hellllloooooooo?! Girl, you’d known him for two weeks. Two weeks!) I felt hopeless and desperate, so I shagged him anyway. RG was relatively sober at that point, and I noticed – as I’d noticed before – that sobriety made him completely emotionally distant. There was a brick wall between us. I tried to tell him that he had hurt me (helllllloooo again! You’d only known him for two weeks) but he did his usual act of responding to all uncomfortable situations with a joke.

I met RG the week before MM and I broke up. I was wasted in the local bar, and we had been flirting all the time. I was wearing a skirt, and eventually I moved his hand between my legs, under my knickers…and, well,you can imagine what we did. Right in the bar. It was incredibly arousing, and I actually went home and had sex with MM for the first time in ages (that’s how I justified what I’d just done. I thought “Well, it improved my sex life with my husband!”). The next morning, though, I woke up with an awful hangover and had a “What the fuck did I just do” moment. The Sex and Love Addict books got cracked open again for a couple of hours. But eventually I told myself that, well, I’m just a modern woman who should be able to get her rocks off whenever and with whomever she wants.

Through my drunken haze, I somehow realized, though, that to RG I was just some slut who lets random guys finger her in a bar. When I told him last night that I was upset, he made some disparaging comment about how I couldn’t really expect anything after the way our “relationship” had started.

I think that, deep down, I’m a beautiful person.My heart and soul are filled with so much love. I have so much love to give, and I need to receive a lot, too. And, yet, time and time again, I cast my pearls before swine. And these men…they have no fucking idea what they do to women like me. It’s all fun and games. In our text message exchange last night, after I found out about Ms. Airport Girl, RG actually thanked me for the two weeks of “fun” we had. Fun. Really? Fun?

Why do I do this to myself? For most people, this would be their rock bottom. When I was asking RG about his alcoholism last night, I told him that he didn’t seem willing to enter rehab because he obviously hadn’t reached rockbottom. He then asked me what my rockbottom was. As I lay there, naked, beside him, I thought to myself “Oh my God. It’s this. It’s fucking this. I have reached the point of no return. I have let myself be used and abused so many times, and I can’t take it anymore”.

But the sad thing is that it’s not my rockbottom. Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of PTSD because I forget about the pain and shit that happens to me. I’ve read that people with PTSD have trouble with their memory, probably because they want to block out the trauma they experienced. When I was with MM, he actually punched me in the head once, and I forgot about it completely until he somehow mentioned it years later. How can you forget somebody punching you in the head? We would have these huge physical arguments, and afterwards all the details were hazy. I couldn’t remember and, then, I would just bury whatever I could remember and go about my day like nothing had ever happened.

Right now, I feel so fucking slutty, and so fucking disrespected. I want to get help. In fact, I’m about to leave for therapy, but how soon before I forget all this pain? How soon before I find myself fucking some asshole guy who doesn’t give a fuck about me. All these precious things inside of me, and they never notice.

Even worse, I told RG that I have a blog, and that I’d written about him. This blog is anonymous but I realized that if he’s curious enough he could very easily find it by doing a google search with some of the info I mentioned.  I did this, and this blog popped up straight away. I was horrified. I thought about making the blog private but, well, he’s already had my body; he might as well have my mind, too. Take it. Do what you want with it.

If you’re reading this, RG, I want you to know that I did this to my fucking self. I know it. I chose you when I should have known better. But please tell me one thing… How can you go through life hurting women and just taking what you can get? Do you ever stop to think that women are human beings? Do you ever feel bad, even if just for a moment? If you sobered up for just one second, maybe you would realize the harm you do. All those girls you fucked in college, the ones you told me you never called back…don’t you think you hurt them? Don’t you think that what you did chips away at a woman’s trust in men ? I’ve been that girl. I still am. And I can tell you that it does hurt. You can tell yourself that we’re just sluts who deserved what we got…but I still don’t get it. How can you set out to use a person out of pure selfishness and self-interest?

I do it to myself. Will I ever learn to stop? What will it take to make me? Will I just get to a point where I fucking kill myself because I can’t take anymore of this pain?

Rebounding by Text – The End

September 13 18:29

RG, may i ask you a question? I dont want to ask you in phone conversation.

September 13 18:35

What doll

September 18:35

Before i ask you, i want you to know that i don’t expect anything from you, as i understand the place you are in right now. You have to get some stuff out of your system…

September 13 18:38

But, well, i think your Colorado friend might be a girl and, if so, i think it would be best if we didnt see each other anymore. I need to protect myself. And you need to do whatever you need to do.

September 13 18:51

I will take that resounding silence as a yes. 🙂 Its cool. I need to be alone anyway. I really hope you take better care of yourself.

September 13 18:57

It is a girl

 

 

THE END

 

 

Rebounding by Text – Part 3

Aug 27th 09:58

I cant stop thinking about your hairy chest. It is quite delicious.

Aug 27th 16:47

Glad you like the chest hair. i want you to rest your cute on it some day

Aug 27th 18:18

My cute…what? Your sentence was noun-less. Head? Pert breasts? Vagina?

Aug 27th 18:20

Btw, not a good day @ work. I started crying in front of my area manager. My phone was dead, and i wanted a hug, so I sent an email to what i think is your email address. Im fine now, so you can ignore email.

Aug 27th 18:21

Haha i am sorry:) head was the noun i was looking for. guess i need to read my text before I hit send

Aug 27th 18:24

Sorry if you are having a bad day. call me if you need to let some steam off

Aug 27th 18:42

–

Aug 27th 18:44

Oops. Blank text. Thank u 4 the offer but i am fine now. Sometimes sobbing in your cubicle is just what a girl needs

Aug 27th 18:46

Whats worse a blank text or one with no nouns 🙂

August 27th 18:48

Shooting blanks I would say.

August 27th 21:19

Hey, do you wanna go see The Imposter on Thur night at the XX_XX? Its meant to be amazing.

August 27th 21:22

I would watch reruns of the golden girls with you

August 27th 21:24

Stop being so adorable and witty. You will make me like you too much.

August 27th 21:36

Thats what i want 🙂

August 27th 21:41

Stephanie (the German woman you met @ XX_XX) sent me a funny picture she took of you & I that Sunday.

August 27th 21:48

Bet i look drunk and you look cute 🙂

August 27th 21:49

You look drunk. I look OK but uber-serious.

August 27th 22:15

When is your birthday, young RG?

August 27th 22:17

the next time i get to see you or nov10

August 27th 22:18

Ah. Scorpio, the most sexual sign of the zodiac. That explains a lot.

August 27th 22:20

You are a water sign. You will put out my fire. 😦

August 27th 22:23

Aries?

August 27th 22:25

Nope, Sagittarius. Nikolaustag. You should know that since you were born in Germany.

August 27th 22:58

Oh, i read your blog last night btw. The one you had as a college student. It was most illuminating.

August 27th 23:03

Do you mind? I hope not. I found it quite endearing.

August 27th 23:07

Oh, balls. Did i upset you? 😦

August 27th 23:26

Aw. im sorry if i upset you.

August 27th 23:33

Well, i liked your blog. It was funny, endearing, honest and raw. And it was super easy 2 find, so i assumed u didnt mind people reading it.

August 28th 00:58

My phone died. flattered that you looked me up

August 28th 01:19

Want to wrap arms around you