The Four Eleven

Since the beginning of time, artists and musicians and writers and anyone of the creative persuasion have been getting credit for the works that they (we?) produce. In fact, publications and records and entire museums are in existence for the sole purpose of showcasing exactly what we spend our time on, when the truth is that we are being praised for purging that of which eats us from the inside out.

And who.

If you’re not following, consider my Adele Theory. Adele is a pretty talented singer with an album that got a lot of attention in 2011. Funny thing about it though is that it wasn’t her first project, and most people probably don’t even realize it. But to me, it makes total sense. Adele didn’t get lucky, or probably even get more talented. What did happen, though, is she got the shit kicked out of her heart by an ex-boyfriend, and to put it simply: she told us about it.

Now if you’re not convinced that it’s that simple, think about how much her next album sucked. Sure, because it’s Adele and people were still in a trance from the sophomore masterpiece, she had a few hits off of the long-awaited 3rd try. But it was terrible, and even though it was a best seller, it sold 10 million less copies than it’s predecessor.

What changed? She was happy.

Same thing happened with Sam Smith. He had an album in 2008 that no one knew about (myself included), but “In the Lonely Hour” in 2014 was added to the breakup survival kit, right next to a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and drawstring joggers. It is pure heartbreak gold, because he, like Adele, was, in fact, heartbroken. And you know what is more relatable to an audience than just about anything else?

Matters of the heart.

And this is why I write. In fact, it’s why when I’m not especially sad or depressed, I typically don’t post anything that I consider to be of quality, and since I know this, I often just don’t post anything at all. It’s been sort of a backwards passion for me in my life, because I think writing is one of the things I do best, but I often can’t appreciate being content because I miss the inspiration required to grieve all over my keyboard.

But tonight, my friends, you’re in luck. Motivation has reared it’s ugly head, and it is fueled by premium grade-A heartache.

I’ve come to realize that only a narcissist could “come to an epiphany” and believe that he is being “kind” when he shares with you the main truth that you’ve spent years slowly dying inside worrying about: you mean nothing to him. And not because you did anything wrong, but because 20 other women before you did. And when you tried to do everything right, or anything right, being a peach is what kept the guy around so he could tolerate fucking you on a regular basis.

What a trooper for sticking it out (or sticking it in…).

I wish experience didn’t help me learn these lessons, but when you are kept a secret by the person you are in love with, it’s nearly impossible to articulate the kind of damage it does to just about every piece of your life. In my situation, it affected me financially, socially, professionally, and not shockingly, emotionally. But most of all, it messed with me personally. There was almost nothing off-limits for this person to access. Not my money, not my privacy, not my body.

Not my heart.

And I mean I’m not even going to sit here and blame anyone else for that. These are things I wanted to give. After you’re married to someone that doesn’t ignite the passion inside of you, when you find someone who does, you want to hold onto that as tight as you possibly can. And in my case, unfortunately, it was a 6 year grip.

I was called crazy. Too sensitive. Over reactionary. Insecure. All things that I never really felt about myself, but definitely started to believe after hearing that narrative over, and over, and over again. I mean how could you think otherwise? When you make the conscious decision to show someone that you are ready to love them with all that you have, maybe for the first time in your life in a sincere and authentic way, and in turn, they parade women right in front of you that they literally met on the subway, you feel about as gross as the rats watching them swap numbers.

The truth of the matter is that in the years that I had committed myself to this kind of person, I never met one single friend, I was conditioned to never speak about our relationship, and I was never put on display on social media, except for when I was paying him. I was in his phone as a name that I only associated with getting in trouble as a child, and when he started cheating on his girlfriend with me, I probably stopped existing in his phone as anything at all.

I will say though, maybe the most upsetting part of it all (if there was only one thing, but that’s also untrue), is that it just never made sense to me. I understand that men and women behave differently in relationships, and maybe I spent too many of my younger years on a viewing diet of the likes of movies like “When Harry Met Sally” or “She’s all that”, but is it so hard to believe that in the end you get the guy? As an awkward teenager who walked differently and had a chipmunk face full of steroids, one of the only things that gave me solace was the notion that “men and women can’t be friends.” What I didn’t consider was that a guy friend wanting to fuck you isn’t the same thing as a guy friend wanting to love you.

It really is the story of my entire life. After all, I have always been good at being a guy’s friend. From that, I drew the conclusion that maybe I was too visually different for a guy to be physically attracted to me, which is supported by the fact that I am rarely the girl that gets hit on at the grocery store. But after getting to know me, and experiencing my personality, guys start to get it. It’s probably why I think in the history of my romantic and/or sexual experiences, it’s been way more common that I’ve dated/regularly fucked guys who I had a platonic relationship with first. And I don’t mean platonic like stating the obvious fact that “all relationships are platonic before they aren’t”, I just mean I was always the girl who had guy friendships, many of which ended up as more-than-friendships.

So what is it about me that makes guys want to sleep with me, but not actually be proud to be with me for real? How could I have spent 6 years with a guy who lied to me constantly? A guy who shows up to my home wearing his girlfriend’s name on his wrist on the night she’s pushing out his kid? A guy who loved doing all sorts of nasty shit in the bedroom, but I’m certain never once said my name outside of the four walls that watch me as I’m writing this. How did I accept him hitting on all of these other women right in front of my face on social media and treat me like a client while he ate my food and slept in my bed? And how did I allow myself to be degraded when he blocked me from anyone finding out about me (and me, them…), yet continue to act like I owed him a damn thing?

It really is a special kind of pain to love someone that doesn’t love you, and in my honest opinion, isn’t capable of loving at all. Abandonment, mom issues, who knows what else that came before me that set me up to never be what he wanted. But there were a million things that felt like maybe I should have hope. I really gave him the benefit of the doubt that he would wake up and realize that what we have is special and worth pursuing. It may not have worked out, but our years spent holding each other up in the darkest times and speaking our own language in bed deserved a real shot to be more than a “you up?” text at 3am.

I have always waited for that day. In fact, he doesn’t know this (and now I guess he never will), but there were several conversations that started off in a way that made me feel like “OK, this is finally it. This is what I’ve suffered for, this is when he’s going to thank me for putting him first (read: putting myself second), when he’s going to tell me how grateful he is that I stuck it out with him, that I loved him so much that I was willing to go through hell just for this moment… when he could love me back.” And instead our “talks” always went in a direction that broke me even more.

Like the “surprise” pregnancy that amazingly gave enough notice for a baby registry and a blowout shower at a hall, or the way his friends talk about him having 3 children because he’s playing daddy to some other woman’s kid, or the gaslighting he kept feeding to me about how I shouldn’t “make assumptions” but also never telling me a god damn thing about how he was feeling, ever. Or the other story about how he’s “not the same person anymore” and “isn’t capable” of being in a relationship, when he prances around with the poor girl who thinks they have a life together and either doesn’t know he’s got a case of community dick, or worse, doesn’t care.

I just don’t understand how I could try to distance myself, go no contact, and most recently, block the person that has single-handedly made me question every decent thing about myself, and yet, he always comes back. Sometimes manipulatively, acting like I did him wrong, or sometimes, with some fake promises and implications about how I should “read between the lines” about his heart (or at best, where his heart should be). If I have always been “just sex”, why fight to keep me around?

I’m not allowed to as much as have a guy best friend (who apparently is his arch nemesis and more importantly… married), let alone fuck with another guy, but he can sling his dick around like a windmill and ride whatever it catches. He can view my public social media, show up at my door whenever his dick is hard, and read my deepest, darkest thoughts in my blog, and I don’t even know where he lives. It has been the most imbalanced, unfair, abusive relationship I have ever been in, and I have allowed it to happen.

Because I love him. Because despite what he sees or thinks about himself, I think he is one of the most amazing people I have ever come across, and I want him in my life. Not because I can’t take care or myself, but because I’m better when he’s around. And that’s why I always held out hope. I always hoped that him showing back up, holding me when I was sick, fixing shit around my apartment and dealing with me being pretty emotional at times was him telling me, without him even knowing it, that I wasn’t alone. That ultimately, when he was ready, he would let his guard down, or maybe, just maybe, let me behind the wall.

But I think we are far past anything of reason at this point. When someone tells you that you never had a chance to be anything but a hole, and then beams at you with pride, like you should be happy that his honesty destroyed you one final time, it’s pretty safe to say “that’s it.” It just goes against everything I believed about love. Up until now, it was always something I felt. A comfort from someone that told me without telling me that I was at home. It’s something I believed so strongly that it even fueled my courage to divorce. I never would have imagined you could feel that safe with someone, that understood, and for it not to be mutual.

Thinking about all of these things and coping with the fallout will undoubtedly haunt for more time than I have. I’m 35 with no kids, no partner in life, and no clue anymore about how love is supposed to be. I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll meet some guy tomorrow who won’t look at me weird (or at the very least, thinks Bubba is cute…), and makes all of this heartache worth it. Put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it.

Whatever happens though, I know I can be proud of myself because I loved who I was when I was with him. This relationship showed me that I can be patient, and kind, and desired sexually, and affectionate, and thoughtful, and forgiving. It made me realize that even though I was part of the reason my marriage didn’t last, being with someone you respect and value can be the reason you keep trying. I learned that finding someone who is smart, and sexy, who you can have hours of conversation with, and be as happy playing video games with as much as being happy to fool around with (ok, almost as happy ;)), is a rare combination that doesn’t come along often. He didn’t get it, and now he won’t.

-B