I have something completely different in the works to post very soon but before I can, I just had to get something off my chest…
This post is not really for my readers. This isn’t even for you, even though I am directly talking to you. This is for me. To sort out how I feel and put it somewhere else that isn’t in my head. So… this is the last time I’ll ever write about you. At least, the last time I’ll ever write about you while things stay the same.
The best way I can describe it, is that it’s like having a hangover that never seems to go away. I’ve tried everything. When aspirin and a Gatorade didn’t kick it, I tried pints of ice cream, burying myself in more work, aggressively taking it out on innocent training partners on the mats. You are the least deserving of any man I have met and yet it infuriates me how it is just always going to be you. At least, it seems that way right now. I see your face in all of my major moments but even in the little moments, when I don’t expect to. It’s easy to see someone’s face, the face of someone you can’t let go of when great things happen. Like when I sit on the beach and watch the sun rise, when my career takes a big step forward, when I see a new place that takes my breath away or when I watch your football team win. But the moments that make me mad are moments I shouldn’t be immediately thinking of you. When a guy smiles at me in the coffee shop, I think of you. When someone offers to buy me a drink, I say ‘no thank you’ as if you’d even know or care. And you don’t really care about something a trivial as that, I know. But its’s every little thing, all the time. A couple weeks ago, you called me up late at night, drunk, and the moment I saw your name flash across my phone screen at 4am, my heart leapt. I pretended to be so mad at you for calling me, drunk, because that’s the response you deserved but really I was smiling so much. I know you, I know that when you’re drunk and it’s late, that’s when you feel your most unsteady. Your most vulnerable. And I also know that it’s only in those moments you actually say the things your sober brain would have you hold in. I knew that for you to pick up the phone and reach out to me in that moment meant I had been on your mind for quite some time. So I responded to you, talked you down from your alcohol-fueled buzz and comforted you… to an extent.
I am a smart girl. You can make my heart race every time you call and make it ache over you for the rest of my life… I will just let it. But I’ll never throw up my hands and run to you until my head catches up and wants you just as much. Gone are the days where I fall for the same speech you gave me that night. The one where you beg me to take you back but you’re the one who disappears as soon as we put down the phone. The one where you tell me “she’ll never be you, she doesn’t affect me the way you do” but come tomorrow, you’re still seeing her. The one where you say “I want a life with you. I want you to be my wife and do everything we said” but you can’t even ask me to dinner and tell me to my face. The one where you say over and over “I am so sorry Sara. I am such a dick” only to further enforce that absolute FACT by blocking me when I don’t give into you and let you have your way. God forbid I expect you to have to back it up the next day, given everything you’ve put me through. The one where you inevitably say something stupid to annoy me, I tell you to fuck off and you actually do. One day you won’t. One day you’ll know “I’m done” never means “we’re done.” The one where you think me standing up for myself is “always wanting an argument” because you’ve just never had someone around who doesn’t let you get away with your bullshit. And yet here we are, time and time again because you always find your way back to me. Back to the one who sees you for the man you have shown you are capable of being and not the one you behave like as a complete disservice to yourself. People reading this are pulling at their hair, shouting at their screen “clearly, you need to move on, girl!” Yes, clearly. But evidently, I have not… yet.
You said to me “I wish you could just spend 5 minutes in my head, you’d understand. You’d know how I feel about you.” And I wish I could. I wish I could work out why there is such a disconnect between how you feel about me and what you actually (don’t) do about it. You said “I want you to know you’re so special to me” to which I responded “I know I am, which is why I can’t understand why you keep hurting me.” In the minute or two longer it took you to respond than usual, I knew they were the moments you spent trying to recover from such a blow. Because that was the moment I hit the nail on the head – you couldn’t make sense of why you do either and “I feel like such an asshole” was the best you could muster. I know how important I am to you. I know how much you care about me. I know how badly you want everything we’ve ever talked about and for it to all go the way it should. Why isn’t it translating to reality?
I have begged, pleaded for you to talk to someone. You think the emotional issues you have has to do with one thing (and you’ll know what I’m talking about) but it doesn’t. Its absolutely nothing to do with that. At 26, you still haven’t learned how to let a woman in – all the way in. I know what that’s like, I’m exceptionally guarded too but I let it drop for you. I let you in. But you can’t get away with this teenage-like dating philosophy anymore. Its easy, I’ll just say all the things she wants to hear without being able to handle the responsibility of following through. Or the responsibility of being a man who can fiercely protect the woman they love from anything that could threaten the relationship – because, and it hurts me to say it, you are the threat. We are not together because of you. I cannot be with someone who shows potential, I need someone who fulfils it. The man I fell for and the man you’ve been lately are two different people, it’s maddening. The glimpses of what we could be and what we could have replay over and over in my mind whenever I am with someone else, making those inescapable comparisons to you, but they are not reality. The fantasy you have, that I have, of us, as badly as I want it to be, is not real. So I have to move on, holding onto the hope that you will wake up one day knowing you are worthy and capable of loving someone with all you have to give – and you have so much to give. Or that one day another man will rattle me the way you have and you’ll be nothing more than just ‘someone I knew once.’
I know who you are, George. No more fake name. I know what you want – you’ve told me countless times the life you have envisioned for us, the plans you have. I’m ready now. So please, find a way to work through it all and find your way back to me – for good this time, before the time comes that I have to close the door.