Tag: Gratitude

I’ll be the one to catch myself this time

Thank you, Adele. Indeed, I will

Music for the Mood: To Be Loved – Adele

I have realized that I have zero physical attraction to John now; almost disbelief in my repulsion when I see a picture of him. I do not in any way want this man back in my life, I do not desire anything he brought into it, and I cannot understand now even my most basic physical attraction to him. I have none now. It’s gone.

The past couple days I have been amazed by how little I feel for myself. I’m lonely, sure. I don’t like being 42 and lonely. And I am still angry that I have to work through this on my own. But I cannot describe how little feeling I have left toward John. I’m enjoying getting to know new, (seemingly) amazing guys through online dating and through my grad school cohort. I’m skeptical AF about who they really are, but that comes with the betrayal ptsd, right? I’m forcing myself to move anyway.

I think it’s a positive sign that I’m able to look at someone and at least wonder what it will be like to get to know them. I’m weirdly anxious about the physical and I hope that goes away.

My interest in John was always more than sex. I love sex, generally. That has very little to do with John, much to his chagrin, I’m sure. The physical was something I endured and willingly engaged in, and it definitely got better over time. In fact, that was our last in person conversation in September – how good it had gotten. Though he expressed that a man wants to believe that he’s always been good, that isn’t how it works, boo. Anyway, I loved the physical warmth of him most, and I know it will take a while to stop missing that. To stop missing the warmth of his arm around me, or his hand stroking my ass while we talked in bed, or the warmth of his hand holding my breast like he owned me while we fell asleep. I do not miss his snoring. But more than any of the physical, I loved talking with him about life, about how humans interacted, about how we observed the world. We thought the same way about seemingly everything and it felt so good to have another soul to dance with.

But now, knowing what I do about how little he values individual people, individual humans, especially those that pour so fully and unselfishly into him, I cannot. I just cannot make myself feel interested in the thoughts or feelings of someone so inadequate.

The sheer volume of people discovering this site is overwhelming. I hope you are finding something here – a normalizing, validating story. And if you’re just an unfortunate friend or acquaintance of John or Crystal, well, I sure hope you find what you’re looking for too.

I’m all good. Or I will be. Take care of him. Take care of her.

They deserve what they sow. As do you.

Why do I keep writing here? Because I can. Because I know there will still be bad days and sad days. Because it helps me. Writing has always helped me share what I never feel comfortable sharing with the real world. I feel more understood and seen in this community than anywhere.

Why did I create a social media presence and share this blog there, with their friends and family? Because I can. I want to be a real person with feelings to these people I’ve “known,” people I thought I’d one day actually know. Why not? After all … John showed zero compunction over more than THREE YEARS while he knowingly destroyed everything I believed to be true about myself and about him, about them, about us. Why not destroy that for him now? I have no obligation to give any fucks.

And I assure you, I do not.

The good prevails

It’s during times like these that I wonder what my life is about. I work. I come home. I walk, I watch tv, I listen to music, I cook (sometimes), I play mindless games on my phone, or I read. Occasionally I go out with friends. But mostly, I feel like I just exist.

Tonight I got a text from a former student. One of my favorites. I have so many, really. But this one … he has continued to make me proud from nearly the day I met him. He makes me feel grateful.

Grateful to have an impact on the lives of young people. Their success is my success. I receive so much joy from watching them grow and stretch and become who they want to be. If I can play any infinitesimally small part in that growth, I am immeasurably happy. These are the moments I need to hold on to.

Throughout my career in education, people have told me time and again that it is a thankless job. That you rarely, if ever, get to see the seeds you plant grow & thrive. I have never felt that way. I have always felt loved, appreciated, and valued by my kids. I have so many “smile file” memories and moments. At least monthly, even though I haven’t been working in a school in four years.

There have been tragedies and unspeakable things, and always the routine frustrations and bureaucracy of a school and the American education system. But even in the trenches, you have a family. A cadre of educators who are all fighting together for the collective good. Some better than others. But for me? I always felt like I mattered.

Outside of my work, I can scarcely remember a time, maybe with the exception of my parents, when I have felt that same level of value, of importance, of significance. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all do that for each other, in all contexts?

That’s a world I want to live and love in. Where good always prevails.

Mood music: Times Like These – Foo Fighters (acoustic)

The quiet is too loud.

It is seeping in everywhere and I hate the noise, the chaos, the lack of control. Too much time to think. Too many thoughts invading all the spaces where I want to be present.

I can’t do anything but feel. And write about it. There’s no one to talk to. No one who really understands. Sure, my village checks in and asks how I am, and what do I say to that? What else are they supposed to say? “Sorry you got fucked, in more ways than one?” I appreciate it; I just don’t have the capacity to manage their feelings too. I’m having enough of a time deciphering mine, let alone managing them.

I am sad. I miss my friend. I miss the hope and the possibility and the contentment. And the fucking bliss of ignorance. The comfort of trust. The illusion I didn’t know I was living in.

I am angry. I am angry that I fought my baggage to believe in you. And you weren’t ever worthy of believing in. I’m angry that you did this, you consciously did this, from the jump. You talked to me in that bar. You kept it going the morning after. And the weeks after. And then the years after. You forced my hand. I never had a choice. I didn’t have all of the information and I didn’t get to decide if I could handle the fallout. You knew it would come; you created it. You have to own it.

You haven’t and you won’t. I’m left to pick up the pieces. Alone. Again.

One week. Haven’t even attempted to make sure I am okay. That is the hardest pill to swallow; proof that I never mattered.

Not one answer to a single question. Not one attempt to communicate, to help me understand. I’m just going to keep screaming into the void. What else can I do? It’s my fucking prerogative.

You are the offender. It is your responsibility to course correct.

Your premise is false. A one night stand cannot last three plus years. But let’s accept your bullshit premise … it still doesn’t track. You’re delusional. If you really felt it was just a hookup that lasted too long, how do you justify alllllll of the things we talked about, all of the time we spent not fucking, the things we did for and with each other that had nothing at all to do with sex?

Maybe you liked who you were with me. Maybe you liked how you felt about yourself when you were with me. Obviously you liked how you felt inside me, but maybe even more so how we thought about the world, or the things we talked about in those lazy hours after the sex, or what I brought to your world view. It doesn’t really matter which of those is true or if it’s all of them or something else … the point is that it was more than sex.

No matter what you delude yourself into thinking I was to you, there remains one immutable fact. I was not your fiancé. You had someone else that you were BETRAYING from the moment you talked to me in that bar. Yes, you willfully betrayed my trust and I will go to my grave knowing that you knew exactly how I felt and it wasn’t just “a one night stand that lasted years.” But regardless of the semantics of what you did to me, what did you do to her? What the fuck did you do to her and why the fuck did you do it?

I am sad for me. I am enraged for her. You don’t deserve either of us. You never did.

“Too bad you had to have a better half
She’s not really my type
But I think you two are forever
And I hate to say it, but you’re perfect together

So fuck you
And your untouchable face
Fuck you
For existing in the first place”

Mood music: Untouchable Face – Ani DiFranco

Content

I am content. I want to remember that this happened. That it is possible. How rarely can any of us say that? Are there still things I would change or things that rankle? Sure. I want to feel pretty and be skinnier. Who doesn’t? I want my parents and my brother to never grow old and to always be happy & healthy. I want this man to make me more of a priority. But I have him and I like him and he makes me so happy. For most of my life, I longed for this feeling so I’m going to revel in it as long as I can and try to keep pushing away the niggling thoughts leftover from heartaches past. Mostly though, I want the world to make sense, to be fair and equitable and safe. And I want to be proud to be an American again.

But for tonight, for this moment, I feel content. And that feels really nice.

This is 40

I was excited to turn 30. It was, and still is, to date, my best year. I’m not feeling any particular type of way about turning 40.

I have lots of feelings. Obviously. I am who I am, after all.

Introspection has become part of my daily life. It’s how I take care of myself. I walk 45 minutes each way to and from work every day and, although I listen to podcasts, my brain is constantly churning. Sometimes sparked or provoked by the podcasts but often in spite of or at least parallel to. John laughs at me for my overactive mind but he also helps quiet it. He might be the best part of this milestone.

Lately, for the past several weeks, through the unwelcome remnants of unsettling dreams or human apparitions of heartaches past, I keep thinking about exes. Maybe not so much them, as men or as personalities or even individual qualities, but their impact on my life, for better or, more accurately, for worse …… it’s hard not to imagine my 40 years of life within the context of the things that have shaped me the most. And, with the most brutal truth, shaped the absence of roles I thought I would be playing by this point in my life; roles that seemed and still do, to some extent, innate and inevitable. And yet, roles I may never and likely will never get to try on. Having a child of my own, with John, or g/God forbid, someone in the future, seems unlikely at this age. I’m not in a rush or, I guess, I am not in a place where it is feasible. I live in 385 sq ft. My guy still weirdly lives with roommates. I am not moving to the suburbs. Tiptoeing across the threshold of 40, these are the things I regret and yet, I do realize that it’s silly to regret something you really did not have control over. You’re allowed to regret missing out though, right? I don’t know. This isn’t like a trip to Cabo that I chose not to take.

Relationships, for me, have had the single greatest impact on my four decades as a human, particularly the past two, and I don’t know how to really sit with or accept that reality. Although, even as I type that, I know that isn’t really true. The first one in college, the one after college, the one when I moved here from Pittsburgh … they all still hurt. It isn’t hard for me to recognize or admit but I would guess that, to anyone other than me, even those that know me best, this statement would be utterly unbelievable or, at the very least, induce an eye roll or a casual shrug and a hair flip. To me though, looking at past relationships, and even many friendships, is like being stuck in a hall of mirrors at a county fair. Unpack that as you wish.

So, this is 40. Seems a lot like both 20 and 30 in my head and heart. Wonder if 50 will come with a wider lens. And instructions on how to use it properly.