Here I go again on my own

I pray karma is sharpening her claws.

John Clemons can go to hell.

How many times have you heard that when someone shows you who they are, believe them? But what if they say they are something you should avoid (“selfish with their time,” “not looking for something serious right now,” “I know myself and at some point, I’m not going to be ….” committed? happy? I genuinely can’t remember at this point; it was one conversation more than three years ago) but then, for years, they show you a person who is definitely selfish with their time but, for all other intents and purposes, is your person? Your best friend? The person you want to see, talk to, feel, hear, touch, smell, taste, believe in, the very most in the world? They are kind and good and make you feel valued and understood every time you’re in their presence. And you never get tired of them. For a relatively solitary person, that is still hard for me to accept. I loved every minute I spent with him.

Reading back through some of the posts here from the first months that I knew John, and early on in the winter of that first year, I guess I should have cut my losses and moved on then. Do I wish I had? Kind of. Knowing what I know now, of course. But for most of the past three years, three months, and ten days, you couldn’t have told me that he wasn’t the best guy I’d ever dated and one of the best, kindest, most emotionally intelligent men I ever knew. You couldn’t have made me believe it. I still hardly believe it. And yet, I’ve seen the proof.

He’s getting married next month. Less than a month from now. Not to me. To a woman I heard about on occasion, but only knew as one of his two roommates. I found out by accident. I found pictures on my computer, this computer, which he had borrowed for most of coronatine. I was coming here to write about him leaving, suddenly moving to Philly, our future unknown but seemingly over with zero input from me. I needed to get it out and I hadn’t written anything in years, purely because he had my computer. Clearly, I wasn’t going to come here to write on my work laptop; it’s too personal. He returned my Mac to me when I needed it in a pinch about six weeks ago. I hadn’t opened it since that night and, even if I had, I didn’t have any reason to think that I needed to look for something. On Thursday night though, just three days ago, I found pictures in the trash and, at first, I didn’t think anything of them. I never have things in my trash but when I was trying to clean up the desktop from all the junk he’d put on it, I saw jpegs in there. I was curious.

I shouldn’t have looked. But he left them on my laptop and, only the morning before, he had said he was “probably” moving to Philly (allegedly) and what if they were pictures or memories of us? But most were of him with some red head, pretty-ish with make-up (though always with that garish red lipstick) but kind of “handsome” and maybe butchy? That sounds horrible and I don’t mean it that way at all. It was just a first impression but John & I talked about our celebrity hall pass list way back at the start of our relationship and, let’s just say, this woman wasn’t like any of those women. I thought he liked more feminine, classically pretty women. Actually she reminds me of the crazy, crass, Chef Rachel on Below Deck (I don’t know if this other woman is crass or how she speaks; just how she looks). He has a million gay friends, I assumed she was part of that circle. Maybe a roommate? All he’d ever said about his roommates was that “Crystal” was white and Karen was Vietnamese and white. One was a teacher, one has family nearby, one he had been roommates with since college, one has the same birthday as him, and I couldn’t tell you who was which or if all those things were the same one. Or if any of those descriptors are even true. I also thought maybe it was this college friend, “Annie,” who he stayed with every time he went to Chicago for Pride Bowl. A woman he always said reminded him so much of me. Who knows what Annie really is to him at this point. A once-a-year lover, probably.

The point is … I really didn’t think much about those pictures at first. It was just a bunch of pictures of John and this other woman dressed up at (presumably) weddings or events or something. I had lots of +1 events that I took a friend to, though not in the more than three years while I was with John, obviously. I couldn’t tell how old the photos were either. John got some grey hairs while I’ve known him, but he always looks the same. To me.

I didn’t feel alarmed at that point at all — he went to a lot of weddings, he has a lot of acquaintances, and always seemed to be going to some wedding, baby shower, birthday party, etc. Now I recognize those for what they were; excuses. He travels a lot – despite always saying he has no money (I looked up his govt salary today; he wasn’t lying about that) and he must have an unlimited supply of vacation days. Not that he ever used them on me – except when he left work in the middle of the day to drive me to my hotel in Baltimore before I flew to Croatia, 4 days after I met him. That was a nice night. A nice memory. I’m keeping that one. But I digress… At this point I was still reeling at the idea of him up & moving to Philly without so much as considering me, let alone talking to me about it. I was honestly just kind of weepy looking at his smiling face and remembering his laugh.

But then I saw what appeared to be a proposal picture. Clearly him, clearly this frizzy haired red head, in casual clothes, in someone’s kitchen that I’ve never seen, with him down on one knee. The picture was small and fuzzy but, if you zoomed in, maybe he was holding a ring box? Were they cleaning? Laughing? Was it a joke? Some weird inside thing? I couldn’t tell – her arm was blocking his hand from full view and you couldn’t see the expressions on their faces. I remember thinking, that would be John if he were to propose – completely unromantic and without any hoopla. Just like I would want, I thought. He could have given me a ring made of tinfoil and I’d have loved it. Not that I ever needed or even wanted a ring. But it was a passing thought in that moment.

Then I looked at some of the documents in the trash. Or maybe I found them somewhere else? Or maybe they were in the trash but I didn’t look at them until I found more disturbing things elsewhere? I don’t know anymore. It’s all a muddled blur.

The point is, these things were on my computer, under my login, and he was moving to Philly. That’s what he had said via text the morning before. Out of the fucking BLUE. After more than three years with me? No discussion? Just a “yeah, I think so” when I asked? He’d allegedly been there for weeks but I only jokingly asked if he was moving there when he said, Wednesday morning, that he was realizing how much he missed being near family. What if I had never asked? How long would I have been left in the dark about all the rest that he wasn’t saying?

I was desperate to understand, to make it make sense. After I found more than just pictures, of course I logged in to my computer as him because of course I know his password. We’d shared enough of them with each other. I’ll miss his (her?) Disney+ but that’s the least of the casualties.

The nightmare, as I found it:

  • All I found under his login on my computer were some other pictures of this woman sprinkled within his iPhoto library – from races, from what appeared to be maybe his family?, some had location tags in Philly anyway with people who look like John (seriously, Charmene could be his twin), others were in places I remember he traveled, and many from flag football tournaments that I had no idea guests could go to — I often wondered if I could go to cheer him on, especially sunny places! I followed his tournaments online and we texted back and forth throughout them but, had I known I could go, I would have. Clearly, I now know why he never suggested it. So many things have a different meaning now, but only now that the light has gotten in through the cracks. I also found pictures of trips he went on with his friends where that woman didn’t appear so it was somewhat comforting to know he wasn’t lying about the places and times he said he was out of town with friends. Though clearly there were also plenty of times when he didn’t tell me his “roommate” was with him.
  • A discarded “destination wedding” contract for a place in Mexico in April 2020 — a month after the pandemic shut everything down. I remember him saying he had to cancel a trip to Mexico with friends when we were still wondering week-to-week how long the pandemic would last. But, obviously, I never dreamed it was for HIS WEDDING!? Christ, I had been with him for nearly two YEARS at that point! And even three nights ago when I first saw this document, I was still thinking, maybe he & Crystal were pretending to be a couple to get a cheap package for their friends or a suite upgrade or something? I mean, that sounds like John too — cheap and looking for a deal, an angle to exploit. I pretended to be engaged to my friend in college so we could take this Song of Solomon class with an amazing professor that only engaged couples could enroll in. I’m just saying, it wasn’t that implausible. And in a sick twist of irony, that friend was my roommate for years! But actually my roommate and only that. Like NORMAL roommates.

All of the things in the trash were dated Sept. 21 which must have been 2020 because he brought the computer back to me when I needed it for work on Sept. 13, 2021. I hadn’t used it since that I remember and I haven’t actually seen him since (him allegedly being in Philly the past month and all), so I have no idea. Maybe I deleted all these things while I was bored during my live event that night he returned it, just mindlessly deleting stuff from my usually clean & uncluttered places without looking at them? That seems implausible given all I know now but I had no reason to be suspicious or care what he’d been doing on my computer six weeks ago. And why would I have deleted any of John’s things? They weren’t mine.

But it does seem like me to delete the clutter — which is how all of this shit started! Or could it be that in iCloud, there’s a remote desktop or something that would mirror what he did on his on computer since he returned mine? Still, all of this was under my login, not John’s. I barely used this laptop before John borrowed it and I don’t really know the Mac world. It’s honestly just one more seemingly small detail that doesn’t add up or make sense right now. Probably never will.

  • But the world really went black and my heart started cracking open when I saw a “notes” document in his work files. I went to delete Microsoft from my Mac, again under my login — the license or whatever he had from his work had expired — but I didn’t want to delete anything important so he could get them later if he needed them. I started putting everything on a thumb drive for him (it’s like I’m in some fucking AI-cyber crime movie where all the incriminating evidence is on a tiny stick and someone’s going to hunt me down to get it; good luck, asshole). I mean, at this point on Thursday night, I still thought that he was “just” moving to Philly to help out his sister, Evan, and be closer to family. Abrupt and perplexing and profoundly hurtful, but he’d been telling me he had been going up there to help out, three times in August, more in September, and then just staying there and teleworking full time this past month. I didn’t have a reason to question it. Why would I?? He seemed worried about his sister and family is the most important thing in the world to me; I got it. And he was communicating with me as often as always. Only the weekend before, he was texting me, saying he was heading to my place because he missed me. I presumed he was drunk and clearly not driving from Philly but the point is that everything seemed fine, just from hours away instead of across the river. But I was still gob smacked to learn on Wednesday morning that he was probably moving to Philly in the immediate future without even talking to me about it first. He was a huge part of my life for more than three years, how was I not even a consideration in uprooting his? Said he had started talking to the “family” therapist about how the move would affect relationships down here. That “family” therapist was probably a fucking pre-marital counselor. Now I realize he probably wouldn’t have fed me any of that bullshit if I hadn’t asked.
  • These “notes” though were in OneNote, which I don’t use and don’t really understand. Most everything saved there looked like work stuff from the titles so I was just saving it all to the thumb drive for him. Return it when I eventually saw him again? Ha! But there was one “note” from a meeting or final prep session for a wedding. “One-month-out” it said in the title, dated Oct. 23, 2021. Last Saturday??? What?? How? That’s beyond weird. Weeks after he returned the computer to me? Five days before I found it? Tons of details and questions and things that referred to “Crystal” and getting an extra room to get ready in? Crystal — like, his roommate, Crystal? Why does he have notes about her wedding, period? Was he helping plan it? Weird, even for John. Maybe she is the woman marrying his sister? But why is this on my computer? Was this Crystal person using my computer? How and why?? Oh, wait — this must be a cloud-based app, it stores things live … he didn’t type or save this document on my computer at all. He did it, or she did it, and it just synced with his work’s Microsoft app installed on my computer. Panic set in then, and it was legitimately hard to take full breaths. It’s hard to breathe even now as I write this. The pictures in the trash didn’t seem so easy to brush off. Then I started looking at other documents.
  • A contract for the rental of the ceremony and reception venue at a golf club in Virginia. With Crystal’s name and John’s. My John. Their address. Crystal Zancig? Her fucking credit card number, complete with expiration date, her signature, and even the CVV. What the actual fuck?
  • The wedding is on Thanksgiving weekend — who the fuck gets married on a holiday weekend? That is so gauche! And profoundly selfish. NO ONE wants to spend their long weekend at a wedding, not even family. I know this from experience. The holiday travel costs for out-of-town guests alone! But again, given what I know now, that selfishness goes much deeper than I ever knew.
  • And there was a whole spreadsheet of the wedding guest list with names, addresses, emails. Two actually. One was probably for the Mexico wedding because his mom’s name was still on it, g/God rest her soul. SO many names I recognized from more than three years of living my life thinking I was in a real relationship with this man. All of his friends, his family, the “other” roommate, the handsome red head’s family. I’ve Googled most of them, trying to find any social media, anything to prove that I wasn’t blind for as long as it seems. And I caught another lie through that spreadsheet – he can’t be moving to “Philly” to live with his gay sister like he texted Friday morning. He/they *might* be moving but Charmene lives in NJ according to this spreadsheet, which I knew (or thought I knew), but she’s over an hour from the other sister — the one he’s been claiming was put on an involuntary hold in the psych ward, who is still struggling, whose husband is allegedly useless, and whose daughters John has allegedly been driving up there to help. He might as well drive from DC if he’s driving from Jersey. I also can’t imagine they are both moving. She’s a teacher. If she’s any kind of teacher, she wouldn’t leave in the middle of a school year. Especially as a special education teacher. Or maybe selfish people just glom onto each other? Christ on a cracker, what, if ANY, of what he’s been telling me the past several weeks is even true?? The past three years???
  • It seems more likely that maybe everything was true except this whole ridiculous Philly Saga as of late. Oh, and of course the part about not only fucking but being engaged to his “roommate.” It seems he wasn’t smart enough or pathological enough to actually invent a different life. He just lived the one life, with two women who loved him (maybe more?). How long have they even been engaged?? When did they meet???

It all makes me want to drink until I cannot think anymore, and maybe then I could actually sleep.


Why in the hell did he leave this stuff on my computer, under my login, especially when he had created his own? One of my friends, who thought he was such a great guy and regularly reminded me of how lucky I was to be so content, asked if I thought he did it intentionally. I don’t. I think he just fucked up. For two reasons. 1-he returned my computer that night in September less than 30 mins from the time I called. He said he had to swing by his place to get it and bring it to me before practice at the Mall. Allegedly, I guess. But, assuming that was true, or even if it wasn’t, there wasn’t time to think about wiping it, and why would he? Everything was still “Peaches” then. I’m going to miss that nickname, btw. I loved it, corny as it was. Sure, it started from all those thirsty and graphic texts he sent in those first weeks we knew each other, but it became kind of sweet. I had panties that matched socks I got him with peaches on them! She should burn those. And I digress, again. 2- there is SO much personal and sensitive information. I could destroy their lives. I considered using her credit card to mail them a really nice, engraved wedding gift and sign it “Peaches,” let him explain that to her. Force him to tell her the truth. But that would be credit card fraud. And he’d probably lie about it anyway. I considered emailing pictures of his dick or at least our more graphic texts to their entire wedding guest list. I still could I guess. But I’m not that person either. I could just show up at the wedding and object – but what would be the point of that? I don’t want his trifling ass. I’ve thought about reaching out to a sister because, honestly, if some man (or woman) had been this deceitful and duplicitous to one of his sisters, he and his brothers would be enraged. Goo and Courtney would very possibly murder him; if they aren’t incarcerated at the moment. I could never really follow their paths. His mom must be rolling over in her grave. Then again, I only knew his family through the stories he told me of them. The lens through which he wanted me to see them. Maybe they’re all like him? How would I know?? I cannot fathom how everything he shared with me could have been false. It hurts too goddamned much.

I did email this Crystal woman all the texts with John from Wednesday morning when he abruptly told me he was moving, all the ones from Thursday evening when I found out, and through Friday morning when I tried to get him to come clean, but he didn’t, like a fucking coward. I wanted him to admit it so badly. I tried to ask questions to point out the implausibility of all the details he had told me about this “move” to Philly. Wanted to give him an opening to answer honestly. He should have remembered I wasn’t stupid. He always joked with me about how much I overthink and complimented me on my intelligence. We actually used to do logic puzzles together; I bought him a whole daily Mensa calendar of them one year for Christmas. Bizarre he wouldn’t consider that when he was working so hard to keep his final lie from unravelling. Except I don’t think he realized it was his final one.

He should have just come clean. Via text, even! That’s what cowards and fuck boys do, right? I think I know why he couldn’t ever tell me in person – it’s likely that he actually cared about me in some fucked up way. It’s even more likely that he knew it would hurt me, that it would eviscerate me, and he didn’t want to have to deal with my hurt or take responsibility for causing it. Or he just didn’t want to lose access to his peach. So he didn’t. Probably didn’t ever plan to. Clearly didn’t intend to right away, anyway. That’s exactly what his pitiful, lying, cheating ass asked before I told him that I knew. What was his end game? How did he think this would play out? I’d guess that he didn’t even know. Certainly wouldn’t tell me (or her) if he did.

But I NEVER knew that side of John, that cowardly part. I never saw it coming. He was never anything but brave and bold and shockingly open and in touch with his thoughts and emotions. Ultimately, I had to let him know that I knew. He blew my ever-loving mind on Friday by asking if we could still “use each other for sex” from time to time after he moves. Still “talk about life.” What?? Did he really believe it was just sex? After more than three YEARS? Did he honestly think we could keep having all these deep talks, what? … over the phone from Philly instead of in my town, my house, my bed? After he is married to this woman who probably has/had no idea that I existed? This poor woman that he was presumably sleeping with, while fucking me at least weekly, always without a condom — because — why would we use protection?? I never dreamed I wasn’t the only person he was with. He talked often about how he hadn’t had sex in however long since we saw each other last. When I’d go to my folks’ for a few weeks during Covid to escape my tiny home, he’d be practically rabid when I got back. I never dreamed he was actually, let alone regularly, sleeping with another woman. We talked about my annual STD test, and my pain in the ass IUD, and he definitely knew I wasn’t sleeping with other people. (Ironically, I declined that test this summer in my annual — seemed silly since I was in a monogamous relationship… It’s okay to eye roll). And he was so “busy.” So much golf. So much practice. So many trips. So many “my buddy is having a …” <<insert random reason for a party I was never invited to here>>. How could he juggle two people? Were there others??

It disgusts me so much, I want to throw up in my mouth.

And there are reminders of me in his daily life, just like he’s in mine. I’ll probably never eat Sweetgreen again or Ted’s Bulletin, never, ever go to a driving range, never buy candy or that gross iced tea/lemonade shit that I kept in my house for him. I’ll continue to hate Tom Brady but now also the Bucs. And what about the dumb little things I’ve given him, and the big things? Sunglasses, golf tees that modeled our favorite sex position, covid masks, a vaccine card holder, electric toothbrush, those effing 🍑 socks! He still has the fucking parking pass for the back alley of my place. I baked him cookies and often sent him to work with leftovers — where did he hide that shit from her or how did he explain it away? And where did she think he got this MacBook from for the past year and a half anyway??

But he also bought Bose headphones just like mine. He bought Brooklinen sheets just like mine. It absolutely sickens me to think he’s been sleeping with her in my sheets, a replica of my bed? Honestly, how fucked up is that??? I didn’t buy him those sheets, but I bought him several nice things. He blindly accepted them, seemed grateful, always complained about not making much money despite blowing it constantly on golf and trips. I have far more than I need, I love taking care of people, cooking for them, doing things for them, whatever, and (I thought jokingly) he would send me links to buy him things like golf clubs or a caddy or even dumb little things that I always saved in a “John ideas” file on my phone for future birthdays and such. We even had an emoji key for what was a long term wish and what was a more immediate want (genie and lungs, respectively). I gave him a TRX system like mine so he could workout during coronatine while the gyms were closed. What did he tell her when he installed that in the basement? I saw pictures. I know it was hanging from an I-hook in his ceiling. And I got him these effing golf balls from Germany that I thought were “special” because he had showed me this whole website and video about them one day and how they compared to basic bitch balls, and because they cost so damned much, in shipping alone … only to find out he already had dozens of them. But I didn’t mind because he liked them and that made me happy. He would always ask me to check the stock at Dick’s when I’d go back to my hometown and I even FaceTimed with him there over Christmas last year trying to find exactly what he wanted. It nauseates me now, though I remember loving that day at the time. It felt so normal and good. I love normal and good. I love comfortable. We were always comfortable.

Over the summer, I was beyond excited to give him these old Nike golf shoes that I thought were objectively hideous, but that he wanted from eBay. He had given me a pair of Yeezy’s at one point last year that he said were too small for him and he didn’t have the receipt. (Why didn’t he give those to her? From pictures, it looks like she’s bigger than him so, maybe that’s it?) They were too big for me but SO comfortable … but those ugly ass shoes went in the trash this weekend, along with all the framed pictures of him, the peach panties, things he’d gotten me, and anything at all that reminded me of him. Except this Mac…I’m not that wealthy or stupid. But since 98% of our “relationship” happened in my 385 sq ft condo, there isn’t anything that doesn’t remind me of him. I hate him for that. He’s ruined the sanctity and safety of my home. He took that from me. He took three years of my life. Three YEARS when I could have been with someone who actually deserved me. Who wanted to be with me. Who wanted to sleep with just me. Who was worthy of my care and concern. Who might have made me a mom; the only thing I have ever wanted to be in this fucking joke of a life.

I had these dumb golf shoes hiding in my bedroom for months before I finally caved and gave them to him a month early for his 40th birthday this summer. I was so excited to see his face! Now I wonder if he even fucking cared. And where he told her those came from. Surely she’d be pissed that he spent that much on more golf shoes when they were planning a wedding, right? And… I just remembered… I also donate $50 a month to the Equal Justice Initiative in his name, have been doing it for well over a year! It was part of his birthday gift last summer. I keep forgetting that we went through all of that together. That last summer, he and I spent TWO DAYS of work time drafting a letter to his well-meaning but decidedly dense colleagues who all wanted to tell him, the token black man, about their little black childhood friend or the ways they’ve witnessed racism. What I can’t figure out is — his fiancé is a special ed. teacher. Who is better equipped to help him craft a letter about sensitivity, equity, and appropriate ally-ship? Why ask me?? Whatever. I mean, I’m not going to stop the donations because Bryan Stevenson is a g/God damned national treasure and personal hero but, c’mon, receiving that statement with “In Honor of John Clemons” on it every month is no longer going to make me smile. It is going to just pick off whatever scab has a chance of forming between now and the 29th of next month. I already got the one for this month. This weekend. That felt amazing, as you can imagine. I need to see if I can at least take the name off.

Jesus. The layers of this. I can’t even begin to get a handle on it.

I was never anything but kind and generous with my heart to that man. Does he think I deserved this? Did he all along? Did he think about that every time he kissed me goodbye and left my house to go “home” to her? I never had a choice about being the other woman. I never knew. He obviously knew I wouldn’t stand for it. He knew my fucking heart. The intentionality of his deception … for YEARS … is truly beyond my comprehension. I can’t. I honestly cannot comprehend it.


Anyway, I emailed her. This Crystal Zancig. On Friday morning. Right after I deleted him and all of his stuff from my computer (after sending all of it to a couple people I trust, just in case something happens to me) and changed all my passwords and re-hid my spare key. I created a bogus Gmail in John’s name and sent a message introducing myself, with all the texts and a couple of pictures of him in my home to her at work. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I don’t regret it. I hated sending it to her at work but she’s basically a ghost online aside from some grainy race day pictures, and I have no other contact info except their physical mailing address. It might have gone to her spam box, especially with all of those attached pictures (it would at my work), and that worries me. But I told myself I would send that shit and, whether she got it or not, I would let it go.

I don’t want her to hurt. I know that hurt. I don’t want her to know – just like I wish I didn’t know. Wish I could rewind to Tuesday. Wish none of it had ever happened. Definitely wish she didn’t exist; or that she was just his roommate. I have to assume she was as unaware of me as I was of her. I choose to believe that. Did he ever wish he had met me first? Does he still?

I have never been “the other woman” before. I have been cheated on though. My first real relationship. My first sexual relationship. When I was 24, practically still a child. And I wish the other woman had the decency and the balls to tell me. She knew about me all along. And she was engaged to him five months later. If John was trying to break me, he should have gotten to me in 2003. Right now, in this moment, that still kind of feels like it happened yesterday— not 18 years ago.

Women have to look out for each other. I have to be okay with this Crystal hating me. I’m just as innocent as she is but I know that feeling. You need someone to blame, someone other than the person you love/d so hard. I have to be okay with being the bad guy for her.

If she knows that he cheated on her regularly for over three years, with the same woman, and still marries him, that’s on her. I know how my dad cried for me today when I told my parents through sobs and breaths I could barely choke out. I keep thinking that her mom and dad would cry too. I have their emails and their home address in the guest list John left on my computer, like a fucking moron. But I can’t be the one to do that. She has to. Before the wedding that I’m sure they are paying for. More appropriately, John should. He wouldn’t even tell me; he certainly won’t tell them. And unless she got my email on Friday, I sincerely doubt he will even tell her of his own volition.

Why would he? He’s probably been lying to her since before he met me. I have to assume he met her first, though I guess I don’t know. The night he met me at that bar in Arlington, another woman was there, a mutual friend of friends, that he had made out with during the Caps’ Stanley Cup run. So, what, just a few months before I met him that July? Who knows how many others there were before. During. There will definitely be more after. That’s not even a question at this point.

I also can’t help but think about the sliding door of what if she was just his roommate? Or didn’t exist? What would our relationship have been like? Would I have seen him more often or would all those events and trips and other priorities still win out? Would it have been amazing? Or would he have just done it to me? How many women has he done this to? I remember SO early on he told me about this chick from the gym that he kissed at her house soon after we met, but that she turned him down. He used it as an anecdote in a “Me Too” convo we were having. And he mentioned something about a co-worker trying to set him up with someone and wanting to see where it goes but, again, that was so early on. I didn’t love that he was still talking to or seeking out other options, but I was too. I slept with someone else in October of that first year we met. He was a fucking 11 and he was into me; it was flattering and I felt like I had to (for the sake of women everywhere). I am sure John had and still has no idea. It only confirmed for me though that I wanted what John was giving; more than just sex. That was also before I was even sure if I was attracted to John. I bet he never knew that I spent the first several months wondering if he’d grow on me. Bizarre to think about now. Especially because right now, all I can think about are the times we’d be sitting on the couch or lying in bed and I would actively be questioning whether I was even attracted to him physically or if it was because he was nice to me and made me feel like part of a whole, or if I just didn’t want to go back into the dating cesspool? The bar seems far too low now.

And I feel sick and stupid again.


As I read through that list of horrible finds now, I can clearly see how it might appear to someone who didn’t live the past three years loving this man and believing that he cared about me too. It looks like I was an idiot. Maybe I was. I am embarrassed and ashamed and wondering what my two friends and my mom and dad and brother are saying to each other about it behind my back. It is nearly crippling to think about. They are the only ones I have and probably will ever tell about this, beyond the anonymous internet here.

I know how it looks. Sure, we never said I love you. I’ve been hurt too deeply twice before, and I was hell bent on not saying it first. I have never said it to a man actually. And, sure, he wasn’t around all that much and rarely made time when I initiated, whether it was just me or with my friends. That didn’t make me feel like a priority, but I wasn’t trying to be all demanding and needy. And mostly, I liked what we had just the way it was. I was happy. Genuinely.

Only as recently as this summer did I realize that I loved him. I still love him. And I loathe him. I can’t believe I didn’t really know him. I truly cannot believe it. I don’t want to believe it. That he wasn’t the kind and good and thoughtful man I knew. Did I wish we saw each other more often? Of course. An average of weekly, less in the winter. It wasn’t ideal but it worked for us, for me. That was a constant feeling for me to wrestle with after those early days when he was insatiable. I’d go back to those first weeks in a heart beat, if I could Eternal-Sunshine-of-the-Spotless-Mind these last days of utter hell.

I wanted more but never needed more.

I’d have loved to spend more days with John. The John Clemons I knew? Of course. But most times, no, if I’m being honest. I’ve been on my own a long time, I love my space. I like the quiet and the solitude. I thought John did too; that’s what he said. Despite his relative comfort with his many social sports (football, basketball, golf), he always talked about being like me in that way, and in lots of others, like having SAD in the winter and needing to just kind of hibernate. And needing to recharge after being social. I wanted to weather it together sometimes, but mostly I wanted to be alone during the sads. I just kind of liked that we lived separate lives but were (seemingly) so good together, every single time we were together. Now I don’t know how much of any of that was bullshit — though I can’t imagine someone lying about depression. In fairness though, I also can’t imagine someone with a modicum of compassion lying about having a fiancé or lying to someone who gave so much of themselves to him for years. How did he live two lives with no feelings?

John had met some of my friends, and my brother. I would have liked him to know my parents, though I wasn’t comfortable doing that until very recently. They knew he existed, but I never referred to him any differently than other people/friends. And not because I was ashamed of him or didn’t think they’d like him; quite the opposite. I know how much they want me to find someone and I worried they’d like him too much. They’ve only met three people I’ve ever dated, all nearly 20 years ago or more, and I’m not aching to recreate that mess if things don’t work out. My parents visited me this past weekend and my dad picked up a framed picture of John and said, “Oh, is this Mr. John? He’s cute.” It kills me now to think about how entertained I was thinking about what John would say when I told him my dad said he was cute. But I never got the chance. And I would have liked to have known his friends and his roommates, but now I know why our schedules never aligned. Why he couldn’t invite me to the joint birthday events he would have for him and his “roommate,” or Stu, with the same birthdays. And that really aches.

The light coming through the cracks is blinding.

Were there red flags? Honestly? No. Not with the John he showed me. Should there have been? Honestly? I’m not sure. When I read back through posts here from winter of 2018, the last time I had anything even remotely worrisome to say about him, it makes me think I tried too hard not to paint him with the brush of the past. That I should have been more cynical and less trusting and less open. But I’d have missed the dance.

I’ve done nothing but overthink this for three interminably long days now. I’ve thought about every moment and memory. To look for holes. I joked with him several times about how he could have a wife and kids and I’d have no idea! I know I asked it more than once. I know he laughed it off. But even if he had said “no, I don’t have a wife,” it wouldn’t have technically been a lie. And I wouldn’t have questioned it. I asked him about living with females; something he said he’d just always done since college. I lived with guy friends right after college (but honestly, having roommates beyond 30 is sad and bizarre). I asked if they had family dinner together; they did sometimes but he said he mostly stuck to his basement bedroom. He complained about them being neurotic during early covid. One of them routinely Chloroxed the dishes, he said. He also said they’d have had a fit if they knew he was seeing me — though, obviously for more than one reason. When did they even get engaged? Was it after he met me on July 21, 2018?

I never went to his house which, after this long, was kind of weird but, in fairness, I told him from the morning after we met, when he asked for my number, that I was never going to Arlington. I meant it. I’ve been “across the river” to visit friends in Alexandria or Arlington less than 10 times in the entire time I’ve known him. He met me out over there sometimes. He held my hand and kissed me in public which seems reckless and foolish now. Other than that though, he always came to me. He was always in the city for practice or to hang with Seyni (before he moved) or the gays. Always said he didn’t mind and it was an easy drive. It was nice for me! I felt spoiled. So, yeah, it’s weird thinking about it now but, when you’re in it, you just kind of wake up one day and three years have gone by and you never really cared to go to a dude’s place that has roommates. A 40-year old dude with roommates is weird. With Covid, I’ve barely gone to anyone’s house for nearly two years now so, yeah, in hindsight I hate that I never asked to go there. In reality though, why would I?

Once or twice, I asked if he was embarrassed of me that I wasn’t more a part of his life. Covid or not, it was odd that I never met any of the friends I knew so much about. I asked this pretty recently actually, maybe even the last time I saw him in September. He would always say some version of “Nah, Peach” and whatever he’d say would make me feel ridiculous for even considering it. In the very early days, he saved my number as “Stu.0” because his friend Stu was also from Pittsburgh and he said he only remembered that part about me that first morning, so he saved me in his phone that way. And he thought it was funny so he kept it. I thought it was funny too! I said it was shady when I was still Stu.0 after some weeks, but that was SO early on — I honestly assumed he changed it. And again, I realize only now that I never knew if he did or not. Knowing what I know now, sure, I see why he would have wanted me to appear on his phone as one of his guy friends. Fuck me sideways. How could I have known then? I’ve used John’s phone many times before. He’s showed me text chains and group chats and, christ, I even played fantasy football and march madness brackets with several of these guys, Stu included! I don’t know who they thought I was. Or who John said I was. You should see the profile picture I used in those leagues — it was John’s bitmoji leaning against a giant peach. An image he had sent me, of course. How did no one ask him about that? Did they all know?

Why did I try so hard to overpower the old hurt from assholes past? Turns out, I just found another one and willfully chose to believe he was who he showed himself to be. Because I didn’t want to be that girl with baggage. That woman who lets doubt get in the way of something better. Sometimes people can show you who they are, and you shouldn’t believe them. No one tells you that. Everyone tells you not to be cynical, not to put old hurt on new people, all that. What IS the answer? You get screwed either way. Too trusting? Screwed. Too skeptical? You’ve got baggage. Too curious? You’re demanding. Speak up for yourself? Too clingy. Too accepting? Too caring? Too honest? Too sweet? You get taken advantage of. He took advantage of the best qualities in me, the parts of me of which I am most proud.

I honestly think I did my best to find the holes as they happened, but also give him the grace to be who he was, and not condemn him because of the demons of my past. My friends certainly did. My brother definitely did. These people in my life who had been through the last one, nearly a decade ago, would thoughtfully ask probing questions, to make sure I was sure. They were also the ones reassuring me though that this one wasn’t like the last one. That he was evil; John was not him.

One of my friends asked me if John knew about the legit sociopath I dated back in 2012 or 2013? I mentioned him but don’t think I told John the sordid details. Not enough to use against me. As open as I was with John about almost everything, I learned the hard way to keep some things close to the vest with that other animal. To keep my guard up. To wait until I was sure before I let someone too far in. The monster taught me that. For nine months, I had no idea this guy was not only seeing another woman but after reaching out to her on Facebook after she tagged him in several pictures over a few weeks and after some things he said and did weren’t adding up, I found out from her that she caught him responding to and posting ads on Craigslist for sex and drugs. He was nasty. And not in a good way. This other woman was going into his apartment once as a young girl was coming out and it was clear that they had just had sex. I got the first STD test of my life, at age 31 or 32, the very next day after she told me. When I reached out to her on Facebook, she took it as proof of what she suspected herself and confronted him rather than responding to me first. He started texting me horrible, horrible, abjectly terrifying things. He was a big man, 6’5″, and he owned guns. He was so charming. So cunning. An attorney at a fancy law firm in DC. He knew everything about me, all my insecurities; he had pathologically asked about them over time, and then used it all against me with zero compunction or compassion or remorse. He seemed to have some deep-seated vendetta against white women. There was this creepy artwork in his penthouse apartment that he would never explain. He told some weird stories about his father doing duplicitous things to white women, just because he could. He sounded proud or at least entertained. I was terrified of him in the end. I called the police and filed a report. They came to my house and took a statement, read my texts (just the ones I hadn’t deleted before I realized just how unhinged he was), told me there were no specific threats in those texts and it seemed like I instigated it by uncovering his infidelity. They acted like I was just a jilted lover and said I could file a restraining order but told me that he could too — as if he should be scared of me?? It felt like I was being scolded for being a victim. It was before #MeToo so maybe that was still normal; still, bizarre and profoundly damaging. I have no idea who he was or if anything he told me was true. His name and profession were real, but I don’t know what else. I still find myself looking over my shoulder when I’m in his old neighborhood, and he moved to Boston years ago. I check online at least once a year, just to make sure he’s still there. It was years before I dated again.

And again, if John’s goal was to destroy me, he should’ve gotten to me before that one too. How many narcissists can one woman fall for?

I never told John all of those details. Why would I? But the morning after we hooked up in July 2018, I know I told him how I had just paid >$4K for a matchmaker that was a complete waste of nearly half my savings at the time and utterly demoralizing. I felt silly telling this to a stranger and someone I had just woken up with after taking him home from a bar, but it was always too easy to talk to John. I joked about wishing I had that money back for my mortgage. I told him I was tired of online dating, tired of looking, but mostly tired of guys who only wanted sex. That I didn’t understand that mindset at this age. I told him I’d just ended an eight-year “situationship” with a retired NFL player and while I knew exactly what it was, and what it wasn’t, I still had hoped that maybe it would eventually turn into something more serious. He was almost ten years older than me, gorgeous, grossly wealthy, and wanted to retire by 45. He bought himself an Aston Martin at 42; he was definitely on track (I couldn’t give one shit, let alone two, about money but that car was incredible). I figured he’d slow down and settle down. That chapter finally ended two months before I met John. Ironically, I met John on D’s birthday, and that was the last time I talked to D beyond texting him on his birthday in July every year.

At that point, D had been part of my life, for better or worse, for nearly 1/4 of my life! He was good for that time in my life when my job was my entire existence and I had no room to focus on the life part. Sure, now I wish I’d had a better work-“life” balance all along but I don’t regret the time I spent with D either. He was the reason I opened up sexually (which John really should thank him for) but he never kissed me on the lips, only the forehead or the cheek. He was drawing a line; a line I agreed with. We both saw other people and if I started seeing someone I wanted to sleep with, I stopped sleeping with him. But, other than nine months with the monster, other flings never lasted long. In fact, I can only remember two others in those entire 8 years and they were nothing. I stayed at Ds house often, if only to chill in his jacuzzi tub and read books while he worked. We cooked (well, I cooked, he’d occasionally dump some frozen bag meal in a pan), we watched college ball nearly every weekend, and I’d leave Sunday morning so I could be back to watch the Steelers with my dad over the phone. We had a nice, casual routine. D was the first one I called when I was scared shitless of the psycho. I trusted him. He was a protector and a good man. He made me grow and stretch in cerebral ways too. He didn’t have a lot of close friends because he said it is hard to trust people’s intentions when you have wealth and a modicum of fame, but he trusted me. He confided in me and pushed my buttons and turned me on with his curiosity about the world. Just like John. And also just like John, we had amazing conversations. That’s already what I miss most about John. It’s been three days and I have had about a dozen things I’ve wanted to tell him or pictures or moments I’ve wanted to share with him or hot button things I want his opinion on.

I miss my friend – so much – and then I remember this nightmare, and I feel the bile rise up.

But I know John had feelings. I have seen the man cry. When we would talk about his mom, look at pictures, his memories from childhood, there were tears. Real emotion. Compassion. He wasn’t a monster. At least, not to everyone. Maybe just to me? And her?

The other morning, moments after he said he was moving to Philly and had “been slowly moving things up to my sister’s,” he asked, “Are we gonna still talk life once we no longer bumpin uglies?? Has been on my mind too…” It was abrupt and shocking. Like this was a joke, or something inconsequential, rather than a major change in both our lives. I was taken aback. I couldn’t process fast enough. I should have asked then, point blank, have I been just a fuck buddy to you all this time? That’s what I should have done. That’s my one regret right now. (I’m sure more will come) But would even that have been the question to get him to come clean, before I experienced the full horror of discovering it myself in the midst of misplaced heartbreak the next night? I wish I hadn’t — of course because of the shock and the sadness and the betrayal — but also because of all the details I am now armed with. He left all this ammo in the chamber.

I feel vengeful and contemptuous sometimes and I just want to light that fuse and watch the destruction.

I vacillate between unbelievable and crushing sadness, nearly ever-present nausea, and then sometimes, when I am working, kind of just a fugue state where I don’t feel anything and I’m not thinking about it and it doesn’t seem real when I do. And then another wave of nausea rolls in. I have no idea now if John ever cared about me. Deep down, I believe he did. I think he genuinely probably got in too deep, didn’t want it to end, didn’t know how to get out, didn’t want to, or “didn’t know how to end a one night stand that lasted years,” like he said via text on Friday morning. But he had so many opportunities to come clean or to let me figure it out over the past three YEARS. Years. Let that sink in. Years he let me believe this.

There was no way he thought our situation was just sex. At first, sure. All relationships are casual at first. The YEARS since then were not casual, not for me, and not for him. He can claim whatever he wants now to assuage his fucking guilt but he knew. There was some level of intentional deception the entire time. He knew he was being dishonest. He knew he wasn’t giving what he was taking. He knew it would hurt me when I found out, however I found out. That is the hardest part for me to fathom. I cannot wrap my brain around it. The duplicity. How could he? Why?? To me …and to her.

The times we’d lay in bed, talking for HOURS, about everything and nothing, sharing deep thoughts and feelings and confessions. I never felt so seen, so understood, so implicitly free to be exactly who I was. John (seemingly) loved my quirks. He had a lot of the same ones. It made me feel so comfortable with him. I mean, we started peeing with the door open from the jump! He had bad breath, but I never minded. I’d have weird things happen that, in hindsight, he probably caused by sleeping with other people, but he’d always just say, “I know how bodies work.” It never felt weird. Maybe it should have. The frustratingly stubborn cum stains left on my comforter? Definitely weird. And sad! Who ever knew the minutia of trivial shit that can make you so profoundly sad. And disgusted.

I felt like I’d known him forever too quickly but I still hesitated to dive in. He was so thirsty in those early days. It was kind of overwhelming, but also intoxicating. Flattering, I guess. He remembered every detail of every interaction — it freaked me out sometimes. I have been a counselor for nearly 20 years, listening and remembering and knowing people is what I do! But he remembered things I didn’t about mundane conversations, and it made me like him so much. It felt like I mattered enough to him for him to remember all. the. things. That “we” mattered enough to him. He was easy to know, easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to love … easy to believe in.

In hindsight, I know I couldn’t have helped falling in love with that man. That was the man he wanted me to know. He craved what I gave him; me. He had the control the entire time. He knew and he let me believe in a lie.

Regardless of anything else, there are indisputable facts. He talked to me in that bar. There are plenty of mutual friends as witnesses. He came home with me. He stayed with me. He asked for my number the next morning. He kept calling. He kept coming, in multiple ways. He kept lying. To me. To her. And as of two days ago, he was still clearly planning to keep seeing me after he is married to her on Nov. 27.

I don’t know what to do now or how exactly to move forward. In years of listening to teenage heartbreak in my office, I know that I should tell myself what I tell my kids – “The only way past it, is through it. You have to feel it, baby. You have to sit in it and keep feeling it until eventually, one day, you notice that you’re smiling and don’t feel guilty about it, or that something isn’t triggering the ache anymore.” But I also know that’s more applicable to teenage puppy love. This shit … this is how women end up scarred and irreparably damaged. This is how they become bitter and vindictive.

Trust won’t come easy to me or her ever again.

From as early as childhood, I already have some deep emotional PTSD and I have worked so, so, so fucking hard to persevere through and beyond, to pick myself up and glue myself back together, time and again. Alone. With John, I intentionally had to check my insecurities and trust. To keep checking in with myself and making sure I was giving him the grace I believed he deserved. That my friends and brother thought he deserved. That I thought a good man deserved. Not being clingy, not asking too many questions, not adding too much pressure, not asking him to “define the relationship” (which all men hate). It was a battle I alluded to but never really told him directly, I guess. I wanted to but I was scared to push him away. I rationalized it as choosing to have something nice albeit imperfect, rather than address it and have nothing. I don’t know why I assumed he’d reject me. I guess that’s the old stuff, the cobwebs, the black tar that I can never quite completely wash away. I guess I got used to taking what simple pleasures and kindness I could get – the random trips to the driving range, surprise lunches, a really thoughtful book for my birthday this year, cleaning me up after sex (no one had ever done that before and it was incredibly endearing), bringing me something little and smile-inducing or calling me when I was stressed about work.

On the anniversary of the day I met him each year, I’d send him a text that said “happy x years of knowing me!” and he would always reply with some very sweet version of knowing how blessed he was. Especially if one of our friends was complaining about their girl. Sometimes I’d get him to admit out loud that he was lucky; tell me that I was the perfect anti-cling, easy-going, unconditionally kind, sports-loving, sex-positive, deep-thinking, open-minded, funny, smartass of a woman who liked that he had his own life and could spend as much time as he wanted with his friends and on the golf course. I cultivated that ease over time and practice over decades; it didn’t actually come easy.

It doesn’t come easy to any woman.

I felt comfortable being exactly me with John all of the time; I just kept the old scars hidden pretty well. I hide them from everyone. At least I tried to. Especially in the winter, when I wouldn’t hear from him for a few days or a week because (I thought) he was dealing with his own winter blues. As I’ve lamented in this blog ad nauseum, winter is when my darkened mind races more than usual and makes all things seem worse than they are. I am dreading this winter more than I ever have. It is going to be so dark, and so, so lonely.

I actively chose not to be needy with John, not to be demanding, not to ask why he couldn’t make me more of a priority in those darkest of days. That’s the only thing that ever frustrated me about him, about us. And I didn’t hide that from him, I just held back on how it made me feel when I knew I was too in my feels to be rational. I told him that I believed people make time for what matters, full stop. He said he didn’t agree. Only now do I understand what he meant. We never fought, rarely disagreed. About anything. He didn’t annoy me. Well, except when he chewed (he inhales while chewing, like his food is always too hot or like he is running out of time) but I hate the way most people eat. Mostly, I just liked that I had someone to cook for or someone to stop by with lunch, and someone to talk about the myriad things that race through my head and heart in any given day, and that’s what I focused on instead. Being happy he was there, weird inhaling chew and all. It was kind of lovable. I miss his ridiculous laugh so much it hurts.


In fairness, John tried to break things off exactly one month after we met by saying (while his dick was buried inside me) that he wasn’t looking for anything serious right now and that he knew I wasn’t looking for another casual relationship. I won’t reiterate all of that because I wrote about it three years ago at length in private (now public!) posts. It suffices to say that it seemed preposterous at the time; he seemed scared of a good thing and I just wasn’t going to accept it. What we had started seemed too good, too promising, too easy. It was so chill and fun. That is the last we ever talked about it. THAT night would have been the time for him to tell me that he currently had a serious relationship. But he didn’t. At the time, in August 2018, his pushing back seemed like reluctance due to fear or lack of experience, and it seemed premature and silly (he said he’d never had a serious relationship, just friendships, ha!!).

I also keep thinking about how we talked about marriage just this summer, maybe August or so, as it related to other people, not us, to be clear. We talked about how no one we knew who had gotten married was happy, so why would anyone do it? That the only couples who seemed sort of happy are the ones we never knew before they got married. That getting married seemed antiquated and unnecessary. That was less than two months ago! I wish so badly that I could go back to that conversation now and watch his face. Look for signs of deception or worry of finally showing his fucking cards.

I also can’t help but wonder if I had just let it be way back then and moved the fuck on, despite choosing the hurt of heartbreak. I have to think it would have been less all-consuming after only a month of knowing him. Because this, right now? This feels like I’m suffocating.

There were exactly two times in those three years, three months, and now ten days since I met him, where I let insecurity get the upper hand and it felt like I didn’t matter and it really hurt — but I just got quiet and withdrew. He knew it, he’d sense it, and he showed up, both times (once with those ugly Yeezy’s!), and all my worries melted away almost instantly. When I was with him, I was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I really mean that. I just felt content. I am going to miss that so, so much. It was so simple and so effortless and easy. It feels so unfair to have gotten to feel that! I don’t know if I wish I hadn’t. What would it be like to have never felt loved at all? But was any of it ever real? Was it really only sex to him? How does he explain everything else in his own head? Was he just getting something from me that he wasn’t getting from her? Something that was worth the effort of maintaining a massive lie for YEARS? What the actual fuck am I supposed to think?? I know I will never get any answers and that is hard to swallow. I unblocked his number long enough to send him a string of questions this morning because, if I’m laying wide awake perseverating on them all night, he should be too. I deserve answers. But he’s already shown his propensity to hide from responsibility, to keep lying. He hasn’t responded. I didn’t think he would.

I think it’s ironic that they are having a Christian wedding, or at least having scripture passages read at the ceremony. How in the world can this man purport to be a Christian? Oh, did I not mention that a draft script of the ceremony was on my laptop for me to deal with too? Yep. There’s a poem or something in the ceremony and the words in it make me hurt … for her, for this Crystal Zancig, who is probably lovely. I’m lovely. He wouldn’t be with someone who wasn’t. He’s already broken so many of those things, those beautiful platitudes that I’m sure she wants to believe are true. He knows they aren’t. He knows! Before he knew that I knew about the wedding, about this other woman, clearly he was still hoping to have sex with me “from time to time!” I wish I was joking. I sent that to her in his texts to me from Friday morning.

I would absolutely crumble if I were her. I wish she didn’t have to. I wish neither of us did.

More than anything, I wish he was the man I believed he was.

*Edit* Curious about his side of the story? Be sure to check the Receipts

Music for the Mood: Here I Go Again On My Own (acoustic cover) – Warren Atwell

Brass Tacks

When it comes down to it, I think the frustration for me is that it never felt casual. It never felt all that serious either. And I liked it. Just the way it was, before the past few weeks when you were abnormally less communicative and I saw you twice in what, a month and a half? Leave me alone with my thoughts for that long without any acknowledgement that I am on your mind, that I matter to you, and I will pull that string until it unravels us.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d have been happy if it were more “serious” or whatever but that conversation four months ago kept things in perspective. Maybe that is more problematic than I’m giving credence to; did it give me perspective because I had to continually acknowledge it or did it prevent me from accepting what didn’t serve me? Unclear. It’s not the first time I’ve pondered that. The point remains though that wherever it was on the casual-serious spectrum, it was working for me.

But I mean what I say: it didn’t feel casual. And, by the flip side of the same coin, I wonder if that “serious” conversation months ago didn’t do the same for you. You had to continually acknowledge that this was less casual than you wanted because it’s what I was comfortable with but that maybe you also chose to be somewhat blind to where on the spectrum we fell. I don’t think I imagined that we click, that you feel something for me that is more than casual sex and that whatever was going on was nice. But four months went by since that talk, John, so again, after maybe some initial weirdness on my part masking an internal battle for trust to prevail, whatever was going on was good for both of us. What I don’t know is whether something recently changed for you. And that is my brass tacks … it’s at the root of what I can’t make sense of.

I didn’t call you my boyfriend because you are a grown ass man but, if I’m being honest, I considered you my guy and I hoped you considered me your girl. But recently I started to wonder if anyone in your life even know about my existence. Several people in mine know of you, even if they didn’t know many details. I feel like I know the people in your life even though I haven’t yet met them. I like talking about you. I like having you in my life. I like our banter, our texts, our time together and, really, our friendship. I don’t even care that much that we rarely do anything outside of my house. I like us just fine.

In recent weeks though, it felt like I wasn’t even on your radar. It hurt. I worried if you were okay dealing with the winter blues or if something had happened with your mom. I sent up a smoke signal in the form of a text last week though and, even then, it wasn’t clear whether you had even noticed I’d gone missing for an entire week. That is the primary source of frustration, ultimately. No one wants to feel like they don’t matter. I feel like I do a good job of making sure you know you matter. Maybe it actually makes you uncomfortable? I never considered that. Is it just because it’s so close to Christmas and you are way more social than me (even though you don’t think you are)? Or do the holidays make all men feel imaginary pressure?

On Friday night, after not seeing you for two weeks, I wanted you to show up at my house after your work holiday thing (as you said you would) and I wanted you to say it was good to see me, that you’d missed me, that you missed sex, that I mattered. That didn’t happen and it was disappointing. But it also made me feel … unwanted. Unimportant. Desperate? That might not be the word but I felt like it was emblematic of a larger problem when you said “sorry to disappoint.” What does that even mean? You could accurately recognize that I would be disappointed but it was the first time that I questioned the sincerity of your words.

You saw and talked to one of my friends at that work party and even that feels weird. That she talks to you, adores you, and tells me this during and after the party. But I have to send up a smoke signal to know if you’re coming over or heading home. It’s honestly just weird.

I don’t want to throw in the towel here but if you are sleeping with other women or have started seeing someone else and that’s why you’ve stopped being as into me, then I need to know that now. I worry about that only because I truly do not understand why anyone would go so long without sex. Two weeks? Sex is so much better the more you’re having it with someone. How else do you ever learn what works? So if you’ve just lost interest in me period, you really should tell me that too.

If this moves forward, I don’t want to have to put effort into making sure we are talking. That’s silly. It wasn’t like that until the past two weeks and I don’t know what changed or why. I also don’t want to have to schedule time to be together. That’s so dumb. We are not an agenda item but I also recognize that you have a very busy social life. I have never asked you to give up one practice or open gym or game though you have skipped those things many times to hang with me. I always appreciated that and it did make me feel special (and also a little guilty). Maybe you don’t have time for any someone in your world and it has nothing to do with me? In my world (and I would argue anyone’s world), I make time for what matters and the message I have received recently from you is that I no longer matter. I did matter more but, at some unknown time, I ceased to do so? And maybe you just thought I was fine and I didn’t do a good job of telling you I felt neglected because I fear being perceived as anything less than fiercely independent.

Our thing always felt pretty equal and, at the end of the day, regardless of how you want to define or label it, that’s all I really need. I want to be part of a relationship that I enjoy, that I feel part of but also where any effort required is equal.

So, how do we move forward from here? What do you want, what do you need, and can both of our needs be met?

Music for the Mood: This Year’s Love – David Gray


My thoughts are constantly racing across, through, under, over and deep down in my brain. Especially at night. Sometimes weekly, usually less. And I forget to come here and write instead. It’s hard to make your brain remember that this would be more helpful when it’s the dead of night and it’s too quiet to do anything but think.

During the day I can find ways to occupy or distract myself. At night though, the more I try not to, the more my brain drills down; really just ruminates and grinds on something, anything, nothing. I never seem to gain any clarity or find a solution or a way through whatever it is. Honestly, at night and in the idle times when I spend too much time in solitude, I exacerbate the smallest, maybe harmless worry or problem. I work myself into a state of almost nausea, tingly fingers and chest, wild eyes and racing mind.

Sometimes I can lay wide awake or in a state of purgatory between waking and sleeping for hours. Hours! On those nights, I might find sleep in the early morning, seemingly just before my alarm sounds and it is so, so unsatisfying. On those mornings following fitful sleep, when I’m vertical and especially after I’ve left the confines of my house, whatever I was perseverating on seems less … consuming. Almost as if I dreamed that the battle raged.

Matters of the heart are a frequent source of my discontent and remain longer throughout the day than other conundrums because, unfortunately, I’m just not good at navigating relationships. I am currently trying not to penalize a good man for the sins of the ones who weren’t. I have a lack of positive experiences for sure but maybe even just lack of experience period? Unclear. This has never, ever been clear.

Work-related midnight wonderings definitely seem lesser in the morning light. For instance, I have an event this week, three nights from now, and I started perseverating on it last week. At night. I work on it all day at work and I am adequately if not overly prepared with very little left to do these next three days. And yet…and yet! I think about some of the details or the steps or the potential questions or the flow or the logistics, and I think about each of these things over and over and over. Sometimes complete thoughts but often I start to drift to sleep before I can gnaw down far enough, only to wake with a version of the same thought over and over again.

I’ll try to intentionally think about something else, another problem even, but it seldom works. I just move on to doing the same thing with that new thing though and, usually, I cycle back to the original or both or just keep adding more to the mix trying to overload the matrix so that I short circuit and have to shut down. If only I could force quit my brain! The too many open tabs analogy has never been more accurate.

I’ve spent nights worrying or over-analyzing or reliving awkward or powerful or scary or sad or frustrating interactions with others, perceived slights or wrongdoings, guilt over times when I am the slighter or the wrongdoer instead, my upstairs and next door neighbors and how loud and inconsiderate they are, what to say to them, how to say it, whether I’m too sensitive or if they really are willfully or blissfully ignorant. If I could afford to move. To sell. To rent this place out and rent or buy elsewhere. But I love my place and my location. Why should I have to move? Can’t I just insulate the ceiling or find a non-offensive way to get them to be less oblivious? How much would it cost to buy a beach house and live off the grid? What can I do to work remotely in perpetuity? Maybe it’s time for John and I to get a place together? But I like things the way they are.

I worry a lot of those restless nights about my parents, their age and health and safety and missing out on time with them by living here instead of there. Of what I could do for work to allow me to be there instead. Of how much time I have spent here on the earth and what I’ve done with it. Or not done with it. Whether I’m continuing to waste it or if I am motivated enough to make changes so that I don’t. Whether I am clinically depressed or just seasonally. Whether I have a clinical level of anxiety. Both? Whether I will ever meet someone that will value me and want to make time for me because they would rather be with me than do most anything else. Is John that person? Am I unsure because of what we have or because I am projecting the past onto the present? Is it actually too late to fall mutually in love for the first time at this age? Whether it’s actually too late to get married and start a family. Whether I actually want either of those things or if I just always thought and said that’s what I wanted because, you know, it’s what people do and I think I hurt far too much in wanting it for it not to be worth it. Right? Right? What if he doesn’t want that? The last one didn’t. At least not with me.

I think about how I would be able to live this life without either or both of my parents. About how I wouldn’t want to. About how I just wouldn’t. I think about what it might be like to have someone in my life that I could do it all with; if John were there all the time, to go through life with me for the trivial shit and the big moments. If it is possible that this relationship could allow me to withstand the loss of a parent or my brother, either of which render me unable to breathe at the thought. Real hit your knees, shit.

I think about g/God, religion, the origins of us, the purpose of us, why it even matters, who I am or what I do but also who am I and what should I do? Is it different from what I want to do? Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Am I a good person? What is a good person? Why do so many people and opinions and mannerisms and *lack* of manners annoy me so. damned. much? Why am I so judgmental? Am I judgmental? Do I annoy others? In what ways? Am I inconsiderate? Am I not as self aware as I think? Is this why I’ve always felt kind of alone? But also why I find comfort in it? What exactly is wrong with me? Nothing? Actually, wait, do I want to know the answer? To most of those questions?

How did I let myself get out of shape? Do I drink too much? Is it a problem? How would I know? Maybe I should have my liver tested. Then again, several people in my life drink as their primary social interaction, regularly to excess and repeatedly. Surely, I’m not as bad off as them. Why am I so nervous to walk away from a dude if he isn’t making enough time for me? Why isn’t it enough time? What is enough time? Am I accepting less than I deserve? Do I even have a clue what I deserve? Who even decides what that is?? Is it wrong to accept whatever it is with said dude because it’s so, so great when I am with him and it makes me happier than being alone-alone? I lean toward the latter and I think I actually feel guilty and slightly embarrassed about that. You know, in the age of renewed feminism and all.

Why do I become so emotional about the outcome of Steelers games? What will I ever do without my dad? I definitely do not want to know the answer to that last question. Ever. But it’s maybe the only one I care about. All of the others? I think I would really appreciate an answer to all of them. Please. Then I can sort through them and analyze. Probably drum up a whole new round of questions to ponder in the process though. So, never mind. I’m good.

How do you know you know?

See, the racing in my head just doesn’t stop. Ever.

Kind of like the fucking upstairs neighbors.

“I’ve learned less from daylight, than from night threatening to leave”

Music for the Mood: Try for Thunder – Chamberlain

The sads and you

It’s been three months since you tried to break up with me before we even started … well, anything. Your decision and your words made me feel ill inside that night. We didn’t talk for several days which was, frankly, torture for me. I finally caved and messaged you. You messaged right back, like you were waiting for me. And we continued with this dialogue that, for all intents and purposes, was eerily similar to all the other dialogue we’d had before you lost your damned mind. That’s what I told you — that I refused to accept that the “serious,” mid-coitus conversation had even happened because you had lost your g/God damned mind. You laughed. You agreed.

Things were strained the next few days in that I wanted to just keep going like nothing had happened while, at the same time, never really succeeding at forgetting that it had. We went to dinner one night and watched football and, when you dropped me off after, I said I’d invite you in but that I didn’t know the rules anymore and you needed to set them. You parked and came inside. I sat far away from you while we watched the game and you said I didn’t have to be like that. Again I said that I didn’t know the rules and I was earnestly trying to follow your lead. I want to respect whatever boundaries and rules and preferences you have. But I also don’t. Not for nothing but I also really don’t know exactly what your preferences are and now it feels kind of unsafe to broach that subject because it was SO weird the first time. So I just try to navigate without a map. It’s going great, as you can imagine.

Three months later though, we’re basically back to where we were. And that makes me really happy. I’ve loved the time we have spent together over these months and I always, always want more. I never get tired of you which is super rare for me with … any human, but, as we’ve both said out loud, there’s also really no opportunity to get tired of you. There are times when I feel incredibly happy and times, like earlier today, when I am worried if I allow it spiral too long, that you are intentionally or unintentionally drifting away. We see each other, on average, once a week right now, sometimes every other. I don’t know if it’s the whole winter blues or your basketball schedule with the kids or what, but I don’t like that at all.

I like to be alone in these shorter days too but I find myself still thinking about you every day, multiple times a day, wether you text or not, unless I’m super busy at work, yet hesitating before initiating a text because I don’t want it to be too much or too often or too needy. That’s some high school nonsense. And as much as I also recognize that’s patently ridiculous to feel about a man you are with and have been for several relatively blissful months, I can’t help the feeling. You can call it baggage. I have some.

I try not to think about past relationships, unrequited and otherwise, where I tried too hard to make it work. I gave too much or I just wanted it too much maybe but, regardless, the result was … nothing. Me alone. Never knowing if it was because of me or in spite of me or nothing to do with me at all.

Here’s what I do know and it scares the hell out of me: I am 39 years old. I have never had a relationship that was equal. I have never gotten what I have given. I have never, not in romantic relationships or friendships, been someone’s number one. Not that I always knew that at the time. I don’t know if it’s because I was with the wrong people or if that’s all that exists. I have had my heart broken, shattered twice, and yet “love” is still my holy grail. I want it and long for it and ache for it more than anything. Would I sacrifice my parents or my brother or genocide of a million strangers for it? No. No, I wouldn’t. I don’t think that’s a fair or realistic question and, thanks to Yuval Harari’s “Sapiens,” I’m also rethinking a ton of existential shit that makes me wonder just what, if anything, we have control of in this life.

Does it matter what I want? How much I want it? How deeply I feel the lack of it? Does it matter if I’m a good person? If I put kindness and generosity and sincerity out into the world? Does it have any effect on what I get back? No? Yes? Unclear.

What I also know is that it is unrealistic to think that you, or the next person I meet, is going to be “The One.” But is it worth “wasting” time at this age on someone that isn’t the one? How do you know? Would I feel more confident in this current relationship if I knew that it was, in fact, mutual now that we moved past that initial weird shit in the first month when you got scared or whatever that was? That this could be something “serious,” actually more of the dating and not just (and with increasingly-less frequency) fucking and spending less time together since the days got shorter?

It’s possible that I’ve spent too much time alone in my winter solitude, with the sads, and that I’m making something out of nothing. That happens. I’m acutely aware. So are you. We’ve talked about this. You do it too. By contrast, I might also be making something seem like nothing because I’m hypersensitive in these darker days. I like this man in front of me so much. I love spending time with him and, when I’m spending time with him or even just when we are texting, I feel completely at ease and content and happy with things just the way they are. When it’s been too many days between physical time together, my mind, my heart and that ache that buries itself deep below my rib cage come back like an unwanted specter lurking in wait. I have no idea how a man cannot want sex more frequently. That first week? He was insatiable. So once a week is, you know, less than ideal. For me.

Earlier today and, if I’m being honest, the past several days, I have been worried that he would forget about or bail on this evening. There is thing for Yelp Elite where I get to go to this opening, with free drinks and a plus one. I always love the idea of doing “holiday things,” particularly with a (gag) special someone. I am not immune to the occasional Hallmark movie trope. But I’m also interested because it’s an opportunity to do something, anything, with John. We don’t do much outside of my house. Granted, it’s only been a few months, there are plenty of times we hang out and don’t have sex, but, annoyingly, I can never really get past the “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now” sentiment from months ago. Which he said to me while buried inside me, exactly one month after we met. Who could forget that? What woman who wants to see if there might be more, possibly could?

But he did remember tonight and, although I wanted to wait for him to initiate a “hey, what time do I need to be there” text, I initiated. But then I spent an hour feeling tortured by the lack of reply; an hour that felt like several. Mind you, I waited an even longer time for a return text from a friend today about a play we’re seeing tomorrow night and that caused a very similar, silly anxiety. But John’s reply came, it was clear he was planning on it all along, and I am just so sick of fighting myself to remember he isn’t the last asshole. Or maybe he’s driving over here right now, several hours before we have to be anywhere, just to initiate another “can we be serious for a minute?” talk. I hope not. And I hope there’s never another one while we’re literally physically connected to each other.

Three months ago, after that awkwardly timed confession, I refused to accept him ending things because nothing had started and it seemed premature and unfair when things were so fun and easy and chill. Now though, because of the holidays or because of the four-month (meaningless) milestone or whatever, I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake in refusing to just take the hurt back then and get past it eventually. Time will tell I guess.

He said back then, in August, that he didn’t want to get down the line and then hurt me because he knows himself and he is selfish with his time. The latter seems to be exactly true and I try to recognize that when I’m feeling slightly neglected. On one hand, he should want to respect that I need to feel serious the way he needs to feel not-serious. Does that, by default, make us incompatible though? Aren’t these normal early relationship things to iron out? Or am I going to get hurt again and have only myself to blame? Is it going to happen again during the holiday season; a season that is already tinged with as much heartache and longing in me as it is joy and happiness in others? I want to be hopeful and be present and just accept whatever will be.

I’m not sure if that is stupidity or willful ignorance or healthy optimism though. And I’m never sure how much of this introspection is normal or would be happening at any time of the year – or if it’s just that the sads that are never far away and are most acutely present during this time of year.

I know that I am a different person in these darker days. The sads are a pall over everything and I have to actively work to remember how easily I can be tricked into thinking my gloomier affect is reality.

It also needs to be said that I question whether I am settling or if I’m just into him because he’s, you know, around and made the mistake of talking to me in a bar in July when I was on the way to being inebriated. He remembers everything though so it helps to know he knew what he wanted. Just like me though, he didn’t know we weren’t going to just hook up and say goodbye forever. If he had, would he have been interested in coming home with me? Would I? I don’t know. He’s been different, better, easier to be with from day dot. That’s something.

I try to be logical – to really think through what I like about him as a person and figure out in my lists in my head what goes in the settling category and what goes in the I-like-it-because-I-actually-like-him category. The thing is, yes, I’m 39 and I am acutely aware of my clock and all that unfortunately and frustratingly real shit. I am also cognizant of the fact that I like being around this guy. So much! He makes me laugh, he makes me feel attractive and funny and smart and accomplished. He seems to appreciate that I am exactly who I am. He knows how extra my mind is, constantly, and he laughs about it with me. I really like his laugh. He doesn’t seem to want to change me so do I want him to change? Or do I not actually know what he wants now? I mean, it’s been four months for both of us. Things have been so, so nice since we chose to move past those silent few days in August. Time changes things, for better or for worse and sometimes back again. But at this point, it’s still early. It feels good. I love being with him. I love talking to him, for hours. I love being the person he chooses to talk to and spend his limited time with. He already makes the sads of this season feel less heavy.

I know that tonight will be fun and I am excited to spend it with him. Maybe he’s what I should have found a long time ago. Surely wish I had.

Winter of my discontent?

I’m affected by the change in seasons, the shorter, darker days. I know this. In reality, I might have “the sads” more frequently than just the winter but I feel it more intensely or just perseverate on it’s never-far-awayness more in the dark, dreary days. I tend to hole up in my house and hibernate which, it could be argued, makes it worse. The solitude is both a security blanket and an excuse. I am irritable over nothing and everything. People that have done nothing wrong, sometimes people I care about, become targets of my frustration, avoidance and even loathing. Why? I have no idea. Like a bout of road rage, I can feel it, recognize when it’s happening even, but I am virtually powerless to be in the feeling and control it, lessen it, stop it or redirect it. Though I certainly do think it through later, when I am calm and have the space and quiet to do so.

One friend, in particular, and for no logical, tangible or concrete reason I can determine, is driving me crazy. Her texts cause me to roll my eyes, feel internally annoyed and exasperated, and immediately begin scrolling through the possible excuses or “outs” in my head to avoid responding or respond in the shortest, least expressive, least engaging way in order to discourage further conversation. Why?? I. don’t. bloody. know. It’s been that way with this friend for several weeks now, if not months. I cannot pinpoint when it started or why.  I also cannot determine any source of legitimate irritation, offense, jealousy, betrayal or any action, opinion or thought or perceived action, opinion or thought that got under my skin. I can’t. 

I do this sometimes with friends though and as much as I wish I were wired differently, I’m not sure how to change or move beyond it or if it’s even possible. I know myself. I’m just simply over it. I have the ick, so to speak. In my experience, once you have the ick, it does not go way.

Maybe I’m making too much of it.  Maybe I’m not making enough of it.  Would a therapist?

I’ve been to a therapist twice in my life; once in college, once as an adult.  In college, it was post Sept 11th, in the winter of course, and I was immersed in courses full of psycho-social-biblical-philosophical discussions, papers and research. The result of talking to this campus psychologist, whose name and countenance I cannot even vaguely remember, was merely being prescribed an SSRI (Paxil, I think). I had some dark thoughts. And I don’t know now if these were before, during or after the medication. I stopped taking it at some point as I didn’t feel like it was doing anything and I didn’t want to go back to talk to anyone in order to get a refill. Not surprisingly, no one prepared me for the withdrawal symptoms of stopping cold turkey. So nauseous. So sweaty. Miserable. Constantly. I remember days of just being in my bed in a ball wondering if I was lucid or not. And then it was over and you wondered if any of it even happened.

A couple of years later, as an adult, living on my own for the first time in Pittsburgh, I went back. To a doctor in my insurance network (I haven’t had a primary care doctor since childhood and urgent care clinics weren’t a thing yet). I told them all the same depressed and anxious and not-sleeping feelings I was having and that I had been on an SSRI before. That was it!? I walked out with a prescription again after maybe 10 minutes of talking to them. Truthfully though, I don’t even remember if or for how long I took it. Don’t even know if I got the script filled. I know that I probably should have been doing therapy along with the pills in order to see any kind of benefit. Grad school for counseling taught me all about that — I just never did it.

I tried therapy again as an adult, for one tear-filled, complete embarrassment of a session, when I had a boss who made me feel kind of terrible every day. I used to sit in my car at lunch and cry. I still have something like PTSD when I hear a certain DC NPR radio voice that used to play during that lunch time hour.

I remain genuinely unsure whether it was her, me or the combination of us. I began my professional career as a school counselor with her as my supervisor at the district office. She was impressed by me and championed me. She convinced me to take a job at the district level as part of a stimulus grant and I did, with the understanding that, when it was over in 18 months, I would go back to my same role in my same high school. I never got that in writing because, frankly, it never occurred to me that I’d need to. Within two weeks of the new role though, I knew it wasn’t for me. I had virtually no interaction with students, I couldn’t actually “fix” anything that was broken and couldn’t even touch most things that needed improvement or streamlining (or complete obliteration) with a ten-foot pole. I did get to work with 80 counselors at all levels across the district and it was nice to learn that they respected me, my opinion and my work. But I was profoundly bored. My boss turned from this sweet, encouraging person I admired and that I used to go on walks with at lunch, into this passive-aggressive, suspicious, accusatory person who never had anything for me to do but would be visibly put out when I appeared not to be working. She would actually come stand next to my cubicle, peer over the top at me with just her eyes, glasses and top of her head showing. WHY?? Creepy as hell. In truth, I spent about 3 months of my 16 months there earning a post-Masters certification in sports counseling … online … 12 credits worth! I felt guilty using company time for it but, honestly, I did not even remotely have enough to do. I would find ways create my own projects or work across divisions but that seemed to rankle her even more, as if I was somehow plotting against her or ingratiating myself with people that didn’t care for her. I never knew, really.  It was just an awful situation. 

At one point we had a discussion about it and I expressed that I felt underutilized, regretted leaving the school, recognized that our dynamic/relationship had changed, and suggested that it seemed like she was threatened by me. She laughed, no cackled, at the last part in the most condescending way. I’ll never forget how that felt and I’ve replayed that moment a million times; I’ll also never know what the real problem was if that wasn’t it. I finished the position two months early so I could return for the start of the school year only I wasn’t able to return to my old school and spent the next two years in a school that was fine but not challenging and never felt like home. It’s overwhelming and weird to regret losing nearly a year and a half of your life. It makes me second guess “opportunities” now, for sure. Unfortunate but it is what it is.

All of that to say, I tried therapy as part of our employee assistance program and after crying uncontrollably throughout the whole session and being challenged on things that didn’t seem relevant but that I still bear the scars from, I never went back. It was a truly awful experience.

I think there’s a lot to be said about talking to an impartial, unbiased, unconnected person about your problems, real or imagined. I just don’t know how you establish a rapport with a random someone and/or how you know that someone is the best someone for you. What if they are behavioral when you need cognitive? What if you don’t know what you need and end up with the wrong type? What if they are too religious? What if they aren’t religious at all? What if they are full of shit? What if they don’t give me advice? What if they do? I know they aren’t supposed to; they’re supposed to lead you to your own conclusions and plans. What if they help me to the conclusion that I’m crazy? That we all are?

I have a person in my life now though that also feels the heaviness of winter, like thick curtains that keep out the light but not the chill. It is nice to normalize the experience with someone that doesn’t seem crazy at all! It is refreshing to not have to talk about it to just know why the quiet is nice sometimes. But I also worry that it could pull us apart if we don’t try to make each other push through.

Maybe we can keep the light on between the two of us. That would be really nice. He’s pretty great.

I need to write more. It’s cathartic and I don’t make time for it enough.

Music for the Mood: Fell on Dark Days – Soundgarden (Chris Cornell acoustic)