I'm glad for a lot of reasons but I'm specifically glad I write my pain.
The point of keeping a diary is to remember things as they happen.
To let out whatever hope or rage or confusion is plaguing us.
And getting it out, writing it down helps me process my demons so they can be released.
What's happening right now is a pattern.
It's not new.
It's not creative or even special.
It's exactly what's already happened.
Only it's more fucking complex because he actually let me in this time.
Maybe that's why the push back feels so much harder to accept.
I looked back over last years entries, when we broke up and then it seemed we might reconcile and then we didn't and then he cut me out and it was over for good.
And then this year, and things ended and then it seemed we might reconcile and then he cut me out and I suppose it's once again over for good.
Every time he has let me in, emotionally, every time we've had conversations where we talk on the phone for hours, when he has confessed things he's never told me before, every time I get close to him in any intense way, he always pushes me away.
Always.
I could plot a graph of the events that have happened between us and it's always the same.
The times we were physically intimate things were fine.
But when things got emotionally intimate, he'd cut me out and I wouldn't hear from him for weeks.
Months.
And now, who knows, probably years.
It shouldn't, but it baffles me because he had a girlfriend for like, two years before me, and some other one for like nine months after?
So he surely must be capable of emotional intimacy or his relationships would never last so long.
But for some reason with me.
With me, I am always kept at arms length.
And he left me this time with someday i'll tell you the truth but i can't right now.
I suppose I should tell myself I'm...special?
Other girls he actually has relationships with but me, it's all so fucked up and weird it like, can't be dealt with.
Yeah, I don't think so.
I can't buy it.
I think it's actually very simple:
He doesn't love me.
But he knows I love him.
And there's comfort in that, for him.
It's healing for his soul to let in the love that always poured from my eyes.
And then since he knew he couldn't love me back he'd always shut me out.
I don't think it's as fucked up as it sounds.
I think broken people just cling to anything to stay afloat.
And I was always there.
My heart.
He knew I would love him when the world rejected him.
The strange part is, since I've learned more about myself, since I've discovered more about sex and had more partners since him than I ever had before him, he would have been surprised to discover I would have actually been okay filling a void.
I would have been able to take the poetry he spoke in bed and processed it with appreciation for the moment but understood he really meant none of it.
I would have never spent the night or given him exclusivity.
I would have told him about the good dates and the funny dates I was going on.
I would have referred to him as buddy instead of lover.
But part of his seduction, his charm, his game is that he believes himself a romantic.
Which is such a contradiction in terms because romantics are genuine.
Romantics mean everything they do and say to the very core of their being.
Charmers and flirts are insincere.
They use their whiles to achieve a goal, not because if they don't express the essence of their heart it would be unsettling.
But because they want something from someone.
It's a means to an end.
Rather than the need to express truth.
Truth, beauty, freedom and love.
He is not a romantic.
He is an opportunist.
And you know, it's fine because we're all fucked up and we all need to abuse something to survive.
And I get it.
But I told my new lover how it is and what I'm about and that I'm not into sleepovers because I'm honest and transparent and fucking genuine.
I would never play him a song and tell him he was the only one I'd played that for in seven years just to try and emotionally manipulate him.
Just because I could.
You don't toy with people for sport.
You're honest about the fact you're fucked up and lost and missing the girl who dumped you.
And thinking that losing yourself in my flesh would be a much needed distraction and you'd even enjoy yourself in spite of yourself.
And you'd be happy to know I was mostly excited to explore sex with you because that was the only level we really connected on and maybe this could be a chapter in sexploration and self discovery together and we'd leave this changed, for the better.
And it wouldn't be sad when things ended because what we'd shared would have been genuine and transparent and completely fucking real.
Instead of a hazy ambiguity of half truths and many lies leaving me feeling used and regretful.
This is the oath of an ethical slut.
One who knows how to take and enjoy without leaving someone depleted.
I had what may be a one night stand, we still talk so who knows if we'll ever hook up again, and it was one of the most wonderful encounters with any lover I've ever had.
Because there was truth and communication and it was so fucking genuine I felt comfortable spending the night with him, falling asleep in his arms, simply because of how he was with me.
I never do that.
Which is why I regret allowing myself that vulnerability with one who abused me.
Someone as experienced in the ways of sex and women and relationships, someone who no longer has the excuse of being 28 (the most fucked up age any boy ever is) should really know better.
He should work on his bedside manner and not trick women into believing he's sincere.
He should be clear about his intentions and not send I miss you texts in the middle of the night.
He should communicate.
But he won't.
And he never has.
And it was a relief to remember this is exactly how he treats me when I get too close.
Something about my skin near his makes him want to open up and tell me the most fucked up thoughts in his mind.
And then something about me possessing such knowledge makes him want to never talk to me again.
I am a good lover.
I am voracious and insatiable.
I am open and uninhibited.
And I deserve,
no,
demand,
a partner who honors such openness, such curiosity and appetite with fucking consistency and communication.
No more fucking games.
I'm almost 35 for fucks sake.
I don't have time for lost boys who both worship and despise me.
I need a man who knows how to use my body, who will open up to me if he's comfortable letting me in, and who when it's ended, when our time together has halted, will respect the sanctity of my body, my well being, my spirit, with a communicative, honest farewell.
A romantic doesn't disappear.
A man who cares doesn't ignore.
A man who loves me doesn't hurt me in the exact same way he already knows shattered my intense heart.
I don't regret being the force that I am.
But I do regret putting my body in the hands of one who has no respect for it, no care, no appreciation.
I was an epic fool.
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