It is 1:30 in the morning and I can not sleep.
I am in a living hell that I put myself in.
It is the first night that Highland Park’s wife and child are gone for a ten-day vacation back East to visit her family. I have been looking forward to this night for days. He said he was obligated to see a friend’s band play, but maybe he would find me after it was over, around midnight and would I wait up for him? I said I would.
It is now 1:30 am and I have not heard a word from him. I sent a text at 12:30 am asking if he was still coming over.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
I don’t handle this sort of thing very well.
I don’t think I could feel any less important to Highland Park than I do at this very moment.
He said he would try; he said maybe. I repeat these things to myself, in hopes of calming my escalating anxiety.
And yet I can not sleep. And I sit and wait.
I am always waiting.
I can’t do this anymore. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck me.
I feel sick with regret, for being the one to reach out in the first place.
I feel sick with shame, for even asking if he was still coming over when he so clearly, is not.
There is something wrong with me that I can’t just let this go and go to sleep and forget about him.
It is my daughter’s fourth birthday tomorrow, and here I am, awake, because of him, when I should be asleep, preparing for her big day.
It is imperative that I don’t see him anymore. Ever again. He is not healthy for me.
I feel like I am at the end of ACT II- I am in the “the dark night of the soul.”
I pray this is a turning point for me.
I send him one last text:
I wish you had taken the time to let me know you weren’t coming over.
Crickets in response.
Desperation. Crumbs. How did I end up like this?
I was married. I thought I was done with this type of insecurity forever.
This feeling of complete inadequacy that always accompanies dating for me.
Oh god. I feel so broken. So unlovable. So unimportant.
Not even a message. Not one word.
What is this sensation in my stomach, exactly?
Tight. Constricted. Hard. Imagine two hands kneading dough aggressively, pulling it apart and squishing it back together again. Constant movement and change. Moments of rest. Then pulling, pushing, again. It is not soft dough, either, but a tough one. It takes quite a bit of effort to knead it like this. Slight burning sensation. Like I drank a shot of bourbon. Fire in the belly. A pit of pain. What is on the other side of this. What is waiting for me? I can get through it. I can move through this. “This too shall pass” I am not my emotions. I am not this pain in my stomach. I am not the thoughts in my head. I close my eyes, and I take a deep breath. I make skullcap tea. I think it will help calm my nerves.
I am not this. This is not me.
Who am I, then?
Oh man. When they say dark night of the soul, they aren’t kidding? How many dark nights must I endure before it gets light?
My anxiety is gut wrenching. It is now 3:45 am, and I still can’t sleep, and I still have no idea what happened to him.
I tried sleeping and the trying I think, is what is killing me. Hurting my insides. Tearing me up. It’s fucking brutal. What my mind can do to me in a single bound. It is so intense.
I finally peel myself up and double over in physical and emotional pain. I tried to pull the anxiety out of my stomach but it won’t budge. My chest is ripping apart. I just want relief.
I beg God to take this anxiety away from me. I get down on my hands and knees. I have not had an attack like this in decades.
What the fuck is going on here????
I am not a prayer. But I fucking pray.
I finally get up, turn on the lights, because the dark is suffocating. I grab a banana and some pecans and sit on the couch trying to laugh at myself. But I am not funny right now. I am hurt. I am sad. I am in some serious motherfucking emotional pain, and I have absolutely no way of getting rid of it. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs.
Although all three of those sound pretty great right about now.
I feel a slight shift. I tell myself, “This is just how it is, there is nothing you can do about it, nothing is going to change by merely wishing it so. Highland Park does not want you. The divorce is happening. Rejection and abandonment are real things. It’s okay to be hurt. Now pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and move on. Keep moving forward.”
I am hosting a fairy birthday party tomorrow at my house for six sparkling little girls, and here I am lamenting over some fuckwad that could give two shits about me.
If this is not a hard bottom I have landed on, then I don’t know what is.
I am dancing with a ghost. A ghost of shame and regret.
Find someone deserving. Discernment. Parent myself.
A little pep talk to myself at 4 am:
“I love you!. I love your excitement and your enthusiasm. You are so adorable, the way you got so excited to see him. You were like a little kid, getting all dressed up, going to the party, then making sure to leave in time to be home for him. But he never came. You even stayed in your dress because you wanted to look cute for when he showed up. You are so sweet and thoughtful. You bought him a book. Wow. There is absolutely nothing wrong with who you are. You care so deeply. You love so honestly and fully. I love who you are. I love you. You deserve so much love. Don’t waste it on someone who is not only not available, but not worthy. He is not worthy of you. Don’t give yourself away to people that disregard you. There is someone out there who is going to love the shit out of you, and you will have great mental sex with them as well. But I love how hard you try to be loved. I see it. I notice how hard you work, how conscious you are of other people. You are so sweet and lovable. And funny. I fucking love you! I do! My god. The way you love people is precious and perfect. There is absolutely nothing wrong with who you are. Nothing. It is his loss. This is secure attachment. To yourself. I don’t know what his problem is but he blew it tonight. He fucked up. Not you. You did NOTHING wrong. Do you hear me?? You did NOTHING wrong. He disregarded you. Again. You have given him so many chances, but he is not worthy of your precious loving, thoughtful incredible love. No. He is not. And think about the last time you saw him, how pathetic that was. He was fucking you and talking about you being slutty for him, which kind of made you want to vomit a little and he was spanking you in a way that hurt and didn’t feel good and then he finished by coming inside of you when you have asked him not to, making you take a morning after pill. Again. This guy does not listen to you. He does not deserve you. You are precious. Golden. Gorgeous. Funny. Intelligent. Giving. Game. And good. He was so fucking lucky to spend any amount of time with you and it his so much his loss. I know it is hard to see it that way, but that is the truth. He fucking BLEW IT. NOT YOU. You did nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing broken about you. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing broken about you. There is nothing broken. There is nothing broken.You will prevail. You will emerge stronger, better than before. More discerning. More protective of your time and body. No more wasting time waiting for this man. No more. You are done.”
I make myself a bath. I need to calm down. A hot bath ought to do it. As I settle in the warm sudsy lavender infused water, I hear it.
My phone dings. A text.
I will myself to stay in the bath and leave it alone. I know who it was. I know it is him. Why didn’t I turn my fucking phone off????
I have to check.
I just got home. Saw your text. Sorry to disappoint.
Sorry to disappoint?
I passively and pathetically respond:
I hope it was a good show.
But before he can reply, I write:
Fuck it. I am not going to be passive. I am pissed. All you had to do was let me know you were not coming over.
He replies that he didn’t think it was firm thing and that he was sorry.
I have to hear his voice, I have to let him know, I need a witness to my agony. I call him. He answers. He explains that he got a little too drunk at the show and was too drunk to drive. But were you too drunk to text? I start crying. I describe the mental hell I am in, the anxiety overload, and how I wishI was different. That I didn’t have this disorder and that I feel ashamed and pathetic even talking to him about it but I don’t know what else to do to make it go away so I can just get some fucking sleep already.
I have no idea how he will respond to this deluge of information.
Most people RUN. The other way. As fast as they can. When they see my anxiety in full force.
He doesn’t run. He leans in. And I am in shock.
He said he feels so sad and bad for making me feel this way. He made a mistake. He didn’t mean to make me feel disregarded. He regards me very well. And he knows the anxiety I am describing. He knows that particular kind of pain and suffering well. He has felt it himself. He has been where I am now, before. He hates that he caused it in me.
Empathy is a powerful thing.
Then he says, this might be crazy, but can I come over?
I say, you are damn right, that is crazy. Come over now.
When he shows up, four minutes later- he lives less than a mile away- he walks into my bedroom and sits down next to me, saying, this is one of those times when I want to tell you I love you. But I can’t. I am afraid of what it will…
I pull him on top of me and find his mouth. Shhhh…..
We fuck like mad until the sun begins to rise.
We fall asleep intertwined.
He smells like booze. But I like it. It is like this sexy cologne.
I can hardly sleep; I am so excited to be sleeping in his arms, even though he is snoring loudly. He wasn’t lying when he said he drank too much that night. When he wakes up, he fucks me again. Morning sex! I have not had morning sex in years! Not since my ex-husband and I first started dating. In those first three months, before we got pregnant, we had morning sex once. Only once. Then never again.
I am already wet when he rolls over and enters me. Just being next to Highland Park does that to me. He tells me I am eternally fuckable. Side by side is one of my favorite positions. It is everything I dreamed it would be. Hot and raw and wild.
He licks my ass. I offer it to him. He takes it. And it is rad.
His arm, gripping the headboard. His weight, on top of me.
I lose count of how many times I come.
I got it bad. I got it real bad.
Eventually, we have to stop and he takes a shower; I can hear him farting while I strip the sheets off the bed. Strangely intimate.
In less than two hours, my ex will drop off my sweet innocent four-year-old daughter for her Fairy Birthday Party, and I need to decorate the house in pink and glitter and prepare the wands and wings.
I will never forget this birthday party for as long as I live, that is for sure.