The last six months have been difficult ones without much comeuppance for the people who have hurt me. Many of these people have been guys. In fact, the drama got so bad that I swore off (until 2011) any kind of activity that wouldn’t be approved by a Sunday school teacher. The idea was this: if any guys decided to walk away without warning, it would hurt less. For the record, I was right. It did hurt less. Even if most of why he walked away was because I wouldn’t get naked.
What about the others? They show up, they fuck up, they get deleted. There’s either not enough of a relationship happening to bother with closure or there’s too much anger at the time to be coherent. I’m cleaning out some little boxes of hard feelings and writing some letters. I thought you might want to come along. Why? Because people like drama, rumor mills need rumor facts, and sometimes the most helpful thing you can do is tell someone the truth. We all just find it easier to walk away, but that doesn’t do any good. Haven’t you ever wanted to call a potential employer and find out why you didn’t get the job? They’re always too nice to tell you. You just keep making the same mistakes.
This week, I care enough to tell you the truth. I take ownership of some blame. I let go of some little boxes.
I think the only thing that kept me from saying truly horrible things about you is that I know I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You were a derailed train and I was a misplaced jogger. I wandered off and ended up directly in your path. It was a mistake.
You were a swirling mass of pain. You pretended to be okay long enough to reel me in, but then our time together degenerated into nothing but booze and misunderstandings. I kept trying to be understood and kept failing. Runaway trains do not speak English. You couldn’t hear me trying to explain things to you because we have two different meanings for the same word. I kept yelling “hammer” and you kept handing me a socket wrench.
You said weird things, made me feel crazy, manipulated me and indicted me for crimes actually committed by your ex. All of that wasn’t even what made me angry. What made me angry was that I worried about you. I worried that you weren’t okay. I worried that the swirling eddy of pain was going to suck you down. I lost sleep. My back hurt all the time. I was never hungry. My teeth hurt all the time from being ground down whenever I was able to successfully drug myself enough to sleep. We were all scared that you were going to end up killing yourself and there was nothing we could do.
What made me angry was, for all of that concern, you had no discernible concern for me or anyone else. I was going through Hell at work and you didn’t care. You wouldn’t listen. The world was slowly snapping me in half and you didn’t have more than 10 seconds to spare before interrupting me. I couldn’t help you and you couldn’t stop cutting little slices out of me. By the time you’d left, I was calling hotlines just so I could say horrible things and only a stranger would know. The only alternative was to remove you and walk away.
I didn’t write you off and walk away as quickly as I should have because I was trying to at least remain friends. Part of me was doing so because I legitimately wanted to be your friend; part of me was just doing it to keep life non-dramatic for mutual friends. Trying to keep life pleasant and non-weird. Even now, I know that we’ll eventually end up sitting across from each other at some dinner or seeing each other at some party. We’ll have to know how to be nice. I just had to get you back across the moat where you could no longer hurt me. I had to not care about anything you said. I eventually got there.
I don’t hate you and I’m not mad at you because I understand that thing about the runaway train. You may think I magically turned your friends against you. Even if I had that kind of power (and I do not), I wouldn’t have done that. With proper apologies, we’d all welcome you home. With proper apologies.