the blog


I get that you don’t get it. Wouldn’t help much if you did. I go silent, don’t say a word, I can’t. I pull away, leave the room, leave the house, leave the relationship. You’ll stand there like someone else did, begging me to speak. “You’re always waiting for the other shoe to fall. It’s not going to fall with me.” 

I know that you mean it right now, or that you want me to believe that you mean it, and I do believe you. Nothing bad is gonna happen while I’m here. The wind is blowing and the structure with the shoe on top is starting to shake, but it will be some time still before the footwear has gained enough momentum to fail it’s final flight. I would never stick around that long.

You’re “sick of this shit,” you tell me because for the second time today I’ve voiced an unfounded suspicion. I say fuck you and point out that you literally track me on Google maps and still think I fucked some greasy loser with BO. You don’t have a leg to stand on.

Then you reach for me and I’m so, so far away. 

If you thought less in absolutes and could see beyond the way you feel in any given moment, you would have to admit that this behavior is new for me. You would have to trace it back to it’s Tinder origins and then you wouldn’t be so fucking clueless as to where it’s coming from. 

Your story keeps changing and when I try to bring it up you scream at me. You said, “Look through my phone,” and then frantically took it back. The screen locks, the changing passwords. Who are you hiding from? I’m the only one here.

There’s no way for me to know you’re telling the truth. At least some of what I suspected turned out to be true, and while perhaps it was done in innocence, the fact that you keep changing stories prevents me from knowing what parts remain changed from the original. A single lie means I can never trust a fucking word you say.

I’ve been willing to let it go, to believe your unlikely explanations because some facts check out and because I want to. Yet, I lived for a week as though the worst things were real and that doesn’t just go away. You are sick of it already, you want me to stop, you scream at me and call me fat and stupid and abusive. You tell me you’re bored and horny and you try to fuck me and then ask why I roll over when you’re done to cry. 

Even if you’re not a liar, the illusion that I had of us was shattered during that week. I believed that you loved me, I thought you loved me so much that it was like glue for the shoe on the roof. I never had a doubt. 

Now I won’t ever believe it again. 

I have a personality disorder, Brian. You said it the other day in a rare moment of self-awareness. “It’s like I have all these thoughts and I know that they’re wrong but I can’t make them stop and I don’t know how else I should think. I don’t think I could if I did.” 

Every single man who came before you will tell you that I’m nuts. Controlling and jealous or intentionally cruel or just impossible to reach. Borderline Personality Disorder is marked by an intense fear of abandonment, which has hitherto made me impossible to be with. I get the irony. I’ve reeled it in throughout the years, the jealous, go-through-your-phone-and-freak-out-over-every-little-thing-while-I’m-the-one-cheating Ashley ended with my divorce. Then I was hurt-you-on-purpose-if-you-hurt-me-at-all Renee. Then I was try-to-be-good-but-can’t-stop-the-dysfunction-and-have-to-sabotage-the-relationship me with Dakota. I ended that one with the realization that I couldn’t stop accidentally hurting him unless I trusted him enough to talk, and that for once, I had to keep my mouth closed. Shoe might hit me in it.

I was secure with you because I trusted you, we worked because when I needed to, I felt like I could speak. Whether or not you did anything wrong, you triggered me. You woke up the sleeping devil. Now I’ll be as impossible as you.

Your insensitive handling of the situation is making it worse. I get that you were always an asshole, but now it hurts. Now I don’t have the certainty of your affection grounding my emotional reaction. When you say you’re done or “Over it,” or call me names, I feel it to my core. When you say you love me, it feels like I’m being lied to and manipulated, played the fool.

I believe in being fair, so here’s this, here’s what I would tell you if I could talk. It won’t make a difference I’m sure, which is why I don’t. Just know that knowing this makes your offenses even worse. The difference between manslaughter and murder. I am sorry already.

We are as good as over, Babe. The sooner you go, the better.