“Most of this garbage I write that these people seem to like is about you and how I let you infect my life”
Disclaimer: My 22 years of frequent exposure to harmful levels of testosterone have given me a constant gravity to discussions of love and heartbreak.
Leave:
1. To go away from, as a place.
2. To depart from permenantely; quit
3. To let remain or have remaining behind after going, disappearing, ceasing.
I am hostile to being left by the men in my life. I live in fear of the last supper. The possibility, the inevitability of the departure leaves me in a paralyzed state of panic. After years of slammed doors I have self-diagnosed relationship induced anxiety. At the on start of the relationship, however temporary and impractical, my feet begin to slip down the slope of my own fear. My hands lose their grip in the rock, and my fall to the bottom of the pit looms. I live my relationships in anticipation of the end, and when it does come, instead of relief there is my grief. I have found ways to self-medicate; the booze helps to close the growing divide, if only to then leave me thirsty and throbbing.
Today another man has bid his farewell. I am a mess, and my plans for alcohol coaxed happiness have begun. The problem with his leaving is that it was not predicted. His mid-story withdrawal has left me with no ending. I went through the necessary steps to beg of him a change of heart. They never seem to work. The first is disbelief and silence, with the hope that he will retract his previous statement. The second is to cry. This only makes them want to run and hide. Men and my tears are like oil and water. The third is anger. I curse and use phrases such as “fuck you,” “I hate you,” and “you are only furthering the bitch in me.” Finally there is acceptance. I never mean any of the words I use while in the phase of acceptance. The “I understand,” and “I will not hold a grudge,” are all my pathetic attempts to pull him back into me. This cycle will repeat until one of the three happen: a. I find a new man; b. He stops answering my calls; c. I flush my phone down the toilet. I can only say let the wheel spin once more.
The future holds for me only desperation. Money will be spent on the expensive lingerie, temptations of sex without strings will be made, but despite these efforts he will pack his emotions back in the chest and continue on.
I like to think, if only to toy with the idea, that I will one day in a future exit shrug my shoulders and wish him well, but the odds of this are low. If you a gambling man, you should bet on a different horse.
Leave:
1. To go away from, as a place.
2. To depart from permenantely; quit
3. To let remain or have remaining behind after going, disappearing, ceasing.
I am hostile to being left by the men in my life. I live in fear of the last supper. The possibility, the inevitability of the departure leaves me in a paralyzed state of panic. After years of slammed doors I have self-diagnosed relationship induced anxiety. At the on start of the relationship, however temporary and impractical, my feet begin to slip down the slope of my own fear. My hands lose their grip in the rock, and my fall to the bottom of the pit looms. I live my relationships in anticipation of the end, and when it does come, instead of relief there is my grief. I have found ways to self-medicate; the booze helps to close the growing divide, if only to then leave me thirsty and throbbing.
Today another man has bid his farewell. I am a mess, and my plans for alcohol coaxed happiness have begun. The problem with his leaving is that it was not predicted. His mid-story withdrawal has left me with no ending. I went through the necessary steps to beg of him a change of heart. They never seem to work. The first is disbelief and silence, with the hope that he will retract his previous statement. The second is to cry. This only makes them want to run and hide. Men and my tears are like oil and water. The third is anger. I curse and use phrases such as “fuck you,” “I hate you,” and “you are only furthering the bitch in me.” Finally there is acceptance. I never mean any of the words I use while in the phase of acceptance. The “I understand,” and “I will not hold a grudge,” are all my pathetic attempts to pull him back into me. This cycle will repeat until one of the three happen: a. I find a new man; b. He stops answering my calls; c. I flush my phone down the toilet. I can only say let the wheel spin once more.
The future holds for me only desperation. Money will be spent on the expensive lingerie, temptations of sex without strings will be made, but despite these efforts he will pack his emotions back in the chest and continue on.
I like to think, if only to toy with the idea, that I will one day in a future exit shrug my shoulders and wish him well, but the odds of this are low. If you a gambling man, you should bet on a different horse.
Men are my potato chips.
You can’t eat just one.
You can’t eat just one.
I would like to thank hops for their part in my recovery.
The road to recovery is found at the bottom of a plastic cup.
My Fourth of July was spent watching a bootlegged firework show and singing AC/DC lyrics.
“She had the sightless eyes telling me no lies”
No comments:
Post a Comment