anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

Road to Shitsville

I have been avoiding writing about the events of the weekend because I did not want to put into words, and therefore properly process, just how ugly Saturday was. I still don't really want to process it. But I think I should because it's caused me three days of crying.

In short, it is becoming increasingly clear, if it not already crystal clear on Saturday, that giving Thomas another chance was a mistake. On Saturday, he did the exact thing that he said, in clear, unambiguous words, that he will not do. Worse, not only did he do the very thing that he knew caused things to break down between us, but he upped the ante by doing something that he hadn't, at least to my knowledge, deliberately done before.

But here's some context. First, it was the day before my period (which I found out the next day; my cycles are irregular and this past one was particularly short; I wasn't expecting it to arrive until tomorrow or something like that) so my hormones were out of control. Second, before Saturday, I was already feeling like he wasn't doing enough to make it up to me like I told him that he'd have to if we were to date again. So there was already some pent-up thoughts leading up to Saturday which I'd wanted to tell him when we met on Saturday.

The event, then. The plan was to meet at 3pm. At 1pm, I texted him to tell him that I'd just finished tennis and that I wouldn't be able to make 3pm; was 3.30pm ok? At 2.17pm, he replied saying it would have to be after 3.30; he had to go to work as there was a power outage. I replied immediately: 'Okay, what time then? And where?'

It was unclear if he was still at work or if he'd finished and had gone home. The message was, 'I had to go to work.' Had, past tense, implying, perhaps, he had to go, but wasn't at work anymore. I waited until about 3.40pm for him to answer, and so when he still hadn't answered, I followed up: 'Where are you now? Are you still meeting?'

He was still at work. They were digging a hole. 'Will text when we are done,' he said.

'Okay,' I said. 'I really need to see you today.'

Perhaps my message put him on guard. It certainly did convey an unpleasant sense of anxiety which, in the spirit of interpreting his behaviour in its best possible light, somebody who had just spent his whole Saturday on a stressful and physically demanding task might understandably not want to deal with. Still, I'm not sure if this exonerates, first, his failure to do as he said he would: text when he was done; and second, his blatantly ignoring me.

At 8.15pm, when I still hadn't heard from him, I asked, 'Are you still at work?'

Half an hour later: 'Nope.'

One word. No explanation whatsoever. No 'sorry I didn't text earlier; [insert an excuse]'. He'd actually just finished half an hour ago, which I discovered when I called him (after quoting his message about texting when he was done and saying, 'I have been waiting for the past five hours.') and he said that he was driving home from work. I didn't want to talk to him while he was driving for obvious reasons so I said call me when you're home.

This was about 9pm. At 10.15pm, after I'd dealt with some journal work, I checked my phone (it was on silent and non-vibrate, as always) and saw nothing from him. Absolutely nothing; no 'I'm home but I'm tired; can we talk tomorrow?', or 'I had a really rough day and I would like to be alone; can I call you tomorrow?', or 'I would like to go to bed soon; can we keep the call short?' Even something like 'I don't want to deal with your drama' would have been preferable to the dead bloody silence that he'd sent.

I sent a barrage of messages, called a few times. I referred to the things that he said he would do. I asked if he cared at all. It was terrible. I felt terrible. I didn't understand what was going on. When he finally said something, he said, 'I'm home. But I want to be left alone. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone. I want to be alone.' True to his word, he ignored my messages and my calls.

The last thing that I sent to him before I got into a taxi and went over to his was, 'I'm going over to yours if you don't pick up.'

About 6 weeks ago, in my email to him rationalising my drunken break up message after the fact, I said that dating him brought out the worst in me. He'd definitely brought out the worst in me on Saturday. What kind of crazy person does this, take a taxi to her pseudo-boyfriend's place at 11pm when he doesn't want to see her because he was doing nothing to assuage her anxiety? What kind of relationship can be considered a decent one in which both parties can't meet each other's needs? I went over, spent 10 pounds on the taxi, even got lost in his estate and couldn't find his house, and when I finally did, he let me in, he got back into bed, and I stood against the wall, shouting at him in the darkness.

What the hell is this? Why are we both inflicting this unpleasantry and nastiness on ourselves? All I cared about in the moment was my own pain; I didn't care about his. All he cared about in the moment was his own fatigue; he didn't care about my anger and hurt. He did try, of course. He realised that it was on him to make it up to me and that instead of doing that, he had made things worse. He also realised that in the span of a week, he'd made me upset and made me cry. 'You can do better for yourself,' he said. I thought, but didn't say, 'But I chose you.'

He was too tired to talk about the substantive issues. All he did was look at me in the darkness while I ranted and raved. Was he aware of the precariousness of the situation? Did he care? Did he mean it when he said that he cared about this, about 'us', about me? The words were on the tip of my tongue; all I had to do was to open my mouth and say them. 'This isn't working,' I could have said. 'I can't do this anymore. We are done.' I felt the words take shape on my tongue; these words, anxious to be released, felt like candies bursting in my mouth.

But I couldn't say it. Despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to let go, to end it. I ended up getting into bed with him and cuddling for a while before heading home. Our hug goodbye was genuine, and so was the quick kiss that I initiated.

Despite that. Despite Sunday, my relatively okayish mood when I was in London and met my cousin for lunch, depsite the message that I sent him which I had meant - that I was sorry for losing my temper and not respecting his need for space, that I missed spending quality time with him, could I go over that evening and cuddle on the sofa and watch trashy TV shows? - on Monday, I formed the intention to end things. I found myself crying again over him. I noted how he wasn't doing anything differently -- that, essentially, he wasn't displaying the urgency that I had wanted him to exhibit; the urgency, that is, to make up with me, to want to see me, spend time with me. He was just passive and silent and coming across as so blase, so disinterested, as if he couldn't care any less. The truth is probably that he's tired of and from all this emotionally draining drama, and that his silence was just his way of coping. Whatever it was, I hated the way it made me feel.

I should have stuck to the plan. I should not have changed my mind when he said I could go over. I should not have half-heartedly tried to see if spending a normal evening with him would bring back any of the old feelings and remind me of what I'd liked about him to begin with...because there was no point if my heart wasn't fully in it. The evening was nice enough: he was jokey, it was relaxed, I unwittingly criticised his iPod rotation when we were in his car... We cuddled on his couch and watched University Challenge; our reactions were, simultaneously, 'Ooh let's watch that!' when it showed up on the programme guide. Then we watched a travel programme on Lisbon which he'd loved and which I'd liked when I went with Mag. He fell asleep shortly after the programme started.

Things took a turn for the worse when I decided to take matters into my own hands and initiate some physical intimacy. This is extremely noteworthy, for I literally cannot think of a time when I've been in a darkened room with a man who did not try to do anything sexual with me. I have been wanting to escalate things physically with Thomas for obvious reasons, but it seemed that everytime we were alone in a room, he was tired and didn't want to do anything. It may be completely legitimate but oh my god, oh my god, it is so confusing. He claims to be sexually attracted to me but he does nothing about it. When have I ever dated a straight male who has demonstrated so little sexual interest? Probably never.

So last night. I started kissing him in a manner that suggested, clearly, where I'd wanted it to go. Of course, he knew that I was on my period, so there would have been no sex anyway; but what was wrong with old-fashioned making out? But he was tired, of course. He was drifting in and out of sleep. What did I expect, that he'd be jolted out of his fatigue by his insatiable sexual desire for me and reciprocate?

Actually, that was exactly what I had expected. It was exactly what did not happen. He didn't push me away, but he didn't have to; all he had to do was to stop kissing me back, turn his head away slightly. I took the hint and stopped. I tried not to feel stupid but I did. And then everything else -- the rawness of the emotions on Saturday -- came creeping back into my mind, and I suddenly felt an onset of a panic attack, a quickness of breath, similar to the one that I'd felt with Matt (which was triggered by my perception of his lack of interest in me; I didn't write it then but it was actually the trigger). I had to go to the toilet to calm myself down.

At about 10.15, he said that he was going to bed; what did I want to do? Of course I was going to go home. I didn't bring any clothes, didn't bring the appropriate supply for my period... He'd noticed that my mood had changed, that I was being weird and quiet. When I told him the reason -- at least, the surface reason -- he wasn't reassuring, but frustrated.

I don't really want to write about this anymore. The bottom line is that what I realised 6 weeks ago is true: we are incompatible. There's nothing that he can do to make it up to me because the things that I want him to do are just not who he is. There's nothing that I can do to ease the pressure on him because the thing that he wants to be able to get away with is not something that I can handle.

Above all else, I don't think that there's anything that he can do to take away the hurt that I felt, and still feel, from Saturday -- on top of the hurt that I felt, and still feel, from two weeks ago when he walked away from me. I gave him a second chance and he shat all over it. How does one take that back? How do we get past it? If he'd really wanted this...if he'd really cared...he wouldn't have done what he did on Saturday.

I'm so tired right now. I don't want to write this anymore.
Tags: never again

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