I do my best self destruction in the winter. I try to keep myself occupied and happy-ish by any means necessary. I always fail because I usually turn to other people to entertain me and keep my mind off my inconceivable sadness. And every year I tell myself I’m not going to do it. I rarely find myself on a dating site in the summer and if I do, it is for less than 48 hours before I realize that there is really nobody out there that I want. I’m not sure that I’m even a long term kind of person. Well, I’m usually not sure. Until Flea Market guy, which is why I gave him another shot. We were so fucking compatible. He got my dark sense of humor and his matched pretty well. We had a level of comfort I haven’t found in anyone in a long time. At least, not romantically. In a dark, sick and twisted kind of way, I’d say that it’s safe to assume that he will probably die soon. Not at my hand, although on New Year’s Eve and then again on New Year’s Day, the jury was still out. But I think I may be cursed. I have only ever loved two other people as much as I think I love Flea Market Guy. And they’ve both died. Again, I feel like I should re-iterate that they did not die at my hand, despite all the murder-y jokes I like to make. Although, I’ve decided that I never want to see him again, so he will probably live forever and get famous or something so he’ll be on every channel I turn on. I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t watch much television.
I’ve always known that it is hard to love someone with an addiction. But as it turns out, the most addicted are the most convincing of their control over the issue. That was his problem. He was so far in denial about the fact that he had a problem, he couldn’t even admit that the drinking wasn’t even the problem. It was just his solution to it. Which led to lying and promiscuity and sometimes just flat out being mean, which I would sometimes make excuses for like, “he’s sick. If he had cancer, I couldn’t get mad and walk away.” But then it dawned on me. I’m not a fucking doctor. And I’m really, really tired of being the healer to all men broken. So I backed him into a corner and forced him to tell me to get out of his life, because if I didn’t hear him say it, I would have continued to stick around because even on his worst day, he was better than a lot of other men I’ve dated. Which I guess says a whole lot more about me than it does about him. But it was winter time. And he was a great distraction, until about 10 pm. After that he was just a heartless asshole who didn’t know the difference between brutal honesty and just being mean. And when he woke up in the morning, he wouldn’t remember what he had said. I didn’t want to keep telling him all the shitty things he said or did. But I also didn’t want to walk away because in the hours before 10pm, we were so good together. But sometimes, good isn’t enough. If only I had that epiphany 10 years ago. Or 20. I’ve spent so much of my time with mediocre people, giving my all and getting nothing or very little in return, that I pretty much programmed myself to put shitty people on pedestals because they weren’t as shitty as what I was used to. It’s a vicious cycle. And I’m sure I’m not alone in this. But that’s neither here nor there.
I think I learned a valuable lesson. One that has been repeated in books and classes throughout history. You can’t change people. People will change when they are ready to. You have to decide how much shit you are willing to step in before you say enough is enough. I think I recently reached my threshold. I’d love to sit here and say that I will ignore his call or his text or his face if it pops up in the future, but I don’t know if I’m that strong yet. I’m working on it though. But I can sit here and say that I will not be sending the text, making the call or showing up at his door ever again. I am strong enough for that. And I think I’m finally done looking for a distraction from my own darkness. I think I would rather be alone in my room staring at the ceiling than laying in bed next to a someone who can’t decide whether they want to love me back.
RouletteWeekend 