Venting . . .

Gosh, I’ve been such a bad Xangan lately.  I’ve been doing far too much hit-and-run posting in recent weeks/months.  You know, where someone just drops a post, and doesn’t come back to Xanga until weeks later when they’re ready to post again, so they haven’t responded to any of the kind people who replied to the previous post? 

Yeah, I hate people like that . . .

OK, let’s move beyond self-deprecation, shall we?  Let’s get down to the business at hand: venting.  After all, this is Darren’s venting spot, right?

So here’s the thing. It seems that things between my boy and I are finally through.  We’ve split.  It’s over

The usual gamut of grief emotions have taken their toll on me, as would be expected.  I wish I could say that I had some resolution on the matter though.  I wish I could say that I had arrived at that enviable stage of “acceptance”.  But I haven’t.  There’s something off . . . something missing.  I just can’t take this.

I knew that him moving back into town was going to be difficult.  I prepared for it for weeks . . . getting my support all lined up, my counseling sessions all planned, and the like.  Yet, there was this small, flickering flame of hope that things would somehow turn out OK.  That we’d somehow settle into a comfortable sort of relating, and be at peace.  I knew I should have doused that little flame with a whopping dose of water the moment it lighted

It’s been disastrous, really.  And I don’t even know why.  I’ve been working on my end – but there’s something on his end – something I don’t quite understand.  I wish I DID understand, but he’s like a fucking brick wall.  He won’t let me in.  So without understanding, I’m just left to assume and presume – which is simply no good for me.  It provides no closure.

We met up 2 weeks ago today, and we talked a lot of shit out.  I walked away from that 3 hour conversation still with many questions, and no real resolution, but at least I was at peace.  We embraced warmly, and went our seperate ways to continue sorting through things, with the promise that we’d meet up soon to continue discussing if we could be friends, and what that might look like.

It was the first time I think he’s heard me in ages.  The first time he’s given a damn about what *I* think on the matter.  The first time in a long time that he even asked me a fucking question, to understand what was going on in MY heart. 

I thought this was progress.  This was what I wanted . . . for us to be working TOGETHER so that we could find our way into an answer – into a comfortable way of relating towards one another.  I thought we could successfully put those days of him making unilateral decisions for US behind us.

But when we met up again 4 days later, I discovered just how wrong I was!  He didn’t even give me a chance to speak.  He didn’t ask a fucking question!  He didn’t once consider my opinion.  This was all about him – about what he needed, what he could handle, and consequently, what he would decide for the both of us.  AGAIN

There was some bullshit about how he couldn’t meet my expectations of friendship (as if he even had a proper understanding of what that was! or how flexible it was!), so we should just be nothing.  I was honestly floored by it.

Because I . . . I showed up to this little conversation not having come to any firm answer yet.  I showed up ready to have another good, honest, open discussion about where we both were, how we felt, what we could/could not handle, and to suggest we get some outside help.  I mean, we obviously haven’t been able to get our messages across to each other in any sort of clear manner.  So I was going to suggest he accompany me to my next counseling session, since Lance is so genius at helping people work through these types of messes.

But did that matter?  Did my opinion count for a fucking thing?!  Did my feelings at ALL factor into this?  Did he bother to care enough to include me in any of this?  NO!  He’d already made the decision FOR US.  AGAIN  

And so, here I am.  Trying my best to move on . . . without closure.  Clueless as to what happened, or how the fuck I got here.  Enraged by it all.  I swear, the only thing that’s kept me from doing/saying something to completely hurt him (as he’s incapacitated me with pain several times these last few months) is that I can at least BEGIN to empathize w/ what he’s dealing with in regards to his family, and how this affects the way he views himself and his security.  (I say BEGIN to empathize, b/c I still don’t really have a good story on what’s going on there . . . the minute I bring up family, his lips get tighter than a hollywood actess’s face pumped with Botox.)

I’m frustrated.  I’m angry.  It’s unresolved.  There’s no closure.  Yet, I have no choice here . . . I simply must move on.  I just have to somehow find a way to detox . . . even though I know there’s a better way than this.  Even though I know we could work through this in a much more healthy manner.  But I also know it can’t be done if he’s not onboard . . . it takes 2 willing partners to tango.  I’ve been dancing alone for far too long.

Yet, through all this anger, I realize that’s just the surface.  I know it’s just masking the much deeper wound . . . the pain.  Anger is so much easier to deal with – an emotion I’m more familiar with.  But this pain?  What do I do with that?

Bah.

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