You're no good for company and everyone knows, and even the tears won't come out to say hello
Alternating between brutal depression and whimsical, solitary amusements. That is, when I'm not at work, where I'm usually too busy to think or feel, and when it's not busy, my primary feeling is merely boredom, as the environment there as an employee still makes it hard to get too reflective. Late next week I'll be going up to Ocala (about a four hour drive, I think, I did it once in November 2010) to see my old friend Galina for a couple of days, so that should be fun. I've known her nine years now and we're pretty close. Anyone who's read this for awhile may recall she and I have a complicated, often turbulent past, but that stuff's long over now and we are just best friends.
On February 9th I did write Lindsey a very long letter, almost 2500 words. I soon regretted it. It was bombastic and ridiculous. I pulled out all the literary stops, and was not shy about expressing either my affection (or what used to be that) for her or my tumultuous anguish, and I did not hesitate to call her on a lot of her shit. Her reply, close to a week later, was cold and sarcastic, and somewhat revealing of how she'd (supposedly) really felt about things the whole time, but she left a lot unaddressed and unexplained too, and I suspect some of it was just her trying to justify her abrupt change of heart after the fact. Either that or she's a master manipulator or something. Anyway, her reply deeply hurt me, though it wasn't surprising either. I wrote back apologizing for a lot of things but standing firm on my insistence that the way she ended things was not the right way to do it. One of her main points was how much pressure of expectation I put on her. She may have a point there, but I really was just trying to be as sweet as I could while still showing my strong interest. I feel she should have pushed back against this pressure if it was making her so uncomfortable. I also think she outright misinterpreted my strong interest when she complained, in her reply, that I apparently wanted her to spend the rest of her life with me. Such commitment is far, far from my mind, though dating for a year or two wasn't. Her signals were, as I have said, very mixed, but the positive ones were very, very positive. In any case, this self-abasing reply of mine was surely one of my lowest moments, dignity-wise. In it I acknowledged that she won't likely want to talk again, and so indeed I have not heard back. I do not expect to. She's over.
I still think about her though. I have even gone on her Facebook, just to look briefly. The other day I noticed she was not only no longer with the guy she'd blown me off for, but they weren't even any longer listing each other as friends! I looked on his timeline and there was a recent post which talked vaguely about frustration in dealing with someone, so I assume it referred to her. It made me feel better in a sick way, that this guy was just next in whatever long string of guys she apparently dates for a short time, and that he was apparently no better than I. (The thought of him maybe having gone further with her physically than I, who did nothing more than kiss her a lot, bothers me, but not as much as you'd think since I've never met him, and if he has, then his pain is probably even greater than mine in a way.)
Because it's my journal, I'm going to reproduce the eighth and penultimate paragraph of the epically long letter I wrote Lindsey. It expresses much of what I feel I lost when I lost her.
"Before last Wednesday night, I had looked forward to so much, to all the times I'd come pick you up and we'd kiss and joke around and share music and gifts. I looked forward to nights at my house cuddling, drinking tea and watching all sorts of things, and playing with my cats, and playing Scrabble, and making out to the most incredible music and touching heaven. I looked forward to days and nights on the beach, and seeing you glistening in sun or stars with seawater dew making your face radiant. I looked forward to showing you my favorite restaurants, and trying yours, and finding new ones together. I looked forward to adventures and misadventures, of endless miles driven going wherever our fancy took us. I looked forward to holding your hand, and holding your other hand, and kissing them like the old chivalrous days. I looked forward, Lindsey, to contriving the next perfect pun and hearing you laugh and reassure me it wasn't a complete bomb. I looked very much forward to hearing all about your synesthesia, as much as you wanted to tell me and more. And I looked forward to learning all manner of things about you, your life, your dreams and fears, your strange thoughts and obsessions, and what your philosophy of life really was. I looked forward to holding you in my arms as the night tucked us in to sleep."
So, now I'm looking forward to my little trip to see my friend. Before or after that, nothing to look forward to but the grim business of finding some more lucrative alternative to working at Barnes and Noble, and maybe one day a sort of career. It's just hard to care about, though, with almost all my friends save one or two living so far away, and being so fucking alone all the time, and being unable to focus on much of anything for long. Meanwhile, the cycle of work and empty leisure.
On February 9th I did write Lindsey a very long letter, almost 2500 words. I soon regretted it. It was bombastic and ridiculous. I pulled out all the literary stops, and was not shy about expressing either my affection (or what used to be that) for her or my tumultuous anguish, and I did not hesitate to call her on a lot of her shit. Her reply, close to a week later, was cold and sarcastic, and somewhat revealing of how she'd (supposedly) really felt about things the whole time, but she left a lot unaddressed and unexplained too, and I suspect some of it was just her trying to justify her abrupt change of heart after the fact. Either that or she's a master manipulator or something. Anyway, her reply deeply hurt me, though it wasn't surprising either. I wrote back apologizing for a lot of things but standing firm on my insistence that the way she ended things was not the right way to do it. One of her main points was how much pressure of expectation I put on her. She may have a point there, but I really was just trying to be as sweet as I could while still showing my strong interest. I feel she should have pushed back against this pressure if it was making her so uncomfortable. I also think she outright misinterpreted my strong interest when she complained, in her reply, that I apparently wanted her to spend the rest of her life with me. Such commitment is far, far from my mind, though dating for a year or two wasn't. Her signals were, as I have said, very mixed, but the positive ones were very, very positive. In any case, this self-abasing reply of mine was surely one of my lowest moments, dignity-wise. In it I acknowledged that she won't likely want to talk again, and so indeed I have not heard back. I do not expect to. She's over.
I still think about her though. I have even gone on her Facebook, just to look briefly. The other day I noticed she was not only no longer with the guy she'd blown me off for, but they weren't even any longer listing each other as friends! I looked on his timeline and there was a recent post which talked vaguely about frustration in dealing with someone, so I assume it referred to her. It made me feel better in a sick way, that this guy was just next in whatever long string of guys she apparently dates for a short time, and that he was apparently no better than I. (The thought of him maybe having gone further with her physically than I, who did nothing more than kiss her a lot, bothers me, but not as much as you'd think since I've never met him, and if he has, then his pain is probably even greater than mine in a way.)
Because it's my journal, I'm going to reproduce the eighth and penultimate paragraph of the epically long letter I wrote Lindsey. It expresses much of what I feel I lost when I lost her.
"Before last Wednesday night, I had looked forward to so much, to all the times I'd come pick you up and we'd kiss and joke around and share music and gifts. I looked forward to nights at my house cuddling, drinking tea and watching all sorts of things, and playing with my cats, and playing Scrabble, and making out to the most incredible music and touching heaven. I looked forward to days and nights on the beach, and seeing you glistening in sun or stars with seawater dew making your face radiant. I looked forward to showing you my favorite restaurants, and trying yours, and finding new ones together. I looked forward to adventures and misadventures, of endless miles driven going wherever our fancy took us. I looked forward to holding your hand, and holding your other hand, and kissing them like the old chivalrous days. I looked forward, Lindsey, to contriving the next perfect pun and hearing you laugh and reassure me it wasn't a complete bomb. I looked very much forward to hearing all about your synesthesia, as much as you wanted to tell me and more. And I looked forward to learning all manner of things about you, your life, your dreams and fears, your strange thoughts and obsessions, and what your philosophy of life really was. I looked forward to holding you in my arms as the night tucked us in to sleep."
So, now I'm looking forward to my little trip to see my friend. Before or after that, nothing to look forward to but the grim business of finding some more lucrative alternative to working at Barnes and Noble, and maybe one day a sort of career. It's just hard to care about, though, with almost all my friends save one or two living so far away, and being so fucking alone all the time, and being unable to focus on much of anything for long. Meanwhile, the cycle of work and empty leisure.