In last week’s post, “Getting Over the Guy Who Got Over Me,” I addressed the arduous process of relationship recovery. Of the many steps involved is the one I called the “rose-colored glasses off” phase, a stage whereat you begin to see the relationship (and him) truly. (Read to mean: as it [he] WAS—and NOT as you WANTED it [him] to be.) Hold this thought.
I also spoke of wanting (needing!) closure. Most women do, especially because we are usually left in the dark with unanswered questions as to why. Rarely, however, do men give it. The chances of an explanation, an apology—fuck!! even the acknowledgment it’s over—is as likely as Saudi Arabia taking Olympic gold in men’s ice hockey. That doesn’t mean I don’t still want it though . . .
What I actually want is to confront the bastard. I know it won’t change a damn thing, but I still want to. I actually run lines of dialog in my head. (A habit left over from my novel writing days? Probably.) In these imaginary conversations, I don’t only speak my mind and say my piece, I also anticipate his responses. Weird? Probably. But after 2 ½ years I know how he thinks and reacts to accusations of wrongdoing. And God knows I’ve got his speech patterns down cold—blue collar profanity and wrong grammar mixed with Philly colloquialisms and the occasional, wholly unexpected, impressive vocabulary word used in its correct context.
Another technique/tool I use to obtain the closure he has denied me is to write him letters. I doubt I will ever mail any of them. It helps nonetheless as a form of release. It gets out what needs to, which in turn helps me to process my emotions. Not to mention, remind myself of his bullshit behavior and cowardly denials, his steadfast refusals to accept any accountability.
The following is what I envision his written response would be—should I ever decide to lick a stamp instead of my wounds. Some might think I’m ripping off the scab by revisiting the past. But this harkens back to my earlier point about needing to view the relationship truly. As it was. Too, recounting (and reliving) his actions in print serves to remind me not only of the narc he is, but what a fool I was—valuable beyond measure and vital for those moments when I weaken and think to contact him . . .
Just to be clear. My conscience is clear. I am not responsible for your broken heart. In the beginning—let me reiterate that—in the very fucking beginning, I warned you. I told you this me. This is how I am. I never told you we were going to be an item. I never gave you a promise ring or promised you a rose garden. That fucking shit is for kids! Hell, Judith! I told you not to love me!
Never mind the mixed signals. The times I told you you were important to me and that I needed you in my life. The times I said I didn’t want to lose you and that we didn’t fuck now—we made love. And when I told you I loved you . . . Boo! Babe! It’s how the game is played! First, you undermine a woman’s defenses. You tell her your heart is guarded because of the hurt other females have done. By nature, women are nurturers, so most of them will eat this crap up! They can’t help themselves. They want to kiss the boo-boo and make it better. Next, you tell her the shit she wants to hear and the shit that makes her feel beautiful and desired—and unique. You tell her she’s not like the other girls and women you’ve been with. Without ever actually saying it, you let her think she’s THE ONE. The one that can turn a bad boy into a good man. It’s the fucking fairy tale all women want to believe! And it works like a fucking charm every fucking time! Last, you bait the trap to lure her in. You tell her shit that makes her think you’re going to be together in the future . . . like you want to meet her sons or she will meet your friends. You talk about doing stuff and going places. It works every time, and in no time you’ve got her hooked. But like I said, it’s all a game. And I’m a fucking master at it.
You never stood a chance. Despite your education and intelligence (and yeah, you are the smartest woman I’ve fucked), you were still a novice. Despite your worldly travel and the books you wrote, you were just as dumb as the all the dumbass bitches that came before you. Older than the 30-year-olds I prefer, you weren’t no wiser. In a way, you were actually more naïve. Or maybe just more desperate. It’s not like a sixty-year-old can compete with a thirty-year-old. You said so yourself the night we met. You asked “Why go with a sixty-year-old?” I answered, “Intellect. There has to be something there for later.” Fuck! What a comeback! I had never used it before, but sure as fuck have since! So thanks for that.
I will admit though . . . you were a bit more a challenge. It took me a good while to totally figure you out. It threw me at first how little you wanted. You didn’t need to go out so you could show off to the other bitches in the club. What a fucking waste of money some females cost! And time. Waiting hours for them to get ready because they need to look good. You weren’t a pain in my ass about calls and texts neither. I could disappear for a month and never talk to you or not see you for . . . what? It was like 4 months . . . But when I showed back up, you took me right back into your life—and bed. Speaking of . . . there wasn’t no questions about other women I was seeing and fucking neither. When I told you I can’t give you exclusivity, you said you weren’t asking for it. Fuck, Judith! You made it so easy! I really thought there was a catch—until I realized it was just an indication of how little you valued yourself—that you were happy with so little, though you gave so much.
And you did. Give. I mean, who just hands over a check for $2500 without hesitating—and without an IOU? I know it’s been 2 years and I haven’t paid you back. And just so you know, I don’t intend to. It’s not going to kill you. I give to people all the time and don’t expect nothing in return. Besides, I fucked you for over 2 years. I figure the best sex of your life is worth $2500. Oh, and by the way, when you asked me to pay you back in October. . . I shut that shit right down. I called you a fucking nut and told you you were looking for something that had nothing to do with money. I told you I would do what I could do when I could, and you dropped it. Yeah, you might have a temper at first, but I knew you always calm down and come back around. You wanted to be with me so whatever I gave you were happy.
I have told you plenty of times. Don’t ever think I don’t have appreciation for everything you have done for me. I appreciate you took care of all the details with work when I went to rehab. You drove me all the hell out there and brought the FMLA paperwork out. You saved my job and probably my life. You bought me cartons of cigarettes and new clothes and came very Sunday to visit me. It helped break the boredom at that damn place for sure. But I KNEW you were going to think it meant more than it did. Especially when I got out and stayed at your place for 6 weeks. I pulled back on purpose but fucked you a couple times so you would think there was still something between us. You planned that trip to Venice and I took vacation. I still wanted to go. I don’t know shit about traveling to foreign countries. When I went with you to Munich, we saw some great shit. I knew Italy would be good so I kept acting like we’re friends and I was going to stick around. But seriously, Judith! Your first clue should have been when I went back to my place and never talked to you for 2 weeks until the day we left for Italy. That one surprised me, I got to admit. I expected temper. But you never said a word. That’s when I realized what a door mat you really are. I knew how bad you wanted to be with me. But I just wanted to go to Venice. That’s why I was careful it wasn’t a romantic trip like we were a couple. Yeah, we had sex a few times. But sex is sex. It don’t mean nothing. Hell, I didn’t even bother to introduce you to my buddy from work and his wife when we ran into them in the square. But you never said nothing. Toward the end I was getting tired of you. I always do with every female. I need to just do me.
That’s why when we got back, I disappeared. You tried to text a couple times. I told you I was busy with my life and working a good bit and you dropped it. I did come through to put up your Christmas tree. I was thinking it would keep you off my back about the money. It’s why I showed up in January. It’s why I fucked you when you asked. I can’t believe you can’t get dick, Judith. You can. You just want me. But you can’t have me. No woman can. I’m a gigolo. I go my own way, see who I please, when I please. You can ask any of the females I have been with and still talk to and sometimes fuck . . . I fuck who I want. When I want. I thought you knew that because I told you.
I do have appreciation you have not been bothering me with dumbass texts trying to make contact. If I wanted to see you, I would. It’s funny as fuck how you females don’t get that! If we’re not around, it’s because we don’t want to be. I told you when you asked my opinion for your friend, there ain’t nothing a woman can put in a text to bring a man back. If he’s 50 miles away, her bugging him will send him 100 miles away. I told you if you tried that shit with me, I’m gone. I also told you if I left, you’d fucking know it. I’m guessing you know it now since I have not heard from you in a couple months . . . except for that bullshit letter you sent which I am answering now. Why do you have to be so fucking analytical anyway?
I’m sorry you got hurt. But like I said, I warned you. I told you not to love me.