An Uneasy Truce.

Sometimes its not so fun to be right. I was pretty embarrassed about the facebook gaffe until I realized that I was right. He was upset with me. I am sorry. Only a little bit sorry, but sorry nonetheless.

I have a very insightful friend, the best find of a friend that is simultaneously tremendously consoling while being brutally honest.

Today she asked me a straightforward question. Without questioning or debasing my need to express myself and work out all of the confusion and pain that I've been dealing with in the last three days, she wanted to know if part of the reason that I had been blogging about all of this was to publicly provoke him into having the private dialogue that we didn't have before. That is--publicly shame him into having to deal with me.

I read her words and scrunched up my face. I hadn't thought about it in that way, but I couldn't deny that, on a certain level, this sounded just about right.

So we worked out an uneasy truce. I'm going to sign off for awhile and deal with this the way it should have been dealt with all along. Off-line. In private. Face to face. In return, he is going to sit down with me for as long as I need him to and really listen to what I have to say. I don't expect him to make any sense of this for me on his end and I can't imagine that its going to make me feel better in the short term, but at least in the long term I think that I will feel like there was some measure of dignified closure to this chapter of my life.

Over and Out. Talk to you on the flip side.

Afternoon Update: I Am Hereby Revoking My Facebook Stalking Privileges

And now for a healthy dose of "Oh no, you didn't really do that." Whereby I respond, "Why yes I did" and sit at my desk laughing at myself uncontrollably. This is a good thing.

Facebook is a funny thing. For those of us addicted to it and the constant status updates, its a nice way of keeping track of how your friends (and i'm only dialed into people I actually know) are doing and how they spend their workdays. On Facebook, duh.

It also bascially allows you to stalk people, or, conversely, indirectly communicate with someone when you can't do so directly. So instead of telling your roommate directly that you're pissed off at him, you can tell him INdirectly by saying "Joe is...pissed at Pete for leaving his bong in the dishwasher." I've actually seen this one. No joke.

I was taking a break from the only productive thing that I've done today (my November timesheets) and was browsing status updates. So I'm browsing along, not minding my own business AT ALL, when I come to the immediate conclusion that his updates have something to do with him being pissed at me about all of this public blogging stuff. Because, as you all know, it is ALL ABOUT ME RIGHT NOW. God, people, figure it out.

In my infinite sleep and calorie-deprived wisdom, I toss of an e-mail basically confessing to the facebook stalking and with a statement that if this blog was becoming an issue, we could talk about it. Hit send.

Almost immediately, the sane third (ok, eighth) of my brain kicked in. "You, know, psycho, it probably has NOTHING to do with you." "Yes brain, you're probably right. Walk away from the computer."

This is one e-mail that he has my full blessing to ignore. Please, ignore.

So, I am very sorry and wholeheartedly confess that this is borderline crazy chick behavior. It won't happen agin.

Just Hit Delete, Dammit

I typically have the cleanest e-mail inboxes of anyone I know, as I use my inboxes as a to-do list. If I'm done with a task or have responded to a message, I hit delete or file the words away in their appropriate outlook folder.

My personal e-mail inbox is a disaster right now. I can't bear to delete any of the kinds words that have been sent along by friends new and old (I am truly blessed with friends, no doubt about that). And I can't stop obsessively pouring over those words that it would be in my best interest to delete permanently.

He finally emailed me back yesterday. A couple of painful exchanges followed; full of emotion on my part and little in the way of elucidation on his part. I don't really have a filter on expressing my pain right now and before I really had time to think it through, I had hit send on an email with story that I had never told anyone else in full before then.

Its a story that explains a lot about how I could be so devastated at the death of relationship that didn't even make it to the six month mark. But it felt good to tell it, as the process of writing helped me gain a lot of perspective. I feel less like a despondent crazy person and more like an ordinary person with an extraordinary amount of baggage. And seriously, there are people out there with cancer and head wounds and no place to live. I can deal with a little heartbreak (ok, a big heartbreak).

A few more back and forths, mostly one-liners about exchanging stuff and me claiming sole custody of a party on Sunday night. But I can't delete any of his emails. The pull to keep a line of communication open is almost overwhelming, even though every time I hit "reply" its about as good for me as pulling out my small intestine inch my inch. With a pair of rusty pliers. While being hung upside down by my ankles. Just hit delete, dammit. Let it go. Let him go.

Going to go to work today. I have one final tangible piece of him to deal with. Its silly really. One morning in August, before we had exchanged 'I Love Yous," we sat at my dining room table drinking coffee while I had my condo appraised for a re-fi. I got up to do something, and when I came back, he had written "I Like You" with a smiley face on the side of my paper coffee cup. I finished that latte at work later that morning and couldn't bear to throw the cup away. It was too cute and funny and sweet. Its been sitting on a shelf in my office since then, sort of a little reminder to myself about what I had waiting for me when I got home at night. I have to throw it away now. Let it go. Let him go.

A Pound (or Five) of Flesh

I need to eat. And keep eating. I weighed myself Monday morning after my ride in from work. 156.7. And again before intervals today. 150.2. So basically all of this grieving has cost me almost 6 pounds in 48 hours. Not exactly how I wanted to go about it.

Most of my calories in the last two days and three hours have come in the form of bourbon. And it showed at intervals tonight. We were supposed to do four sets of 2min x 5. I made it to the end of the third set and realized that I was running on fumes and rage and anxiety medication and I was probably going to hurt myself if I kept going.

Sleep is going to be easier tonight. I am struggling just keeping my eyes open long enough to purge what I need to purge to keep the bad dreams away.

There is a box sitting on my floor right now that used to contain some clothes and various items that I had left at his house. Most of the clothes went straight into the washing machine. Right before I tried to start the cycle, I couldn't do it. Pulled one shirt out, the one that smells most like his bedroom. I am going to sleep in that one tonight, but I promise to wash it first thing in the morning.

Baby Steps

I'm currently sitting in my bed looking at a short to-do list.

-Open curtains.

-Make Coffee.

-Eat.

Check. Check. Check. I've even moved beyond the list, having reviewed documents for a contract dispute at around 6 this morning and am now listening to a rate case workshop on the cell speakerphone.

But I haven't really quit crying and I'm hunkered down again in my bedroom with the cats. This morning I got as far as packing my bag and getting dressed to ride into the office. But as soon as I touched the Kona, I started bawling. I'm dangerously close to being sick and tired of my own ridiculous sorry ass company. And its only been two days.

What else is on my to-do list?

-Ride. I've got to go get on my bike. Even if it means I have to pull over every three blocks to wipe my eyes with a nasty snotty bandanna.

-Sleep.

-Write. I suppose there's always the risk that putting all of this private stuff out in the public domain will someday seem silly or ill-advised or immature. But I have to get all of this out of my system before it poisons me.

And I don't know how else to work this through in my head when I can't have a dialogue with him. No response to any of my e-mails, not even one acknowledging my request to deal with the things that I left at his house. The silence speaks volumes about what I meant to him.

I want all traces of me away from him. My good glasses, my favorite hat, a book that he used to read out loud from before we went to sleep. I want my stuff back. Now.

I've been on the other side of this before. Been the one that wanted out and then consciously avoided the raw and horrible pain that I had caused. I took my time answering emails, wouldn't return phone calls and there is still an unopened letter stashed away in my bureau. I still don't feel very good about myself for any of that.

Finally, on my list:

-No more e-mails to him. No desperate crazy stalker chick bullshit. I have more pride than that. If he wants his daily dose of "LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME" he'll have to come looking for it here. Or not.

So I'm stuck with one sided theorizing.

This morning's topic: commitment. I think was was dating a closeted commitment-phobe. Too bad for me that I didn't notice the signs until I was the latest victim.

I knew virtually nothing about his prior relationships. Just that he had been engaged once, was dating someone when he moved out here and that he dodged most of my questions about those relationships and why those didn't work out. It was odd, as he was so forthcoming with everything else. But I trusted him with my heart and let him have his privacy.

A few weeks ago he began to dodge questions about future plans. I have tickets to Arizona that I need to use. A while back we had talked about going to Tucson or Sedona in February. When I e-mailed a few weeks later to ask him to think of a date, there was silence. When I mentioned reserving a good room for Interbike next year, he squirmed and said nothing. Same thing when I rambled on in the car on Sunday about hoping that I was still a Cat 4 when we went to St. Louis for the Gateway cup (his idea).

About the time he was having a moment of clarity on Monday, I was drafting an e-mail about my work Christmas party and other Christmas plans. His response was odd: something like "lindsay-let me bring dinner over tonight. how about 7?" It was odd because he used my full name (instead of baby or linds) and we usually didn't make plans for the evening until late in the day. And there was just something off about the tone and timing.

Ironically, I had a fleeting thought, wow, maybe he's going to break up with me. I have no idea where that thought came from. I remember letting out a loud uncomfortable chuckle and going back to work. After all, we had just spent (what I had thought) a great long weekend together. We had gone to a movie the night before and he held my hand in both of his the entire time. Went home, made love and he kissed me on the forehead goodnight while I snuggled into the same place on his shoulder where I had fallen asleep every night for weeks.

Twenty four hours later I was alone, curled up on the floor of my bedroom wishing that the roof would fall in and end my misery.

WHY DIDN'T I SEE ANY OF THIS?

Because this was the same man who told me, after being away for two weeks, that he didn't ever want to be away from me that long ever again. And I trusted and believed him.

I think he knew all along that things would end this way and didn't do or say anything when the relationship ebbed because he eventually wanted things to end. If this relationship had meant anything to him, if I had meant anything to him, he would have talked to me when he began to feel things were "ebbing" and we could have figured things out. We could have talked, changed, adapted. We could have tried.

Instead, I'm left feeling like an object that has been thrown aside because it no longer useful or convenient. Like a stem that was the wrong size. Passive, acted upon and impotent. Damn, and it fucking sucks.

9.2 on the 10 Point Pathetic Scale

So I've hit 24 hours and even a good old fashioned drunk isn't taking the edge off. So those of you who thought bourbon could cure all ills, you were wrong. It just makes you have to pee every 15 minutes.

I have never been one for drama and excess, so I used to view with skepticism folks who couldn't get themselves out of bed following a traumatic episode. Karma just kicked me in the ass with a steel-toed boot.

I was married once. Didn't know if you knew that. It was a bad decision that I reacted to by having an affair with a married law school classmate who would show up to my apartment in the pouring rain and tell me that he would love me forever. You can see where this is going. A few days after his divorce was final (my 27th birthday, to be exact), he informed me that that he really didn't feel the same way anymore. I didn't talk to him again for three years. It took me two years of therapy, countless bottles of lexapro and a big leap of faith before I was able to trust anything that came out of a lover's mouth.

On that particular night I fell asleep, got up the next day and went to bar review. I think my system was already so worn down by the drama and intrigue of cheating that it could absorb the trauma. We learned about Article 3 of the UCC that morning.

I didn't fall asleep last night, despite a heavy dosing of painkillers. It was the shock. I usually have a questionable memory, but the last four months played over in my head repeatedly and as if yesterday was as clear as the day we met.

Yes, I did spend the entire day in bed, watching bad TV without really paying attention and lollying about in a benadryl stupor that finally culminated in three blissful hours of sleep in the early afternoon. All while my semi-retarded siamese cat alternated between neurotically nuzzling my feet and checking the food bowl. The cats are as traumatized as I am.

I though long and hard today about why I needed to make the post last night and why I need to make the post now. It was Emily, good old Emily, that finally helped me understand.

This isn't a break-up. Rather, its a dumping. Want to know the difference? A break-up is when two people sit down, figure out what is wrong with their relationship and decide that things would be better if the relationship ended.

A dumping, on the other hand, is when one person decides unilaterally that the relationship is over, imposes that mandate and walks out the door without any disucusssion, explanation or apology.

I don't think I would need to write all of this down if I had had any meaningful voice as to the way our relationship ended as it actually ended. I did not. So now the only means I have to get what I am feeling out of my system is to write it all down...in this blog, in correspondence with my girlfriends and in three yet-unanswered (and admittedly emotional and angry) emails to the only person that can give me answers.

Because "I don't know" isn't really an answer. Its a cop-out used by people afraid to look at hard truths. You know how I know this? Because once upon I time I was the asshole who said that I didn't know, when deep down I knew exactly what was going on.

I got my sorry ass out of the house for drinks this evening and hope that the evening has its intended effect....sleep.

Fuck You.

This is not a relationship blog, but it is my blog. And I can do whatever I please on it. If you don't like it, don't read it. If it hurts you to read it, I don't care. If it bothers you that others will read it, I don't care.

Because if I don't somehow get what I'm feeling out somewhere, I think I may follow my heart and shatter into a million pieces.

I want the whole world to know how much I hurt right now. Because of you it feels like all of my cautious hopes and plans were ripped out of my heart and dead before I even knew what had happened.

I couldn't be crabby around you, no matter now tired I felt or how hard I tried. Whenever I felt sad or angry or impatient, I would just imagine the look you had on your face that night in Silverton and it would make me smile. I laughed all of the time. I felt sexy and loved and safe. Your passion for your job helped give me the balls to make some changes in my own life. I wanted to share some of those ideas with you tonight, before you broke my heart.

And I was so very hopeful, that after so many false starts, that this would stick. Because after everything that I've been through, I deserve something that would stick.

Now? I feel impotent and alone and foolish and used. And full of blind rage. And of shame to admit that I would get down on my knees at your feet and beg you to reconsider if there was any chance that you would.

I still have photos on my camera from Thanksgiving, only a few days ago, where I took you to a beautiful place and we laughed about riding in snow and mud. We made bourbon milkshakes and laughed some more. We cuddled by a fire and read nerdy books.

But you had already quit loving me by then. If you ever even loved me at all.

Maybe we got too close too quickly. Maybe I should have noticed when the sex became a bit less frequent (i figured it was just the bikes and the training and my prolonged funk) or when you quit telling me you loved me unless I said it first. Maybe I smothered you without even knowing it. Maybe you're scared. Maybe I should have made it more clear that I never wanted you to change who you were for me, that I understood your drive and goals and that all I wanted was to be your girl and have lots of adventures. Maybe, maybe.....

What I do know is that I probably won't sleep tonight. Because the only thing worse that the hearbreak is waking up in the morning and knowing that you've got to start all over again.