Turns out, after many days of terse, punctuation-less texts returned several hours after initial inquiry, days of long phone fights followed by days of short, curt, distracted 20-minute phone conversations, I’ll have to abort Operation Win-Him-Back. I am writing this to you because writing to him to try to convey my sentiments regarding the “end” of our “relationship” would be such an extraordinary waste. Yet I do feel the need to explain myself, and renew my values and integrity.
The composite picture Soccer Captain has of our relationship is one in which I was, for the first half, a haughty, bratty, emotionally-distant bitch–then decided randomly to flip the script and play house and expected him to commit too. This narrative is unfair and untrue–though I am, having gotten up at 6 am to buy football tickets for next season (which I will sell for a month’s rent) and to watch the World Cup, and having endured months of this silent terrible resentment, too exhausted to refute it point by point–I will only say that I think trust and commitment are gradual achievements that come after time and work of both people in a relationship — but Soccer Captain will not be disabused.
I half-think that this is a story he’s cooked up to give himself an out (much like the professor’s initial “we’re just not kin, Farren”, when he ought to have just said “I’m a raging narcissist and I fucked some of the students at the newspaper we’re running together”) and I half-think that I am sticking it out (beyond I LOVE HIM and WE ARE COMPATIBLE) because I think I deserve it. Insert here the memory of the final YEAR of my last relationship, in which I worked two jobs while my partner, fired a few months after I’d moved to a crappy city I did not like to be together, ignored me, criticized me, drank to such excess that waking up to a bathroom splattered with vomit was a twice-or-thrice monthly kind of arrangement, and slept on the couch and watched Sports Center all day long. I really believed that I should stay in that too.
Plus, I mean, GOD, it makes for great drama doesn’t it? It’s a good story. It’s a great way to think of myself. I am “broken-hearted”. I am “mid-break up”. It’s whatever.
Anyway the point is the Farren who hangs around for all that is BULLSHIT and I need to do better by myself. I am very very sickened by the turn Dude’s brain has taken, but he took that turn because he wants OUT, not because it was true, and there is absolutely NO WAY to convince dude that his story is wack and we love each other because dude needs this out! Dude needs out and he’s going to stick to his guns. Bye Dude. Bye. Bye.
It’s time to start thinking of this break up as a relief from the demoralizing emotional abuse I have been sticking out in the name of getting to the bottom of whatever Soccer Captain’s six-month-long Shitty Attitude was About. Turns out? Who cares. Maybe we were compatible but in many, many important ways we were not (ohai, dude who lives two miles from the house he grew up in! Dude who makes unbelievably sexist and racist jokes as a matter of course! Dude who found me too “intimidating” to do anything but the obligatory in the sack! Dude who has–that’s right I SAID IT–really terrible taste in music!) and I have to STAY STAY STAY the fuck off of the “I got so close to having a family, I’ll never get that close again” headtrip I get on when I think about the fact that the man who told me in FEBRUARY that he wanted to marry me now won’t return my calls for days and days. I don’t want to have a family with that guy. That guy is a remote, neglecting, selfish, resentful husband and father. And OKAY–I live in the deepest south, where interests listed on dating site profiles are hunting, fishing, jesus, football, and “my kids are the most important thing to me” even though they are like the SEVENTH item on the list–but that’s just tough. I also happen to be at a very good institution of higher learning, reaping the fruits of the biggest effort of my life–and to extend this metaphor REALLY REALLY far, sowing my fucking future, so you know what? That shit can wait.
PS – What the fuck was up with the ref’s call during the US-Slovenia game this afternoon?