Something happened to me a few months ago. Well, it actually happened a few years ago, but I didn’t know until Memorial Day weekend.
Dudes (and ladies) cheat and lie all the time. But this was a spectacular series of lies, a con, a gaslighting, that ended in complete silence. On Saturday morning, I was loved by and in love with a good man. By Saturday night, I was hung up on by a cold-hearted coward and liar. I never heard from him again.
It’s not been easy. I’m strong and brave and I saved myself from an end game that remains a mystery. (What did he want? Did he hate me and all women? Was he just going to disappear anyway, as soon as I asked for too much? Why, why, why?)
In retrospect, there was so much wrong with us. I accepted less and less in return for a dozen “I love yous” a day. I’m not saying that meanly. I needed to be loved. The man I thought he was was just broken enough for me, and I was happy for a year or so. Yet when I wasn’t, I was afraid to tell him, myself, or anyone else. But I was finally ready to leave, which is why I googled to the evidence of his betrayal.
Mostly, though, I’m angry. Enraged that he just threw me away. Angry that he gets to live his perfect suburban life and erase me. Maybe he’s afraid, maybe there’s a twinge somewhere in his tiny black heart. Mostly, though, I think he’s proud that he left me with this black ball of tar. That it might change me and make me less trusting, more hateful, and incapable of love.
Well, fuck that. I’m both a better and worse person than he thinks I am. In a minute, everything I do will be better without him. In a minute, my life will be different and vibrant. In a minute, I’ll find love again.
He gets none of that. None of me. Even these words aren’t about him. They’re about ME.
(However, if you know a good hex, something gentle, maybe a rash that never goes away, hit me up.)