It has been four and a half years since my ex and I separated. Two and a half since our divorce day in court. In that time, I have had a couple of relationships, and have dated quite a bit. Enough where I can’t remember all the guys’ names, just because some were just first dates that never repeated, and left no impressions.

During my marriage, besides the fact that my ex was mean and angry a lot, one of the severe lacks was a lack of physical intimacy. Forget sex, that went out the window when our son was born. I am convinced that was some primal reaction to another male from my ex – all I know is that I would try to talk about how to get things back on track, and he would just get pissed off. Way to be intimate.

So basically for almost two decades now, I have had almost no physical contact with anyone except my babies. My family all lived pretty far away and now my sister is the only one living from my childhood family and she is a good long drive away.

But hugs from friends are NOT the same as sex. Obviously. I can go pay for a massage. NOT the same as sex. I can hug my kids. NOT the same as sex.

To top it off, and I am sure this is a controlling move, whether conscious or unconscious, my ex only takes our children (now 17 and 20) for TWO NIGHTS A YEAR. Meaning I am always having to be in mom mode. My daughter is in college so a little bit easier. My son waits up for me if I go out.


For a whole host of reasons, I am afraid of letting a man get close. The couple of relationships I had, they failed for their own reasons. One guy had sexual preferences that were irreconcilable. The other guy was controlling and cruel, and he was so kind and sweet at first. In a year, we had sex six times.  He had an issue with sex outside of marriage.  Scared the shit out of me that it took me a year to see the control, during which time he broke up with me repeatedly.

But I’m dying for sex. I have never been able to do one-night stands or the casual thing. I wish I could. I am desperate. Yesterday afternoon, when my kids left with their dad, I took a long shower and then broke out the vibrator.   When I was “done”, I started to cry, so much pain inside. I am so hungry for another person.

This does not lead to good decisions.

Anyway, I got myself together and headed into the city. A guy I met a while back, at a venue I like to go to sometimes, responded to my “hey how are you” text with a “I’m having an impromptu winter bbq if ur in the area” text. So I said I would try to make it, and went over an hour later.

He is 20 years younger than me and oh, so cute. And he was so very drunk. Oh my, wow. I thought there had been a vibe in the past, and when I went to leave, he pulled me into his room and started to kiss me. And I said I should go. Because why? Because I thought I “should”. By whose rules? And why the fuck should I go?

For the next, oh, 4 hours, it was amazing. He was too drunk to actually… you know. He pleaded with me to spend the night, to wake up with him in the morning, but I just couldn’t do it. I am kicking myself now. We have texted a bit today. He has continued drinking – he’s 29 and on vacation, you know.

But for those wonderful hours, we rolled and laughed and kissed and kissed, naked together. I would be a little sad if it doesn’t happen again – not too sad, he drinks a lot. And he is so young. And so sweet. And he felt so wonderful to kiss and wrap myself around.

But whose voice is telling me I shouldn’t do these things? Obviously I don’t want to rush into a full-blown relationship just to be sexual again. Years and years of deprivation. Why should I hold off? My head isn’t clear.

I need. I am desperate. My ex is still engineering it so I am not a full person. Fucking asshole.

getting caught up….

It has been five months since I wrote. There is no possible way to revisit it all here. I have been focusing on putting a lot of the feelings and moments into words through poetry which I won’t bore you with. I’ll hope it’s good enough to try to get some of it published someday.

So, a quick synopsis….

I had restarted a relationship with someone I cared about very much, loved even, before I took my high school reunion trip. While on that trip, the overwhelming impact of unearthed trauma, family memories, a pseudo-fling with my first love, left me reeling and pretty fucked up when I got back. I needed time to process it – lots of therapy and lots of tears! – and my boyfriend got so anxiety-ridden by my need for alone time to deal with it (despite my checking in constantly and reassuring him that I was still here and telling him what and why and that I loved him) that he blew up and told me he would NEVER trust me and would ALWAYS be suspicious, that I was unkind and inconsiderate and treated him badly.

So I told him to fuck off and goodbye. I’m still getting over this. Looking back it was a pattern – whenever I needed him, he turned the tables and told me I wasn’t coming through for him. It was the right decision. I still miss him.

My rebound was a young man half my age. We work together at my part-time job. He got freaked out because people started talking. It was very short-lived, just a few weeks, but I got three amazing nights of getting drunk with a boy and having SO. MUCH. FUN. I see him at work. I miss hanging out. But it’s okay.

My first love who was so eager to reconnect at the reunion, who I cautioned and held back from until he won me over with his passion and memories and what-the-fuck-ever, must have bared it all to his wife and has cut off all contact without so much as a “I’m sorry, I hope you understand.” It is the lack of the “I’m sorry” that bothers me. The pseudo-fling was what should have happened, we were back in high school for a weekend, it was amazing, I never expected it to be more than that. But we had been communicating on occasion as friends before that, and I feel absolutely shattered by his cutting me off without a kind word. He’s a high ranking diplomat, do you know? Some diplomat in his real life. Probably doesn’t see people as real. Asshole. Ruined my beautiful memories.

So. I’ve been working an insane schedule. I still think I am in love with my best friend, but drew the line at “you’re unavailable and so we’re just friends”. But that hurts too. So many loves in a year. I still love them all in their unique ways. I try to let that make me fill bursting with love. But it stings of rejection and sadness.

I am now officially in my 50’s. I am back in the present. My son is a junior in high school. My daughter a junior in college. My future is waiting. I just need to crawl out from my stack of breakups and all the grieving to start getting out there and seeing what comes next.

Heading down to NYC in a few weeks. That always helps me clear my head.

Phew. That was a lot in just a few months.

the missing pieces… part 1

Two months ago, I began my journey back. Back in time, back in my heart, back home. What is it, that famous quote, that you can never go home again? Maybe not per se, it will never be exactly the same.

But I did.   Several months ago, a few of my schoolmates from high school got together and gathered for the first time in the same place in many years. It was so inspiring that the idea arose of doing it again, on a larger scale, to give people the opportunity to plan and travel.

You see, I grew up abroad. My dad worked for a large international company, and we first left the US when I had just turned 8. We lived in three different countries over nine years. I was almost 17 when we moved back.

I went to foreign schools, American schools having a reputation for problems – lots of military and embassy kids who moved really often. Drugs and behavioral issues were common. And my dad himself was the son of Spanish parents, and seized the opportunity for us to have a truly international experience.

It sounds glamorous.   When I tell people now, they think it’s wonderful. It definitely shaped my view of the world, molded me into who I am.

But it was hard. No matter where we lived, especially the first place, I was different and had a hard time fitting in. I was very shy. People made fun of the way I talked. And so I became a bit of a chameleon at first. Adopted the local accent.

Middle school in country number two sucked, as middle school does. Anywhere. When we moved to the third country, I was so glad to have the chance to start all over again (every middle schooler’s fantasy). And what happened there was amazing. I was just me. And it all fit. I belonged, me with my quirks and my funny accent, and the fact that few people really understood where I came from.

I had a crowd of friends. I did well in school. Of course there were the usual teen issues. But what an accepting and tolerant place I ended up in. I fell madly and wildly in love for the first time. I have never truly been in love again.

One of the hard parts about the moving is that it was unpredictable. The other was that my mom hated it, and by the time we moved to the third place, she was crazily homesick, very depressed and drank. A lot. I was her only friend. She told me things and complained to me in ways I wish I could forget. But I was happy, as happy as I could be with the shadow of departure hanging over my head. When, no one knew. But it was a horrible unknown that followed me everywhere.

I suffered my first bout of serious depression in middle school. My last year of high school was both incredible and awful. I developed an eating disorder, and the thought that we would at some point be leaving made me want to die.

I could have stayed – all my friends left for boarding schools and such when I went back to the US. I was in love. I wanted to stay in Europe, which was my home. I was not American. Nothing about me except my passport was American. But my parents made me leave. They tore me away against my wishes.

It was traumatic. This was a few decades ago. Long distance calls were impossibly expensive. Letters only went so far. I started college young, and my father would not let me live on campus and made me commute my first year. I didn’t drive. I was unable to make friends. By the time I moved back to the US, I had one of those “international not-quite-British” accents. I certainly did not sound, look, dress “American”. I was horribly depressed. I wanted to die.

My parents told me not to tell anyone about living overseas. They told me people would think I was a snob. In retrospect, some people might have found it interesting. If I had talked about it, I might have made friends with people who had similar backgrounds. But my parents had me so freaked, I clammed up. My mother was so glad to be back, she did not want to know I was unhappy. My father was so distressed at the idea that I might be unhappy, there was pressure to not talk.

And so I became silent. I lost everything I had ever known. I lost my identity. I became lost. At the time, I did what I could to handle it. I could not wait to escape from home, although I did live at home for two years after I graduated college. I gradually adjusted, I guess. I got married the first time very young – that’s when I moved out. Once I was away from my parents, my depression worsened as the wounds from the past surfaced, I questioned my marriage, and I – finally – started therapy.

For years I have tried so hard to make my life work. I have done all the right things. And it has never fit, really. For a few years in grad school it did, and then I got married again, moved back to the ‘burbs and became a mom, and once again was lost.

A couple of months ago, I went back to high school. And I found my missing pieces.  Let the stitching of past and present begin….



seeking to make peace…

This past weekend, I had the most incredible experience.  I attended a close friend’s daughter’s bat mitzvah.  I have known the girl since she was probably about 4.  Her mom and I talk a lot on the phone and email and text, but we don’t really hang out often.  But this little girl and I always just hit it off.  She was a pretty individual child, definitely marched to her own beat.  Smart, fabulous, creative, awkward.

On Saturday, I watched this now young teen lead a full prayer service, that she created herself with the rabbi and cantor.  I watched her steel herself with courage, her voice strong and confident, well-paced and poised.  She was amazing.  I watched her use her torah reading and its contents, focusing on the ability of the minority to create change and fight off the enemy, and use this to talk about her own status as a minority.  A young lesbian.  She talked with passion and pride about her work with LGBTQ teens.  I sat there with tears streaming down my face, me who had been nervous about going to this thing solo, humbled and awed and struck by her bravery and her conviction.

I left that prayer service a changed person.  She was beautiful.  Who knows how her life will go, but for right now, she’s in her rhythm.  She left me inspired.  All I have to do is think about what she has struggled with over the past few years, as a child, and I remember I am an adult.  I can be just as brave.

And it goes without saying kudos to my friends, her parents, who raised such a child.

A couple of nights before this, I was talking to my friend in NYC, and he was just being a total and complete ass on the phone.  So I simply said, this conversation is making me feel bad so I’m gonna go.  He said, okay, bye, and hung up.  I haven’t talked to him since.  I will need to talk to him soon.  I want the friendship.  I don’t want this other shit.  This definitely does not look like love.

A week ago from Saturday, my therapist said something that made me feel really ashamed of my behavior within my relationship with the guy I was with last year.  The guy who I broke things off with completely (well, I think he had really broken up with me before that, but I don’t know, it was a really confusing time) after I returned from London.  It has been bothering me, and I am sick at heart.  I have thought about so many of the things that happened.  I miss him, as it turns out.  I have probably lost him.  But life is short, and there are things I would like to have the chance to say.

So yesterday evening I called him.  It went straight to voicemail and I left a message.  He called me very late last night and we talked for a couple of hours.  I cried.  He talked.   I talked.  I am hopeful that I will be able to see him to say what I need to say.  I think he has moved on but I need to let him know certain things so that I can grieve and let go.

Just like my young friend who made her bat mitzvah, I don’t know what happens after that.  I pray for courage I guess.  I hope I find it.  The courage to speak up.

I am filled with tears lately.  They just come all the time.


What The Person You Deserve Is Like


A beautifully written reminder… I would be thrilled with half of this.

Originally posted on Thought Catalog:


You deserve love and security, a combination that warms the core of your heart. You deserve knowledge that the person you are with wants to be there and, more importantly, won’t run away when times get tough. This is someone that will stay by your side, fight your fights right there with you because they know you would do the same for them.

You deserve someone who laughs at your jokes and smiles at the mere sight of you smiling. This smile will be genuine, not fake, and you will feel butterflies when you see it and your smile will grow until your cheeks can no longer take it.

You deserve someone who brings you coffee in the morning because they know the addiction is real. You deserve breakfast in bed, flowers “just because,” and hugs that feel like you are at home.

You deserve hands that only reach…

View original 713 more words

twists and turns and finding my way…

My brain has been busy of late.  Too busy to write, because there is so much buzzing around up in this head that cohesive thoughts don’t totally form.

It’s been a week and a half since I was last in NYC.  Since then, I don’t know, I have felt weepier than weepy.  So.  Sign number one.  This situation is making me miserable.  Of course, it could be more than that.  I am still grieving my mom, my sister, even my dad who has now been gone 9 years.  Loss stirs up old loss.  So it goes.

On the positive side, I have had a couple of good solid days of crying.  I don’t do that often enough, have a good cry.  I stuff it all down and it bottles up and I get depressed.  I don’t know if I am depressed.  I think I am heading that way.

So.  Sign number two.  I know what to do to try to abort a depressive episode.  I get more sleep.  I seek out my friends.  I make contact with the outside world.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.  I don’t know where I am yet.  Not getting worse, but not feeling better.

The first week after I returned from NYC, my friend and I had some good and deep talks.  And then, I don’t know, he started bitching and bitching about his wife again.  And I shut him down.  He said, you’ve never had a problem with me complaining about her before.  I said, that was before, now this feels different, uncomfortable.  I felt like saying, but didn’t, if it’s really that fucking bad and you really want to be with me, then fucking do something about it.

I know he feels trapped and despairing and hopeless.  I’ve been there too when I was in my miserable soul-sucking marriage.  And it takes a lot to get out.  But whereas I am happy to be his best friend and support him in whatever he decides to do, if he wants our relationship to be something different, he needs to find someone else to help him get out.  For himself.  Not for me.

I do have doubts.  I know how right it feels to be in his company.  I can envision being in his company all the time.  I do love him.  I feel accepted by him.  I feel seen by him.  But I am starting to feel as though I only feel accepted and seen when I am his friend.  As a romantic fantasy, he wants me to be just that, the fantasy.

Sign number three.  I want to be accepted and seen by a romantic partner.  I think some of my sadness is that in all of this, it is all about him, and I am getting lost in the chaos.

His fantasy is that I will move to NYC.  And he will get divorced.  My contribution will be to completely reorganize my life to suit his.  And he will just get divorced.  I don’t see that as his contribution to our relationship.  He should get divorced if he no longer wants to be married.  I’ve been there, done that, for my own well-being and for my kids’ well-being.  I don’t see him doing this as something he would do for me.

Sign number four.  He has completely forgotten about all the dreams and hopes I have for my own future.

I don’t want to go there.   I am not going to be “that person”.  I am not going to be the “other woman”.  Yes, life gets complicated and messy.  But I honestly personally have nothing against his wife (even though she has always disliked me) and I mean her no harm.  I can’t do it, be in a “relationship” with someone who is in a committed relationship.

Because it’s not good for me.  I am worth more than that.  She is worth more than that.  He can’t have me if he already has someone else.  I have fought too hard through too much shit to settle for being in less than a whole relationship.

Since my separation and divorce, I have chosen to not look for casual relationships, have chosen not to sleep around.  Because I can’t.  It’s not right for me.  I want real.

I don’t say any of this yet.  I am not ready to put it into words to him.  I’ve written him poems I can’t bring myself to send.  I have a playlist that makes me think of him and cry.  Ugh.

But I am putting myself back out there.  I had two really nice dinners with girlfriends this week – heart to heart talks, tears and laughter.  Soul feeding.

I went on a date last week with a guy I met online.  I could see myself seeing him again.  Why not?  He even plays scrabble – I always ask this, and I almost never get a positive reply.

I had cancelled a date with someone else a few weeks ago, not feeling like I could “cheat” on my married buddy.  The guy has stayed in touch, and a few days ago, I told him the real story behind my cancelling.  He said, okay, so I know the deal, meet me anyway and then it’s your call.  This guy is funny and makes me laugh.  The week I was sick, he checked in on me and called me, and it made such a difference.  So what the hell.  I’m a free agent, I’m not married.  We have a date this weekend.

And this weekend I have an onboarding weekend for my new job, which I expect to be fun, and I will meet lots of new people.  My daughter was home this past weekend, and we talked a lot out and cried and hugged.  Soul feeding.

I am determined not to spiral down.

As for my friend in NYC, he will always be my best friend.  We’ll see how that all goes.

My dreams for the future?  I am starting to think about my next career move (which will hopefully be my last before an early retirement if I can possibly swing it).  I am dreaming of Santa Fe (as different from NYC as one can get, right?), the desert and those sunsets and the colors and the people and the serenity.

I’m thinking sooner or later, my path will become clearer.  The things that mark my way will make my heart sing, not feel heavy, put a smile on my face, not tears in my eyes, lend a spring to my dancing feet, and not weigh me down.

I will say, though.  This is, as my hairdresser put it today, quite the pickle I’m in.  Because I do love him.


Yesterday when I wrote about intimacy and connection, one commenter added the Cheers theme song.  It was an interesting comment, because at first it seemed to fit.  And it does in a way.  It summarizes what in fact I would like.  The place to be where people see you and love you anyway, even if you are quirky and weird (Cliff), lost and sad (Norm), or bubbling over with obnoxious excessive perkiness (Diane).

My own family was not like that growing up.  My dad worked long hours and traveled a lot.  My mom had a hard time handling all our moving around and was depressed a lot (and no one recognized it at the time – she handled it with lots of wine and extremely OCD behavior).  My younger sister was shy and awkward.  And then there was me, who felt terribly alone.  I imagine my sister did too, but she is not hypersensitive like me.  I thought of dying or entering a convent and starved myself.  She played solitaire to pass the hours until things got better.

I tried to change it up when I reached adulthood.  I got married the first time at 22.  Way too young.  Some sad life events happened, and we were too immature to handle it, and I chose to go my own way.  Grad school was awesome – I found my stride, I found my “Cheers”.  Although my struggle with depression continued, I started to get help, and it was really good for a while.

Those years were the years I met this friend of mine in NYC.  Peas in a pod.  He had a girlfriend, who I really liked and hung out with sometimes.  Nothing happened between us.  I am not sure why.  Not the right timing I guess.  Still not the right timing, maybe.  We’ll see.

I met my second husband around this time.  We had a fun time for a while, we moved in together.  I got pregnant the night he proposed.  We got married too fast.  Everything tipped into some sort of hell.

Although nothing will ever compare to the love I feel for my two children.  For years loving and caring for them filled me with a sense of awe.  Though I continued to struggle with worsening depression – the isolation I felt in my marriage from my ex-husband and the lack of a support network around me was crippling.

Since my divorce I have worked hard to put myself out there in the world and make new connections.  I have been thwarted here and there by family members dying, relationships ending.  I still keep plugging.  My depression is under control.

The other night I asked my daughter if she would consider moving home for a year after she graduates college in two years, while I take a sabbatical for a year, and take care of the house, be here for her brother who will be in college (I hope) that year.

She looked at me in horror, and said, mom, you can’t ask me to put my life on hold!  How could you do that!

I replied, I am asking for one year when you are 21 with all those years stretching ahead of you.  I am asking for one year when I will be in my mid-50s and, god willing, in good health still and feeling fine.

I think of all the years I have made the choice to give my children a life of stability as best I could, love and patience, closeness and understanding.  All the years I stayed in this town I never belonged in, for them, because I thought it mattered.

I think of how I ask this one thing, after footing the bill for this girl, her dance lessons, her college costs.  I realize it is a lot to ask.  But I am not asking her to move home with me for a year.  She would have it to herself (and her brother when he was home from school).

My kids don’t even see me.  And really, they are the only family I have.  Who else would I ask?  I am actually pretty annoyed with my daughter.  We’ll continue the conversation.  My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer at 54.  I feel the clock ticking.  I am afraid time to play is running out.

I miss my friend in NYC so much my chest hurts.



I wish I had written more over the past few weeks.  Although to be honest, I was so sick with the flu that I could not do much of anything.  Woke up on a Monday morning with a fever that climbed to 103 and higher in the afternoon.   I am allergic to all OTC fever reducers, so I drank fluids like crazy to try to avoid being hospitalized.  I asked my daughter to come home for the night to keep an eye on me.

It was one of those excruciating moments when you are so alone, you feel as if no one (but your kids) would give a shit if you died.  No one to just be here, to be with me, to help me.

Sure a few friends offered to get things from the store.  But I was all set.  Who can eat with a fever like that anyway?  What I needed was to not be alone.  But I couldn’t ask for that, I did not want to pass my illness along to anyone.

I spent the week on the couch, wracked with fever and chills and pain.  It lasted almost the full week.  My son got it too, the day my fever got below 100, he woke up with a temp of over 104.

It was a blast.

I know I was cranky, and I felt so angry at my dear friend who was so far away, and who couldn’t come to be with me, because he is married.

I am 50.  I want someone who can be with me.  Someone who is just here.  An intimate partner.  Real intimacy, you understand.  Not just the sex kind, the physical kind.  But someone who I belong to and who belongs to me.  Someone who will hold my hair back when I throw up.  Someone who will know that a foot massage or playing with my hair is just what I need when I am in pain to relax me.

I am feeling better now, but really I just want to cry.  After a rough couple of weeks and some edgy phone calls, I returned to NYC to talk things out.

I see him.  I melt.  We talk.  We held each other.  We laid a lot out on the table.  He knows me.  We see each other.  The talking was good.

I don’t know how this is going to end up.  But I do know what I want and need in a partner and in my life.  And I do know that what we have is something so precious it takes my breath away, and it took 25 years and life experiences on both sides to make it grow.

I am terrified to trust this in any way.  In fact, I have had so much loss, perhaps I feel safest with something that I can’t trust.  Protect myself from being hurt again.

But what is missing in my life most are people who truly know me.  Because, except for my kids, and my friend, they are all gone.  And my kids are on their way.

I miss being known.  Tell you the truth, just makes me want to run away someplace new, far from here, far from the pain of being in a place for such a long time and still haven’t made those intimate connections.  I know part of it is my fear of trusting that I’ll make myself vulnerable and the other person won’t run away.

At least my flu is gone.  That couldn’t last forever.


It’s been quite the week.  My daughter went back to school today after spring break – she has a boyfriend now, so really she spent most of the week moping and miserable about being home.  It makes me aware of how drawn out and odd this letting go phase of motherhood is going to be, as my kids grow up and move out into the world.  She couldn’t wait to fly out of here today.  I remember how that felt at her age.  It makes me want to dance on the rooftops for her, and cry like a baby for me.

I feel like everyone leaves me.  I know, I know, wallowing in it.  But some days, the losses stack up more than the gains, and I hurt.

I did have a pretty good weekend.  I had dinner with a girlfriend on Friday, who was gutsy enough to tell me to step out of this thing with my friend.  No, no, no, she said.  I was a bit taken aback, and I cried, but she shared with me some of what she loves about her relationship with her boyfriend, and I understand where she is coming from and what she wishes to happen for me.

But I don’t know if that’s in the stars for me.

Saturday I had a third interview for a part-time job, at a store at the mall.  They are going to hire me assuming my background check pans out (which of course it will).  Not sure it is a great idea in terms of the hecticness of my life, but in so many other ways it will be good.  Less time cooped up and lonely in my house, a chance to be out in the world and meet people, a little extra money to save and pay the bills.

That evening I had a wonderful time at a dinner party a friend of mine throws every year for international women’s day.  Lots of laughter, warm affection, the warmth of a circle of women.

I contacted my friend when I got home and he was apparently feeling terribly unwell and did not want to hear from me.  So whatever.  He texted today that he is feeling a little better but other than that have not heard from him.  I get the feeling that he wants me to fuss.  I don’t feel like fussing.

The line that he said last week when I tried to talk was “if I wanted to fight, I would just go hang out with my wife”.  What.  I can’t shake that one.  Even if it was said in a snit, it was unnecessary and mean.  Where did my friend go?  Those were not the words of a friend.  Those were the words of someone who wants me to fight for him, fill his needs, but who couldn’t give a shit about my feelings or my needs.

Whatever.  I’m not engaging in that kind of scenario.

I deserve better.  Right?


It’s an interesting thing, developing romantic feelings for a long-time male friend.  For one thing, over the many years, he has served as a shoulder to cry on, a dating/relationship advisor, one of my biggest fans when he thinks I am not being treated well enough.  He has counseled me on “male behavior”, and taught me what to look for (I’m still female enough to not always see it or understand it, but, hey, makes the world go round).

So when he shuts me down in conversation by saying things like “well, I am too!”, or “if you’re going to fight with me, I’ll just go talk to her” (when all I want to do is talk), or “if this isn’t going to be fun, then I think we should get off the phone”, it’s a tad disorienting.  For a minute or two.

Because…. He is behaving like the guys he tells me to stay away from.  He is taking a stand of refusing to communicate.  Unless I am entertaining him.  Which is not communication.

I liked things better when he was feeling like he only wanted to be my friend.  I said that last night.  He backpedaled and toned it down and said he only wants to nurture me.


The things I wanted to say but was not given the chance to voice….  That I want “real”.  That long distance in this instance is only a problem because he is married.  That the whole relationship is a problem because he’s married.  That I know, and he knows, that I deserve better.  That telling me all the time things he likes about me because they are things he feels his wife lacks is not okay.  That I want my friend and confidant back, not this reactive, combative, scared-I’m-going-to-leave guy.  That I don’t think I can do this.

I know he was doing the equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming until the conversation turned in a direction he wanted.  I understand that.  I understand that he must be aware that due to his status, he is not in a position AT ALL to tell me what to do here.  I understand that he must be scared that I might say “no”.

What I don’t get is how he could go from truly caring about me to only caring about himself.

I had enough stonewalling in my marriage to last me a lifetime.  In my last relationship, I had the passive-aggressive type who made shit up about me, all these imagined slights, and sulked and pouted.  This time I have someone who is not available, who wants only what he wants and doesn’t want to even know what I want.

In honor of our quarter-century of friendship, I’m going to give it a few more tries, the talking.  I don’t want to lose the friendship.  But I don’t want to be stomped all over.

I deserve better.


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