Melancholy Nostalgia

I felt melancholy today. Actually, I felt fine today. It was when I got home from work and found myself sat on my bed, alone, that I found myself feeling melancholy. At first, I didn’t know why I felt that way. The day was a good one, with nothing bad to report; what did I really have to be sad or melancholy about? But then I realised what it was: loneliness.

I’m lonely.

To other people – outsiders – I’m the girl who jokes around a lot. She likes to have a laugh, talks openly and [too] crudely about sex, and you can go to her for advice and support on all of the problems that you can’t take to your regular circle of people. I am all of those things, but I’m also lonely. I’m just this little girl in a very big world, desperately trying to hunt out her happy ending. It’s at times like this, lonely times, that I start to think about those men I left behind in my past. Good ones, bad ones, ones that weren’t good or bad but just weren’t right. I think about The Hubby and his anger problems and wandering cock. And I think about Big Love and his beautiful face but occasionally devastating cocaine problem. And I think about The Lapdog and how he wants to give me everything I want … but it’s still not enough.

Those guys, were they bad guys? Or did I make them bad? Because they made me a little bad along the way. They drove me a little crazy, making me do things that I’d never in a million years consider doing. I’ve learned a lot along the way, especially in regards to how much I’m willing to take from the person I’m in love with, and I’ve also learned how to have some dignity, I think. How to hold my head up high and walk away without doing something too stupid that I’ll inevitably regret later on. But still, despite that, despite finally starting to love the person I am, with or without a man, I’m lonely. I still feel like I’m not good enough to love. I still have days where all I want to be in is in the arms of one of the old men I loved.

It’s Big Love I miss the most.

He hurt me more than any of them. In reality, I guess he didn’t really do all that much wrong. He was honest with me about the whole lot, including the recurrent drug and self-sabotage problems, but I still went diving in, head-first, like I had nothing to lose by doing it. And despite all of the tears that he caused me, and all of the heartache, and all of the pain … I still miss him. That couch. Our couch. I’d give anything to be back there. Not all the time, just at times like this.

I miss the way our bed, any bed felt with him in it. He was always the warm one, and I’d snuggle up close to try and steal some of his warmth when it was minus-forty degrees outside. And I miss his snoring. I never thought I’d see the day that those words would come out of my mouth, but I do miss it. What once drove me furious with tired-rage is now all I want in the world. And more than anything else, I miss the way his arms felt when he’d wrap them around me, drawing me in close and squeezing me as tight as he could. Those arms would always soothe me, no matter how sad or angry I was, no matter how big and heaving my sobs were. He’d pull me in, give me the biggest cuddle, and it would seem as though I could face and fight anything after that. We could defeat any opponent when we were side-by-side and hand-in-had.

But he’s giving those big, warm hugs to a new girlfriend now. He had a new one not too long after I left. I stalk them both online sometimes, in that crazy way that ex-girlfriends do, and I’m going to say that he’s rebounding and probably not that into her. I know what he’s like, intimately and in great detail. I know what he’s like when he’s excited about something: he wants to shout from the rooftops about it, especially on social media. That’s how he was with me. That’s how he told me he was about things he was very excited about it, particularly new relationships that he’s really into. And because of that, and my stalking, I don’t think he’s that into her.

I don’t know why I do it, to be honest. The stalking. It rips me to shreds whenever I see something I don’t like, which is becoming a daily occurrence. I find myself hopefully looking for some sign or status that says he’s single again because that means he’ll be one step closer to asking me to come back home. But it doesn’t happen. It’s never going to happen, is it? I doubt he even thinks about me anymore. Whereas I’m sat crying myself to sleep after work every night, missing him like crazy. And wondering which of my other little black book of men I can call and use to see myself through the pain. Because the new ones I’m choosing really aren’t cutting the mustard. Despite having fairly decent sex with my current lover, it’s not enough. Despite tying me up and blindfolding me last night, two things I very much enjoy, I still woke up with a feeling of regret — and I couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Everything he did from the moment he woke up just annoyed me, from leaving his cup on my nightstand to having his hair different the night before. I even found him uncomfortable to sleep on, his bones sticking into my head when I tried to curl up in his little armpit-arm-chest ‘nook’.

Maybe I’m just having a bad day? I just wish my bad days could be fixed by a cuddle from Big Love. I still miss him so much. It’s been four months since I left the other side of the world, so far, and they’ve been torturous.

How long does breakup sadness last, anyway?