Something happens to me when men cry, and it goes one of two ways: I either a) break down in tears, too; or b) find it the most cringe-inducing moment of my life. There is no in-between, which is why I hate it when men cry. I simply do not know how to handle it.
I know that we’re meant to encourage men to cry and bring out their inner emotional side, and honestly, I’m all for it. Yes, cry, let your emotions out – do all of that, please. It’s certainly better than the alternative. You know: those completely unemotional men that you can’t read or understand.
But… well… sometimes, the crying ain’t it. Like yesterday.
Yesterday, a man cried… and it was fucking shit.
The Performance of a Lifetime
I got home from work like any other day. I grabbed a coffee, hopped in the shower, and got ready to go out for a social event, just like any other day. On the way out, though, just as I was grabbing my keys to leave, I heard something. Shouting. A man’s voice shouting.
What the fuck?
Being the nosy little mare I am, I ran to the bedroom window and peered out… then groaned really loudly. Why? Because it was fucking One Ball, and he was bellowing at the front of my house.
Well, that’s embarrassing.
“You always made time for your best fucking friend,” he shouted. “Why couldn’t you make time for me, your fucking boyfriend?!”
Ex-boyfriend, actually.
I thought about going down there, confronting him, telling him to fuck-the-fuck-right-off, but people were starting to stop and stare at him. I didn’t want them to stop and stare at me, too.
OB carried on, giving the performance everything he had. “You’ve broken my fucking heart! Why won’t you come down here and talk to me? You said you LOVED me!”
I’m not a big fan of the public performance, whether it’s fighting, fucking, or PDAs. I don’t care if y’all do it, but I choose not to. Little kisses? Fine. Holding hands? Sure. This solo shouting match outside my damn house? Absolutely fucking not.
A car drove passed, slowed down, then actually parked up to watch my ex-boyfriend. Two women had stopped walking, shopping bags dropped to the floor, gossipy hands pointing towards him.
I was mortified.
And I had no longer had a choice: I had to go down there and shut him up.
“Look, stop the shouting. Go grab my things from yours. I’ll bag up the stuff you’ve left here. Meet me the pub in thirty minutes,” I told him, each word dripping with rage. I was angrier than I’d ever been in my life, I think. Furious. I could’ve hit him.
38 Minutes Later
I was deliberately late (not that I’m ever on time,) but I eventually walked into the pub and threw his bag of belongings on the floor next to him. It seemed a better choice than being alone with him in the house. Something about his demeanour had completely taken me aback. I’d never seen him so angry, and he was even angrier when he saw me walk in to the pub.
He called me some choice names before then begging for another chance. Then, when I told him no, he reverted back to name-calling again. At least he wasn’t still shouting at the top of his lungs, though.
Towards the end, our soft drinks finished, and bags handed over, we were slightly more civilised… but he was openly crying, wailing almost, and not bothering to wipe away the tears. Now, in any other situation I possibly would’ve felt bad for him. Perhaps I’d have consoled him. But it didn’t feel genuine. It felt like a manipulation tactic, like nothing else had worked, so now he was trying another approach.
So, I didn’t console him. I thanked him for his time, grabbed my bag, and left before he had a chance to find something else to try.
Later That Night
I thought things were done and dusted. I genuinely thought that OB and I had left things on a slightly upsetting, but relatively amicable note.
I had misunderstood that entirely, apparently.
A few hours after OB and I had parted ways I got a call from my mother. “Why is your fella texting and calling me and your sister?” she asked.
It turns out, when I heard ‘take care of yourself,’ I should’ve heard, ‘I’m probably going to harass you and your family,’ because that’s just what he did. He started with my mother, then moved on to my sister when my mother didn’t respond, and when they didn’t respond via WhatsApp or text, he then went via the social route.
The actual fucking psychopath.
“Just block him and let me know if he contacts you again afterwards,” I told my family, before hunting out OB’s number.
“If you contact me or my family again, I’ll start reporting you to the police,” I text him.
Because no, I will not tolerate a man harassing my family. No, I will not.
I tried to play nice, but he wants to get nasty, I’ll do what I’ve gotta do to protect myself.
This is why I hate it when men cry.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: The Tale of the 11-Hour First Date.
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Want to read all about One Ball’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here: