Hey, How Are You?

I think about texting him sometimes. Just sometimes. Hey, how are you? I still think about you a lot. Too much, probably. I’m not over you. How’s tricks?

I type out the words, then delete them, then type out some new ones before deleting those too. Always in the Notes app, of course. I don’t want to run the risk of him seeing that I’m typing. I need to work things out first. Figure out what I’m not going to say. Type out different versions of the same thing, then not send it.

I’ve gotten super close. I’ve gotten as far as unblocking and pasting that copied text into the box, fingers hovering over the send button. Every single time I convince myself that it’s a bad idea. So, I block him again. Unblock. Block. Jesus Christ, calm down blockbuster. I’ve lost count of how many times. Fifty? One hundred? Three hundred and sixty-five?

What if he’s happy now? What if he’s happily curled up with the love of his life on the couch, then a message from me pops up and ruins everybody’s night? What if he’s right in the middle of falling head-over-heels with someone else? Someone better for him? Someone who’s perfect for him? Someone funnier, more interesting, more aligned with his views and opinions? Or y’know, perhaps someone a little less opinionated.

What if the last thing he wants or needs is my dickhead self, popping back up again?

What if he hasn’t thought about me since the breakup?

What if it’s a bad idea?

What if we decide to give it another shot, but everything is exactly the same?

What if that’s just how we are together – toxic, messy, on/off?

What if we make it worse?

What if we fuck each other up a bit more. Y’know, just in case we didn’t do enough damage the time around?

What if he hates me? He walked away, didn’t he?

What if I hate him?

What if we don’t even like each other?

What if the timing was wrong?

What if I send that text, then we live happily ever after?

So. Many. Variables.

What-fucking-if?

Let’s face it, though, how many times do things really go my way? An entire table of dating contents would suggest that the chances of me meeting the love of my life are slim. Or maybe my odds are higher now? Perhaps they grow higher with each failed relationship. I sure hope so because the breakups are bullshit, and I’m fucking hating this one in particular. 

Perhaps *I’m* the toxic one? Maybe I really am responsible for the downfall of my relationships?

I haven’t wanted to blog about him again, mostly because I’m afraid that it’ll be seen as a desperate love-letter ploy from afar, which it isn’t. I’ve worked very hard at not contacting him. Very, very hard. My poor, poor friends have had to listen to my whining drivel on more than one (two/three/seven hundred) occasion, and I think they’re probably sick of it now.

I’m fuckin’ sick of it.

I sound pathetic, feel pathetic, am pathetic. I’m too old for it. Friends that went through bigger and badder breakups at the same time are living the dating dream again, practically over it all; and I wonder, why hasn’t that clicked for me yet? Why aren’t I over it? Why am I so stuck on him?

If you’d have told me in my youth, that my longest breakup ever would be from a guy that I never even met, I’d have laughed in your face. Don’t be so fucking daft. I’m basically a professional at breakups now. I’ve done all the things that you’re meant to do. I dated for fun instead of love. I didn’t rush straight into bed with someone else. I decided to work on myself. I wrote a whole list to work through. I signed up to therapy, got my health stuff back on track, sorted the divorce, moved, went to the police about Bob, started eating a little healthier, gave the blog a makeover and reorganised it, started drinking water like a proper adult, bought all the things I wanted, and wrote down all my feelings in long, endless blog posts that I never published.

But here we are, I’m writing yet another sad blog post. I’m still thinking about him.

None of it’s working. I’m single, but I’m not available. Maybe I’m not a professional breakupper, after all… or maybe it’s just him?

I don’t even really know what I would say to him if I could. Let’s just say that I did get as far as pasting the message into the box, then sending it; which one would I pick? A long one? Short? I’ve got a few practice runs to pick from at this point.

I miss you?

Do you ever wonder, what if…?

I hate you for dumping me because I never wanted to end it?

I’m sorry that I left you wondering.

I’m sorry that I was hard work.

I’m sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t enough.

I’m sorry if *I* that fucked up something that should have been, could have been quite beautiful.

I’d want to admit to him that, actually, I wasn’t at my best back then. My life was imploding in quite spectacular fashion. I was falling apart. Over the course of eight months, I lost him, my mind, my home, a fair few clients, fuck knows how much money, my entire family, my cherished nephew, my health, a terrifying amount of weight, a few friends, a dog, virtually all of my furniture, the ability to leave my house without fear, my entire dress collection, almost all hearing in my right ear, walking in a straight line, regulating my own body temperature, and a huge chunk of skin on my right knee. Oh, and I think I was/might be tiptoeing into perimenopause, and the thought of that terrifies me a little bit.

I don’t blame him for walking away. It was a lot. Looking back, I know that I was a lot to handle. Like… a lot. I would’ve walked away from myself if I could. (And I really truly thought about that for a while, too.)

How could I expect him to like me when I didn’t even like myself all that much? I wasn’t a likeable person. I was close to full self-destruction. Can we really blame him for not wanting to be a part of that? I almost drank. I did take class A drugs, twice. I was moody, silent, distant, and difficult. I did start arguments. I partied, made decisions that I should’ve thought about a little more, went out without even thinking about telling him, and was incapable of having a conversation at times.

And honestly, did I really care about the petty little things? The drinking and the overbearingness and the stupid shit he said – were they really that big of a deal? We all say stupid shit. We’re all dickheads at times. I’ve been around drinkers since then, and I’ve been fine. Why couldn’t I give him that chance? Was any of that stuff really important? Did I fight the wrong battles?

I know that you lot aren’t exactly his biggest fans… but I’m starting to wonder if I ever actually gave him a chance. I feel shitty and wrong and regretful about so much of it now, and I fuckin’ hate that. I know that hindsight is 20:20, but I just wish I’d handled certain things a little differently.

None of it excuses some of his behaviour, I know, but what if *I* was an asshole? What if he was a dick because *I* was a dick? What if it was matched dickery? Reflective dickery? What if we were both dicks? Isn’t it mature and right to reflect and take accountability, then change your behaviour to ensure fuckups don’t happen again? That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m attempting to replace pining with learning and evolving and all of that bollocks. 

One of my friends thinks, I’m reminiscing out of boredom. “You need someone to flirt with,” she said. “Why don’t you go on Tinder, or something?”

Absolutely not. Never Tinder. Not again. And I didn’t really agree that I was bored. I’ve always got someone to flirt with; that’s one of the joys of being a sex blogger and an ex-slut.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to try her idea… could it? 

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: My First 48 Hours on Hinge.