Sambuca: The Ugly
I’m a nightmare for keeping in contact sometimes. I’ll put my phone down somewhere, get distracted by something, and the next thing I know, five hours have passed, and I’ve got a whole bunch of missed notifications. It’s just the way I am, and it was a very regular bone of contention between Sambuca and I. Folks, I think it’s time for me to talk about The Ugly.
Because y’know, shit hasn’t been ugly enough already.
The Phone Thing
So, yeah, as previously mentioned, I’m a fucking terrible communicator sometimes. I’m easily distracted, I forget that whole people exist if they’re not right in front of my face (sorry, Pops,) and I think it’s really rude to be constantly on your phone when you’re around friends, family, etc.
I won’t use my phone in front of my nibling. Why? Because I want to be present. I want to see every moment, enjoy every second with him, and experience every joyful little moment. It pisses me off when I see nibling’s dad on his phone when he’s meant to be taking care of the kid.
When I’m out with friends I’ll use my phone sparingly. Again, I want to be present. I don’t want to miss real conversations because I’m knee deep in a digital one.
I’ll sit down at my desk to work, plug my devices in, then hyperfocus for a few hours… once again, forgetting that my phone even exists.
I don’t have notifications turned on everywhere, because it pisses me off. My Mac doesn’t get my iPhone notifications, nor does my iPad, and so-on.
I spent almost four years of my life with two phones superglued to my hands, dealing with other peoples’ phones every single day, all whilst trying to keep up to date with all the latest tech, from all the latest models. I’m still the tech girl of the family. Everyone comes to me with their tech issues, and I spend my working life staring at a big screen, next to a little screen, occasionally with an even littler screen in my hand.
It’s too fucking much. I don’t want to be reachable at all times.
And Sambuca fucking hated it.
For the whole. fucking. year.
When I didn’t respond quickly enough/for a few hours, he’d throw the most passive-aggressive, guilt-tripping, “jokey” shit at me. I love a bit of pass-agg, don’t get me wrong, but it was poorly timed at best.
The Graves’ and/or new medication made me fall asleep a lot more than usual, but Sambuca couldn’t/wouldn’t accept it. Instead, he’d accuse me of trying to get rid of him, being tired of him, not being interested, having someone else, hating him, dumping him… all in that “jokey” way of his, of course.
I’d apologise for working/being with my nephew/falling asleep…
And he’d respond with this kind of stuff:
I have a new, chronic, lifelong disease that zaps every single ounce of energy out of me – one that I’m still trying to get my head around, still trying to find a way to treat, and still unearthing new symptoms for…
But he’s not okay because I didn’t reply to his text for a few hours?
Okay. Fine. I’m not a psychopath. I can take responsibility for my part in this mess. I was occasionally absent, moody, distant, knackered, struggled to open up, and made him feel like he had to “beg for attention.”
But…
I messaged constantly when I could, then I didn’t when I couldn’t. I always told him what I’d been doing. Sometimes, I remembered to tell him beforehand, but not always. Sometimes, I’d take four or five hours to respond. So, yeah, I’ll give him that: I did disappear for hours on end.
But… after a YEAR of doing the same thing, with the same responses, shouldn’t he have just known by now?
When he didn’t respond for hours, I’d always assume that he was either working, sleeping, or hanging out with his family. Whenever he disappeared, it was more often than not one of those three things.
I didn’t automatically assume that he was dead, fucking someone else, or doing some other dastardly deed.
When I didn’t respond for hours, I was working, on nephew duty, had popped to see my mother and forgotten to take my phone, had left my phone somewhere, had gotten distracted by something, was socialising with one of two groups of friends, or was sleeping.
But he never assumed I was doing any of those things; instead, he thought I was cheating, taking drugs, getting drunk, ignoring/hating him, or doing something else that he wouldn’t like.
Didn’t he know me at all? After a year?
“You didn’t…”
Towards the end of our situationship it felt like every single conversation, from morning until night, started with something I did “wrong.” Every. Single. One. It was so demoralising.
You didn’t call me handsome.
You didn’t say good morning.
You didn’t tell me that you were going out.
You didn’t send me a selfie.
You didn’t send a nude.
You didn’t reply earlier.
You didn’t tell me that.
You didn’t defend yourself.
You didn’t answer that question.
You didn’t answer all the questions.
You didn’t take accountability.
You didn’t apologise.
You didn’t care.
It was constant. I actually burst into tears on the phone to him one time and asked him to stop. Please, stop. It’s hard to talk to someone who starts every conversation with “YOU DIDN’T DO THIS!”
Did it stop? Nope. He did add a jokey spin on it every once in a while. Y’know: a winking face, the odd “lol,” a little something to soften the blow. I guess I should’ve been grateful for that.
He had so many things to moan about. Did he even like me, even a little bit? Because it really didn’t feel like it at times… or was it just the devaluation stage of a fully-fledged love bomber?
He told me, I had the “monopoly on anger, annoyance, and hurt,” I was “always annoyed” at him, and I constantly “thought the worst” of him. But wasn’t that him? He thought I was doing all sorts when I actually wasn’t. He even said, he had concerns about my “hard drug usage,” because I did MDMA once in twelve years, on my birthday.
It was when he said, “If you don’t want me, put me back,” that I almost lost my fucking mind.
Don’t want you?
Don’t fucking want you?!
He’s out of his mind. He must be. There’s no other explanation for it. I was fucking obsessed with the guy. I still am. How could he think that I wasn’t interested? I only wanted him. I wanted a relationship and the whole happy-ever-after with him. I didn’t put up with all that bullshit for nothing.
I try not to talk about him now, or even think about him at all, but he’s still there, lingering, hurting every now and then like a bruise.
Wasn’t interested? What?!
This feels like a good time to move to my next point.
Evidence
Sambuca never believed I was interested and/or wanted him. Maybe he couldn’t, maybe he refused to, I don’t know… but I had to regularly “prove” how I felt about him. Now, to some extent, I get why he felt that way; I had cancelled plans to meet him, more than once. It’s understandable, so I tried my best to be understanding. But he constantly told me how much I wasn’t interested, I would never meet him, I didn’t care…
If those things were really true, why was I frantically epilating my legs on September 18th? If I had no intentions of meeting him, why did I buy new lingerie? New toys just for us? A box full of all sorts of non-sexual goodies that I’d been collecting for a year?! (Just like he had for me, I must add.)
We agreed on complete honesty, which I kept to (mostly) even if he didn’t… so I’ve since learned. He wanted me to tell him everything, so I did. I was honest about men asking me out and being disrespectful, and I also told him about how I turned them down and/or told them not to speak to me that way.
But he couldn’t/wouldn’t believe me.
What did I end up doing?
Showing him evidence.
I’d ran out of ways to say, “I’m only interested in you,” and the accusatory questions and tone were royally pissing me off. So, I took screenshots of the conversations I had with other men and sent them to Sambuca.
Look, you fucking moron, I’ve turned every other person down.
For once, it worked. Sambuca seemed satisfied that I wasn’t a lying, cheating piece of shit, and the conversation turned a happier corner. The problem with that, of course, is that I had to show him screenshots of everything he didn’t believe from that point onwards; otherwise, it looked like I had something to hide.
And, according to Sambuca, I had shit loads to hide… and I really, really didn’t.
I wish I’d never sent him the first screenshot, let alone subsequent ones. I wish I’d told him to either trust me or fuck off, instead of going out of my way to make him feel better. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I didn’t want anyone else. I wasn’t talking to anyone else. I didn’t want to fuck anyone else.
I shouldn’t have needed to send screenshots to prove I was innocent, and it’s not something I’ll ever do again. Anyone who actually knows me, knows that I try to avoid lying, because I always drop myself in it. And on the couple of occasions that I did lie to Sambuca (innocent ex-related thing x 2,) I dropped myself in it… like always.
Why couldn’t he have used some common sense, though? I didn’t want to cheat on him. No one else even got a look in. I was *obsessed* with him. I didn’t tell everyone else to fuck off because he wanted me to; I did it because he was the only person I wanted to fuck, talk to, look at, everything.
And I told him that. Repeatedly.
It just wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
But we’ll come back to this…
Evidence II
Whenever I got upset or annoyed about something, Sambuca could never just believe me. I had to provide evidence, again, to support my claims. After one of our many breakups, he said, I “didn’t give a shit” about him, us, or the fact that we’d broken up. I was cold, distant, didn’t care, an ice queen, frosty, blah blah blah.
I argued back. Of course I cared. I was heartbroken that we’d split up. Yadda yadda yadda.
He didn’t believe me. AT ALL.
Until I sent evidence.
He only believed I gave a shit after I’d sent screenshots of my whining, crying, pathetic text message chats to friends.
What was I meant to do? Publicly cry over the embarrassment of a man choosing half-naked strangers over me? Broadcast to the whole world that I’d been lied to by a man… again? Admit that I’d given him chance after chance, after they’d told me that he was bad news and would fuck me over?
Also, what kind of narcissist wants to see other people in pain? Is that what he wanted? To see me crying? Whining like a little bitch on social media? He hurt me, so I shut down. That’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s how I’d been for the whole damn year.
Again, everyone who knows me, knows that.
Evidence III
And then there was the time, he did, but didn’t apologise. This is actually one of my favourite stories. Buckle in.
“I apologised profusely and begged for your forgiveness,” he said to me, following the drinking and the lie.
“You didn’t,” I replied. I was still super pissed off because he hadn’t apologised. In fact, instead of apologising, he’d gotten annoyed at me for being upset at him.
“Yes, I did apologise,” he said. “And it’s still not good enough for you.”
*rolls up sleeves*
We’d barely spoken on the phone since the incident, so I searched our chats for words like, “sorry,” “apologise,” and similar. There was ONE result. One apology. Ish. One of those I’m-sorry-but-you-did-this-other-thing jobs.
“Look,” I said, sending a screenshot. “That was your only apology, and it was barely an apology!”
“You know I’m not going to search through our chats, so I’m just going to let you have it.”
You fucking what, mate?
The evidence was right there. Right. fucking. there. Right in front of us. Yet, even when he was proved wrong, he still couldn’t admit that I was right. And then him not apologising profusely or begging, like he’d said, turned into an argument about how I wasn’t happy with anything he did.
All I wanted was for him to be sorry. That’s all. After all the drinking and work trip bullshit… I just wanted him to be genuinely sorry. Not half-assed sorry. Not faux-begging for forgiveness. Not I’m-sorry-but. An apology. A simple fucking apology for doing all the things he’d explicitly said he wouldn’t do.
It was all such a contrast to the “other” side of him – and that “other” side was the most incredible man I’ve ever had the fortune of talking to. The kind side. The hilarious side. The one who knew so much, regularly fascinated me with his random snippets of trivia, said all the right things, and completely swept me off my feet. I was never bored. Never ever. Not once. Every single thing about him intrigued me.
He would surprise me every day. Send little treats to my house. Promise me the world. Make me belly-laugh until I couldn’t breathe. Help me unlock new kinks. Teach me stuff. Show me things. Share his music, then listen to mine. Compliment me endlessly. Talk through problems. Even admit accountability… and apologise!
I loved talking to him. Have you ever been turned on and soothed by a voice, all at the same time? That was his voice. He made me want to speak on the phone, like the “old days.”
I never want to speak on the phone. I hate it. Don’t call me.
Unless you’re Sambuca, then only an eight-hour chat will do.
It’s hard to reconcile the man who added my music to his playlists for upcoming car journeys, with the man who broke every promise to me.
The same man who named a star after me/us for my birthday, was also the same man who shattered my trust… repeatedly.
The man who cheered me up on every single one of my miserable, struggling days, was also the man who broke my heart, refused to compromise, and made the really bad days worse.
How did that happen? Did I do that? Did I turn his playful, fun, wonderful side into one that picked fault with everything I did? Was it because we hadn’t met? Would things have magically gotten better if we had met? Was it all my fault?
Meeting wouldn’t have changed the fact that he hated my messaging style, though… right? And he still would’ve needed proof, evidence, whatever, before believing I was innocent. Right??
Looking back now, not meeting him might have been the best decision, especially with what went down in The Final Straw…
Coming soon.
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Want to read all about the Sambuca story? You’ll find that right here.
If you’re in the market for something a lil’ spicier, why not check out one of my smutty favourites:
