Sambuca: The Final Straw

I’ll be honest with you, I have absolutely no clue how to start this. I’ve been avoiding finishing it for ages, but you’ve probably noticed that. A lot of different things led to The Final Straw with Sambuca, and I’m still not quite sure what the fuck actually happened.

Maybe you can figure it out?

The final weeks

As those last few weeks rolled by, I found it more and more difficult to talk to him. Everything I said was twisted and turned into something completely different. Simple things like, “My ex asked me to go to the hospital with him,” was somehow turned into, “You’ve been talking to him every day?!” and “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

I couldn’t talk to him. Talking to him, revealing all, had gotten me nowhere. Being honest and direct about how I felt and what I did or didn’t want hadn’t worked. Nothing changed.

Nothing had worked.

With everything else that was going on, I’d started to struggle.

I was going out less and less, needed more frequent social media/phone breaks, and I’d slowly isolated myself from my support network. That was partly because of Bob, but also because I hated the “what the fuck are you doing?” spiel when I told them about yet another promise that Sambuca had broken. 

Weight loss, worsening insomnia at night but sleeping more in the day, Graves’ symptoms kicking my ass, behind on work, always pissing him off…

It was a lot.

And for someone who talked a great deal about their own mental health issues, Sambuca didn’t seem to notice (or give a shit) when my depression crept back with a vengeance. In fact, I’d started to think he was using it as the proverbial stick to beat me with…

The final nudes

“You don’t flirt with me anymore,” he said.

It took me aback. Don’t I? His statement baffled me, so I had a little scroll through our messages. This is just a little bit of the flirting, I didn’t do:

I argued back. Defended myself. Asked him to clarify what he meant, because it meant absolutely fuck-all sense to me. If that’s how he felt, that’s how he felt… but I couldn’t change something I didn’t understand.

“Well, you haven’t sent nudes for ages,” he explained.

Ahhhh, I see.

First of all, why would you need my nudes when you’re following so many half-naked women/porn accounts? Nudes all over. Tits everywhere. Much hotter bodies than mine, too. That’s why you follow them, right? (There go my insecurities again.)

Secondly, nudes aren’t mandatory. Why would I send nudes after you’ve repeatedly fucked me over, then tried to gaslight me into believing it was all my fault?!

Thirdly, you don’t get to behave like some kind of deranged, horny neanderthal and still get the “happy girlfriend” experience.

Fourthly, are you actually fucking insane?

*throws things, screams a bit, kicks a bin*

The final cancellation

We’d agreed to meet on 27^th October, come hell or high water… and the water part was quite apt. I was nervous about so many things, but I knew I’d lose him if I cancelled one more time. More than that, I was so fucking excited to hug him, kiss him, touch him, fuck him…

Ooooft, I couldn’t wait.

I think I’d convinced myself that everything would be okay if I just met him. That’s all we needed to do: have that first date. Then, he’d go back to being the good guy again, I’d go back to being the happy chick again, and everything would be perfect.

But then, I woke up on the October 26^th with a whopper of a leak between my bathroom and my kitchen. Great. It really was a whopper, too. Black mould under the bath, mushrooms growing in the wall, a yellowing stain climbing up three walls, making the paint bubble.

Fuck.

We called a plumber. He took hours to turn up, then it was too big of a job for just one day and/or one man. Then, someone called fucking Bob, and there was no way on earth I’d leave him in my house alone. What if he went through my underwear drawer? Installed hidden cameras? Worse???

There was also absolutely no way in hell that I’d be alone with Bob, either. So, I called someone to “help” – AKA make sure he didn’t grope me.

(What is my fucking life?)

I had no choice but to cancel the date with Sambuca. To my surprise, he was strangely cool about it. No guilt trip, no shittiness, nothing. In fact, it was his idea to postpone.

Weird.

The final gaslighting

I’d been busy for a couple of days, trying to rebuild the bathroom after the leak, organising my nibling’s birthday celebrations, working, etc. What did Sambuca do?

Sambuca said this: “It feels like you’re done with us. I feel like you haven’t wanted to speak to me or been remotely interested in speaking to me.”

He then went on to accuse me of only talking to him when I had nothing else to do, complaining about me going to bed earlier than usual, and told me, he was tired of begging for my attention.

I responded in a half-shitty way, which he pulled me up on, so I apologised and reinforced my interest in him.

Then, I apologised again.

Oh, and one more time.

(Not bad for someone who doesn’t apologise or take accountability, eh?)

He didn’t know what I wanted from him; didn’t believe that I want him at all. I’m never available. I’ve been “better at communicating” sometimes, so he knows I’m capable of it, and he shouldn’t have to beg for my attention.

I replied:

To which he replied, “The last two days are the icing on the cake. You don’t give off the vibe of actually wanted to speak to me. If you don’t like me or want this then why not say?”

Again, I reinforced and apologised:

He’s in “purgatory.” I only want to talk to him when it’s suitable to talk; otherwise, it’s little to no effort. Messages are too short. No conversation. I’ve not put him in a good place. Can I make a bit more effort with him? Are my apologies sincere, or am I just placating him?

Oh, fuck off. JUST FUCK OFF. How many more fucking times do I have to tell you, I want you? How many more fucking life updates do you want?! How many hours per day should I be available, my fucking lord?

*rage*

Rather than rage text at him I figured we’d have a call, later that evening. He didn’t like that. Couldn’t we talk today? He can’t talk at night. Why can’t I just tell him, it’s over? If I want to talk, it means I’m done, right?

Give it a rest, bruh.

I chose not to respond, because y’know, if you’ve got nothin’ nice to say, don’t say nothin’ at all.

It was back and forth for a couple of weeks. I was cold, aloof, poor with communication, my actions have spoken really loudly, I’ve refused to deny anything, I’m still not answering about what I want, I’m sloping my shoulders and putting it all on him, and giving him some attention is a “basic standard.”

I haven’t wanted to call him a gaslighter, because I think it’s a dangerous word to throw around… but he was gaslighting me, I think? I’ve denied everything. I mean, cold and aloof, yeah – I’ll give him those. But the rest of it? Really? How had I not answered what I want? How have I not repeatedly told him that he’s who I want?

Maybe he was trying to get rid of me? Seeing how far he could push me? Something else?! My mum thought he’d already met someone else, but didn’t want to be the bad guy and do the dumping. You lose them how you get them, I suppose. Maybe he was discarding me like he’d discarded his girlfriend, right at the beginning?

Who fucking knows.

It gets worse, though.

The final breakup

No more than twelve hours after I sent messages that told him, in no uncertain terms, I’d never wanted to break up, after he accused me of not being interested, he dumped me… while I was at a family event, surrounded by people, and already filled with anxiety.

“I genuinely wish you the very best going forward. I will miss you, for sure.”

It broke my heart to read his message, and I burst into tears, much to the horror and dismay of my entire family, including my nephew.

“Just an emotional day,” I muttered, wiping away tears that wouldn’t stop coming from cheeks that were burning from embarrassment.

How else are you meant to say, I never met this bloke, but he crushed my heart anyway?

Thankfully, I’d been unwell with the whole Graves’ and depression malarkey, so everyone nodded sympathetically, smothered me in hugs, and shoved boxes of Kleenex under my nose.

I couldn’t believe he’d done that to me. I’d always gone out of my way to avoid having serious conversations on his family days, for him to ruin my nibling’s birthday celebrations. My darling nibling, who means more to me than anyone else on the planet ever will.

(Sambuca also started an argument on my birthday. I’m sensing a pattern.)

“I never broke up with you. You broke up with me, with your silence,” he then said.

(I told you it got worse.)

My silence?

What fucking silence? The silence where I TOLD YOU THAT I’M NOT/WASN’T DONE?!

Whatever this man is on, I want some. Those have gotta be some good drugs (or some good gaslighting,) to turn, “I’ve never wanted to break up,” into “ghosting-with-silence.”

What a lemon.

He is definitely gaslighting me. Right? He definitely is.

Well, in the words of Fallon Carrington:

“You wanna gaslight me? I will set the gasoline on fire!”

I thought about defending myself… again. It was getting exhausting, though. No, I’m not cheating on you. No, I haven’t gone off you. No, I’m not ignoring you, I’m just busy. No, I don’t hate you, I’m just super distracted, feel like shit, haven’t slept…

I told him everything that was going in my life, even the stuff I’d rather have kept to myself. And it just wasn’t good enough. It was never fucking good enough.

So, instead of arguing, instead of defending myself again, I didn’t. I plonked myself on the couch, and aside from going to the bathroom and making coffee I didn’t move for five days. I didn’t go out. I didn’t go on social media. I didn’t talk to anyone. I just cried. Then, I cried some more. And when I thought I was done crying, I cried a whole bunch more.

It wasn’t just him.

It was EVERYTHING.

I was exhausted. Emotional. Confused. Angry. Sad. Tired of defending myself. Is it really healthy to have to defend yourself that much?

Five days later, when he still hadn’t apologised, still hadn’t tried to see things from my point of view, still hadn’t unfollowed even one of those accounts, and still hadn’t given me a fucking break, I blocked him.

I regretted it immediately. What was I doing? I think I loved that man… could I really just give up?

So, I unblocked him, and I stared at our message thread. Read over some of our conversations. Cried. Raged. Threw the remote control and one of the batteries flew out and rolled under the couch, which, of course, I couldn’t reach. Then, I cried a bit more and blocked him again.

He could’ve called me. I didn’t realise at the time, but I hadn’t actually blocked his number. I’d blocked him on all the socials and WhatsApp, but I’d not blocked his number before deleting it, so he could’ve tried to call. He didn’t. He could’ve sent a regular text message. He didn’t. He could have emailed or sent a letter. I mean, he was quick enough using my home address when he was love bombing (maybe?) the shit out of me with gifts.

The final lies

Sambuca’s behaviour in the weeks after really underlined just how much bullshit he’d spouted to me. He was flirting with women he’d slagged off to me something chronic, being super friendly with folk he “couldn’t stand,” and doing all sorts of things he said he wouldn’t do. He’d also apparently told one person one thing, then told me something completely different… more than once.

And I thought I was two-faced.

Let me tell you something, folks…

I have never felt like more of a tit.

I actually believed what Sambuca had said to me. Now, I’m replaying conversations in my head, wondering which bits were bullshit and which weren’t. He slagged off the woman on the work trip… was that bullshit, too? When he “lost” his phone (but was still online,) was that bullshit? The two female BFFs… was all that bullshit?

Was everything bullshit?

Had I believed a bunch of bullshit?

I’m done. I can’t cry any more tears for that man. I can’t question, overthink, or lie awake at night wondering what I should’ve done differently anymore. I’m too hurt, too angry, too confused. Beyond confused, in fact. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what happened between us. Not really.

I think I loved him. A version of him, anyway. I’m starting to think I didn’t really know him at all, but my heart hurts, nevertheless. It’s been five months, but I still think about him every day. Despite the lies and broken promises and tears, I’m pretty sure, I loved him. 

At the same time, though, I now despise him for treating me that way, blaming me for it, and making me feel like I wasn’t good enough. I fucking detest him for not apologising or taking accountability. 

I would’ve been so content with such bottom tier behaviour. That’s depressing in itself.

Sigh.

Another one bites the dust, I guess.

Fin.

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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:

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