Hell Hath No Fury


Like a woman scorned.

And don’t I know it.

I had lots of things to  say tonight, lots of words, lots of engaging things that would lead me to make an amends to a certain person at some point.

What’s the point?

Self-righteous anger does not serve me.

Nor does taking anyone else’s inventory.

It’s always myself I have to look at, what’s might part?

I was a big old Charlie Brown.

I went for the Lucy, the ball got swiped, and I’m assed out looking at the sky.

Wait.

Didn’t I just go through this?

What the fuck?

Oh.

I responded.

I started back down that road again, I did.

No one else compelled me to revisit it.

I was riding my bicycle home through the gloaming, the park darkening quickly, the few joggers out with their headlamps on, a handful of hardcore frisbee golf kids hanging out around the first tee on the disc golf course, but mostly, just me, the wind, the chill, the thoughts in my head, and the sky above.

I was thinking about how I am the better person and how and what and when and this and that.

And whoa.

Slow down.

There is not a better person, there is his experience, and there is my experience and I have come out of the experience a better woman.

Not better than another.

I am not the better person, I am just.

A better person.

For having had the experience.

I realized as I was riding my bicycle a number of things that did not happen around the break up and how grateful I am for that, and how hard I worked to not let any of the following happen.

First and foremost, I didn’t drink.  I didn’t pick up a drug.  I did not start smoking again.  I did not do any kind of crazy risky behaviors that would land me in the hospital, I did not have a bunch of crazy wild one night stands.

Oh.

And I didn’t eat eighteen boxes of donuts and twenty-two pints of Hagen Daaz icecream.

I had all the feels.

ALL of them.

I wrote about them.

I inventoried those little fuckers.

I did work.

I discovered that I don’t like it when I lose my voice in a relationship, I don’t like being on a pedestal, I learned about how I want to date in the future, I learned about what I want from a partner I learned more about how I need to communicate with people in my life and with myself.

I deepened my spiritual life.

I renewed my vigor and commitment to doing my blog.

I tried some online dating.

I tried asking some guys out.

I tried not doing anything.

I paused when it was applicable.

I took action when it was applicable.

I resolutely turned my attention to others and their needs.

I didn’t check out.

And I am not about to act like the scorned woman now.

No.

I have some honor.

And the still quiet voice of a friend in my head.

I was riding past Lindley Meadows thinking about what it will look like when I get married.

Yes.

I went there.

Decorating out the park.

Where the lights would go.

Who I would invite.

Pure fantasy landia.

However.

It had been supplanted with an honest share from an uncomfortable chair that after the last time I did work around a sexual ideal what I really wanted was this: a sober, non-smoking, heterosexual, monogamous, spiritual, fully self-supporting, creative, sexy, passionate, kind, healthful, man.

Who I want to be married to.

The dirty secret is out.

I don’t need children.

But I want a marriage.

Old fashioned.

Strange to think about in this day in age.

But there it was, right at the heart of it.

And then when I reviewed my ideal, knowing, without having to be told, I have achieved al those things in my life.

I am sober.

I am monogamous.

I am heterosexual.

I am creative.

I am financially self-supporting.

I am sexy.

I am passionate.

I am spiritual.

I am enough.

Fuck.

I am more than enough.

Worthy of love and lovable.

So when I got the text, oh I almost wrote something else there, ah, restraint of pen and tongue, restraint of pen and tongue and blog, saying, in a nutshell, meeting up is not a good idea.

I just responded.

Yes.

I agree.

Deleted message from said ex.

I had already deleted his number and the Facebook and social media channels are clear.

I didn’t say anything else.

There was nothing left to say.

I did feel like, for a moment, it passed, that I had the break up twice, but with none of the fun stuff like having sex one more time or dramatic frothy emotional appeals in public.

Not that I need to have those things to know when to let go.

Baby won’t you let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Baby, won’t you let me go.

There was a bit more to the text, but it’s not my place to pick apart here.

That voice I heard.

My friend’s voice.

Drifts back into my head, just like it did on my bike ride home.

And then I breathe and recall the sun on my face, we were at the beach, sitting and watching the waves, it was just a few weeks before I started seeing the ex and my friend said with complete candor, “oh, I could never date a woman who blogs, what if something happens?  All my foibles out on the web for anyone to see, I just couldn’t do that.”

And I knew.

I can’t write about the ex.

I can only write about myself.

My process.

My feelings.

My inventory.

The feeling now is.

It is definitely over and I won’t be seeing him any time soon.  No texting, no flirty messages on Facebook, nothing.

Moving on.

Letting go.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And then.

Just a little more for good measure.

Because I want an open heart and open arms for the wonderful person who wants to be with me, the me I am, with openness and candor and authenticity.

I won’t be distracted again.

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