Southern Discomfort

So I should have known that doing shots of Southern Comfort with Matt on his couch last night would only lead to a bad place. It’s just that he said, “Beer? Or Southern Comfort?” and I thought, Mmmmm, Southern Comfort. And from there I ended up bawling. Matt, in his infinite and somewhat intimidating wisdom pointed out the obvious key point that I’ve been ignoring for months now: “Maria, he’s still in love with her.” Maybe not entirely in love, but there’s wreckage that still has to be cleared. And until it has been washed away in the natural course of life and living, there is nothing that I – or even he – can do about it. So I cried, and Matt hugged me, and let me borrow one of his pillows when I became too drunk to drive myself home. It smelled clean and good, like the man himself. This morning before I left, when I was half awake and half asleep, I think I murmured, “It’s going to be OK… right?” And he said, “Yes. It is.” And put his arms around me to let me feel my sadness with the strength of a good friend behind it. Ten minutes later I asked for some Motrin.

Two hours later I found myself crouching in my shower, awaiting the purge. I could feel it coming, thinking to myself, “Amazing how your body protects you by hurling that purposely ingested poison right out of your system.” And it came and went, and came and went again. Tripping out of the shower in my attempt to reach the toilet I managed to add injury to my already burning insult. Perfect, total humiliation in the face of emotional catastrophe? Achieved.

Lying on my bed in my towels, the dampness from my hair saturating my quilt, I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell I got myself into all this. And how ridiculous it is that I am this unglued. It’s not anyone’s fault that he doesn’t love me. It’s not my fault, it’s not her fault, and it’s definitely not his fault. It just is. Perhaps that is part of why it’s awful; being a person who likes to place blame where it belongs, I find myself unable to determine the legitimate culprit, and so it unfairly falls to him. Although he did lie to me, for weeks, but that was only ever a bi-product of him lying to himself. Hopefully I will get beyond that, and he will forgive me for the daggers I’ve been throwing him from my eyes, and the shortness and contempt I’ve been unable to suppress in my voice. Maybe then we will be able to behave toward one another with some semblance of the friendship that was underneath all of this. If we’re lucky I guess, maybe we’ll get to have that….