Falling Down

Last night I got drunk with my roommate. This morning I woke up with bruises and an OK Cupid profile that had type-o’s in it. The bruises are from falling on some stairs at a bar (no one saw me fall though – which raises the question, if a drunk girl falls down a flight of stairs and no one sees it, did it actually happen?); the online dating profile rife with misspellings is from the broken heart. Between the drunkenness, the fall, the participation in e-dating (that I think is stupid!), and the type-o’s, I am most embarrassed by the type-o’s. I mean, Jesus Christ!

On Friday I lied out loud to my roommate by saying, “You know, I think I’m almost done being sad about loving a man who didn’t even deserve the affection in the first place.” I believe that is what we call ‘wishful thinking.’ Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m still sad. I’m still really, fucking sad.

This is the part where I get angry.

I am mad at him for not knowing himself well enough to know that he is in love with another woman. A fact which has been so abundantly obvious to me that it still blisters my eyes to think about it. My gut instinct whispered to me at every turn, He is still in love with her. And yet he couldn’t just say it. He couldn’t just say to me, “Maria, I am sorry but I am in love with her.” This makes me the stupid, stubborn, brokenhearted fool.

I am mad at him for calling me after a month of us not speaking to tell me that he missed me and wanted us to try to be together. I am mad at him for telling me that he was absofuckinglutely sure when I asked him if I was what he really wanted. I am mad at him for opening the door and then not actually having any room for me in his life, emotionally or physically. Most of the time there wasn’t even a place for me to sit down at his house. Except his bed. Of course.

My brother was right when he said, “Maria, he used you for sex.” Ouch. But true.

Paul was right when he hugged me as I cried and trembled and tried to dish up a dinner plate, he said, “Maria, you deserve so much better.” Ouch. But true.

Adam was right when he said, “Maria, if he doesn’t know his own heart well enough to take care of it, how could he ever take care of yours?” Ouch. But true.

James was right (three months ago!) when he said, “Maria, you are reaching for him and he’d be settling for you if he really feels that way.” Ouch. But true.

Maybe Hassan was right when he said, “Fucking asshole.” Ouch. But true? I hope not.

This is the part where I get sad.

Everything reminds me of him. Bicycles. Firemen. Fire engines. Zombies. Michael Jackson. German shepherds. Cats. The exit for Linwood on the Lodge. Vegetarian cooking. Hyperballad. Soccer. Elbow. Fish tacos. The word, “integrity.” Jack Burton. The Hobbit. Tall men. His name. Everything. Annoying.

The break-up conversation started with a funny story about his short-lived career as a Boy Scout. We were laughing, genuinely laughing together, just fifteen minutes before he was apologizing and I was crying. Boy Scouts will remind me of him for a long time to come.

The last time we ate dinner together we had tuna melts. He jokingly sang Simply Red to me across the dinner table because somehow he knows all of the words to every song ever written, even the ones he doesn’t like. I was laughing. His eyes were mischievous. Simply Red will remind me of him for a long time to come.

In fact, the list of music that will remind me of him is terrifyingly long. I might have to stick to classical and jazz for awhile. Except for John Coltrane. John Coltrane will just remind me of the night we sat on my couch after eating dinner and watching a movie, when we were trying to just be friends. And so we sat, I with my head on his shoulder, he with his arm around me, and did not speak for thirty minutes. He finally stirred to get up and “Blue Train” came on. Instead of saying goodbye he said softly to the top of my head, “Well one of my favorite songs is on now. I guess I’ll have to stay a few more minutes.” And we just listened. At the end of the song he went home.

This is the part where I get to feeling sorry for myself, but just for a moment.

The fact that I have, yet AGAIN, offered up on a platter my trust, my time, my affection, my body, and my love to a man who sampled it, almost consumed it entirely, only to say, “You know what, this is not what I wanted after all,” makes me feel foolish and small and quiet and skeptical and unsure and unattractive and undesirable and hopeless. But just for a moment.

Breaking up with a man I love is difficult. The fact that he never, in all the time we spent together, actually loved me back makes things harder still. Sara urges me to learn from this. I believe the lesson is to choose more carefully. Heart, did you hear that? Choose more carefully. Or else there may be nothing left by the time the right person shows up.