why someone should take my phone from me before 1 am

There's a blog that I'm sure a lot of you have read, or at least heard of. It's called "Single Dad Laughing," and chronicles the journeys of a twice-divorced cute, single dad. I think he started really picking up in popularity close to a year ago.

He writes about all the same "controversial" things I do--including issues with his ex-wife/wives, dating, getting over past relationship damage, and even uses his son's full name. Yet, he gets a bojillion readers, mostly women, applauding his every post. Heck! Even I like them! But, I guess I just got to thinking--how is it that a man can talk about certain things and be praised for his "efforts to work through his past;" and, although I often get praised for the same, I also get called "neurotic" or "unable to let go?" Is it just as simple as a male/female thing? Is it commendable for a man to be uncharacteristically open about his feelings and struggles and somehow less so for a woman, being as women maybe share too much in general? Hmmm.

I did have myself a good old fashioned *neurotic/unable to let go* episode the other night, though. (See the picture to know my exact mental/physical state at the time). I'm starting to think that, after three straight nights of not sleeping and writing myself to the point of physical, mental, creative, emotional exhaustion as well as just talking a friend out of committing suicide, someone should be assigned to come to my house before 1am, take away my phone and email access, and send me safely to bed. Why?...

I saw on Facebook, quite by innocent accident, that Dr. Yummy's very,um, 'interesting' roommate had become friends with Dr. Yummy's ex-girlfriend. The one who lived in a different state, who he was dating right before me, and who he claimed was aggressive, too young, and a bad match for him spiritually. I couldn't help but think, Why on earth would the two of them even know each other, let alone be friends unless she was somehow regularly corresponding with Dr. Yummy--or probably even coming here to visit? It triggered something in me. That some thing that's suddenly a million things all at once unraveling inside you--one great big emotional band aid getting yanked off before the scab has healed.

How could he move on by moving back to her? If he talked to me about her the way he did, what on earth was he now telling HER about ME? And why didn't he tell ME any of the reasons we wouldn't work other than 'fear' and 'it's just him'? Why do people lie to protect my feelings when it hurts a lot worse to find out than to just be told the truth from the start? How can he even move on when I'm still sitting here paralyzed by fear? Is everyone hiding some giant secret they're just waiting to let out? How can I ever trust any one again? All accompanied by images of them kanoodling on the couch together watching Top Gear the way we used to do.

Yeah. All of that. At once. Layered on top of a body so tired it was already starting to shake constantly and see little gnats that weren't there. So...what did I do? Picked up my phone and sent him the equivalent of a 1:16 am drunk text. That's smart, right?

Actually, I'm glad it was just a text and I didn't let loose on him with some rambling email. There's only so much damage I can do with a flea-sized keyboard.

I used to think I could make him change his mind if I just selected the right words. I remember feeling that way with Brad, too. Now, I've learned words are powerful but not that powerful, and that the writing process--if you choose to engage in it--is more about just saying what needs to be said. I've got a lot to say about that whole relationship, but I realize I don't really need to say it to him. I just need to say it. Somewhere. Here, sometimes. In my journal, other times. And through that writing process I have come to learn, yet again, that this lingering pain is less about him than it was all he represented. The probable end of my journey through singlehood. The way he made me feel--hopeful, unafraid, giddy,  ready to spend the rest of my life with someone again. The one that made all the other not-so-fun break-ups in my past make sense. Like a hug that I carried around with me all day.


If he came knocking on my door tomorrow, repentant and asking for another chance--would I give it to him? I guess that's part of why I keep writing. Until I can get to the definite answer, "no," or make peace with the fact that he, like others, don't ever even have it in their minds to come back for me (even though I AM totally worth coming back for).

One of the saddest things in life was and will continue to remain loving someone who doesn't love you back. And the equally sad accompanying process of making a stranger your friend, then more than your friend, then something changes...and suddenly you're strangers again.

Grateful that when I woke up the next morning (after my whole three hours of sleep) and remembered what I did, the text turned out not to be too bad. It said something like: SERIOUSLY?! You got back together with  ________? Knife to my heart is a phrase that comes to mind. I'm such a fool.

When I'm sure I meant to say he was a fool.

Or she was a fool.

Or we were all fools together.

Or love is such a foolish, foolish game.

So maybe I don't have the swooning fan base that Single Dad Laughing has. That was never my objective in blogging through this portion of my life anyway. It was/is more to embrace my neurotic tendencies until they become endearing quirks. And to let go of my past by delving back into it at times when it's most beneficial-- addressing things that happened, why, and how they changed me for better or worse, and how I'm going to deal with those changes. That's how I heal. That's how I prepare for my next step.

By the way, I did get an answer to my "drunk" text: Fool? Not at all. Except maybe to assume I've 'gone back' (winky face). Seriously, my friendship with _________ could not be more platonic. I mean it. Haven't gone back nor started seeing anyone. I'm sorry whatever you've seen or read hurt you.

And that was it.

Spoken like a true psychiatrist.

And true stranger.