Dear Diary,

Just when I thought I couldn't feel more pain, this happens:

Sunday, I'm in the bathroom after a shower, doing my hair, putting on some make-up, etc. I'm excited about going dancing, thinking maybe Frank will be there, but knowing the possibility is very slim. I'm wondering and a little worried since he hasn't called me since I called him on Tuesday.

Then the phone rings. It's him.

ME (relieved): Hi! How are you?

HIM: I'm okay. How are you?

ME: I'm all right.

HIM: Listen, I just left some stuff outside your door.

ME: Wha..at? (at this point I look outside; there's a big box outside my front door). Why did you do that?

HIM: Because... it's your stuff.

ME: Why didn't you ring the doorbell?

HIM: I didn't want to disturb you.

ME: What? Don't you want to talk to me?

HIM: Honey... (a slip there, I imagine)... I thought you didn't want to talk to me.

ME: Why do you think I called you on Tuesday?

HIM: To tell me you were insulted.

ME: Yeah, I said that, but what else did I say?

HIM: Well, you invited me dancing...

ME: Right. And what does that tell you?

(pause)

ME: Are you afraid of me?

HIM: No! I'm not afraid of you!

ME: So you just drive by here, like a hit and run, and drop this stuff off, and don't even ring the doorbell?

HIM: Yeah.

ME: You're weird. (what I'd really like to say is, you're a fucking chicken).

HIM: Yeah, well, you knew that about me already.

(at this point our call is cut off. I try to call him back, but he's on the line with someone else. I go get the box. taped onto it is a typewritten note, a TYPEWRITTEN note, I tell you:

"Duck, I'm very sorry about my mismanagement of the situation. In no way does my mishandling of everything reflect on the respect and care I have for you. I hope someday we can be on speaking terms, as I would really like us to be friends. I am not going to go dancing tonight, but I will take a raincheck. Yours, Frank."

oh jesus. I call him again, this time he answers. we talk about stupid stuff, little life things, and I realize that I am not really interested in his life without me. It is so painful, this conversation, that I can't wait to get off the phone. he asks if he can call me, I say okay but I'm not sure why. It's like flaying my heart to pieces.)

Then, I drag this big heavy box inside. I start to take everything out, and that's when I really lose it. I'm weeping, sobs escaping my throat, I can't control them. My part in his life stuffed into a box. I imagine that he felt such relief to pack me away and send me back to myself.

I cry for a long time, make-up running down my face. It feels like the knife in my heart has been twisted a full 360 degrees. He wouldn't even give me the satisfaction of getting my own stuff. He didn't even call ahead of time to give me some warning. He rides off like a thief in the night and calls me from two blocks away, well on his way home. He doesn't want to see my face.

Lying on my living room rug, I want to die. I really do. I realize I don't have anything sharp enough to cut myself with. I could hang myself, but I don't have any rope. I don't even have pills. Jesus Christ, I think, how can I not have a way to kill myself in the house? Now it seems funny to me, like it's a necessary thing, rather than a first aid kit, a suicide kit.

He doesn't even see the irony, I guess, that this recent behavior isn't much better than his previous behavior. I could point it out to him but it seems... pointless, you know. It will just confirm that I think he can't do anything right, in relationship or out of relationship.

Anyway, I guess this is the way he needs to do it, and I am on the receiving end, which sucks big time.

Frank and his famous stories. He took my conversation with him on Tuesday to mean we weren't on speaking terms. His story is more powerful than truth, and he doesn't even investigate to find out what's going on with me.

That was a pattern in our relationship and I could never compete with it. So why start now?

My heart is smashed.

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