AS PROMISED:

The times that have hurt the most are the times I have been dumped.

Thankfully, I can count those times on the fingers of one hand. Probably because I have constructed my whole personality to avoid just that sort of rejection.

You will not find a more easygoing person than me. I hold my tongue, even when someone is doing the most outrageous thing. Sometimes it's because I think it's wrong, but I don't want to say it's wrong because then the person might turn on me angrily. Or sometimes I think I have no right to judge someone else. And sometimes, I realized, I just don't know what to think. I am so used to bizarre reality that it just doesn't phase me. So, in that order, the reasons for me not interfering are FEAR, SELF-DOUBT, and CONFUSION (which I attribute to lack of a Self).

And, I am an expert at cheering people up. Since I was not allowed to express any anger or sadness growing up, I used what I was allowed to do: be funny. Laugh, and be laughed at. Wit. All those things. I am the person that can charm the grumpiest of people (especially men). I made myself in charge of harmonious atmospheres. Keeping things running smoothly. Making sure folks are happy. I am hostess to the entire planet.

Fuck.

All that training, of course, was to keep from being rejected. It doesn't always work.

The first major rejection by a member of the opposite sex (if you don't count my father) was my boyfriend when I was 19. This was especially difficult. I was wild about this guy. He was handsome and fit and unique. We went out for 6 months. I was convinced I was in love with him and that we would have babies together. But I backslid into being a little girl... it was like I... regressed somehow. My requests became whiney pleas for attention. Drama out of nowhere. He cheated on me twice. The first time, I tried to sort it out and be loving and understanding (I'm telling you, I really didn't know how to do anger). The second time, I didn't really catch him but I knew something was up. He'd thrown my toothbrush in the garbage and wouldn't look me in the eye. End. Finito. Right? No.

Because I was obsessed. I couldn't let go. Horrible at being dumped. I wanted him to want me back. I thought of all kinds of plans. I could tell him I was pregnant (I wasn't, and I didn't). I could send him a threatening letter that someone was going to kidnap his girlfriend (me, obviously the kidnapper wouldn't have known we had broken up). What I did do was perhaps even stranger. I left six tiny red roses on his front porch. One for every month. Convinced he would understand. That somehow, magically, this would induce a sense of guilt within him, that he would know we were supposed to be together.

I know; this doesn't make any sense... it's not supposed to! I was 19 and crazy!

It gets worse. I obsessed about him for months and months afterward. I kept ties to his mother that should have been broken. I saw him out one night, he was the front man in a new band. I went up and stood right in front of the stage. Embarrassed, he handed me the microphone. And I proceeded to tell him what an asshole he was. In the movies, this would be some kind of rewarding scene. In real life, it was not. No one could really hear what I was saying because of the music. Plus, it was obvious that I was just a broken-hearted girl who still had the hots for her ex. Nice way to keep it cool, Duck.

I would like to say it got better... but...fast forward to a few years later.

I fell for a musician. Don't ever do that. Bad news. Not only was he in a band, but he was the LEAD SINGER. Big mistake. If you're going to date a musician, date a drummer. But, I digress.

To me, this guy was smart, funny, and intense. His passion was magnetic, especially when he was up on stage. He was tall and lean, with heavy-lidded eyes and a handsome face.

It started simply and innocently enough. He said he'd seen me out with my previous boyfriend (not Mr. Rosebud, thankfully) and always 'dreamed about what it would be like to be with a girl like me'. We hung out a lot as friends. We kissed. He started to get a little critical, but it didn't phase me. (I came from a very critical background.) We kissed some more. I was really falling for him. Then he stopped calling.

What happened? I don't know. He was evasive. I remember waiting in the parking lot of a super market for an hour, waiting until he said he'd be home so I could go to his house. He was evasive. So I waited. I waited a whole month and a half. And then I called him. Unsuspecting, he picked up the phone. "Did I do something wrong?" I asked. "Uh... no," he stammered. After a time, he admitted, "Things just got too intense, and I got scared." Okay. I tried to be cool with it. I would see him out sometimes, and try to be cool. But the truth was I was not cool at all. The obsessive-abandonment monster had me by the balls. No doubt, I wanted him back, and I wanted him to want me back. But I knew it was no good. I didn't want to be the lame-puppy girl trailing behind him as I was with Mr. Rosebud.

I resorted to witchcraft. I burned candles and asked the ArchAngel Michael to separate our connection with his blue sword of flaming light, or something. I threw the stumps in a moving body of water. I prayed and prayed to be released from the obsessive-abandonment monster. But everywhere I went, I would either see him or hear about him, and I wanted him. One girl who was dating one of my brothers was extremely happy to fill me in on what and who Mr. Evasive was doing.

One night I did meet him in a bar and he invited me over. I was happy to oblige. We got to his house, and started kissing and fooling around. What I noticed is that he wasn't going anywhere that I wasn't going first... meaning, he was only going to reciprocate whatever I gave to him. I ended up jerking him off, and then he told me I had to go home. Because his friend's dad was picking him up for work in the morning and he didn't want me there, because the guys would make fun of him. I couldn't believe it. I was being kicked out after he got his orgasm. I was sooo glad I hadn't slept with him. It felt bad enough to be driving home at 6am in last night's dress and high heels-- girls, you know the feeling...

So I did the best thing I could do. I left town.

That's right, I picked up and left town for half a year, wandering and trying to find a place to live. This wasn't all about Mr. Evasive- I had other issues in my life and I think I was just trying to find a geographical cure. (It didn't help so much, I was still miserable.) One day I was on the phone with a friend back in my hometown, and he informed me that Mr. Evasive had moved in with the Village Slut. Now, I do not use this term loosely. This woman literally... slept with a LOT of people. And sometimes a LOT of them all at once. It wasn't just stories that circulated... I mean had guy friends that had been with her... evidence.

At any rate, I was hurt. Why would Mr. Evasive choose Village Slut over me? Well, besides obvious reasons. I didn't understand, because we seemed to have so much in common, intellectually and all that. I could only surmise that yet again I had met a man who was so afraid of intimacy, that he would rather be with someone for the sex than for the intimacy (which would have had sex too, don't forget).

Let's just skip right to Mr. Fear of Intimacy himself, who couldn't kiss me with his eyes open and couldn't stay hard unless he was doing me from behind. What's THAT all about? Where did I ever see THAT going? Did I think I could fix it with my magical love pussy? Beats the shit out of me. We had one night where I looked deep, deep into his eyes, and I saw it. I saw he was going to run. And he did. Two days later he called and broke up with me over the phone. He was twelve years older than me, and one of these New Age guys, so he tried to use a lot of fancy mumbo-jumbo language about how he felt our "heart-connection wasn't adequately sustained" or some such nonsense. Truth: he freaked. Truth: I felt real bad. Thankfully, I did not make too much of a fool of myself over this one, although I still pined for... something...

Mr. Prick came a few years later (after the guy I have referred to as The Ex). He lives up to his namesake. He is the prick I mentioned in the last entry (but he did not literally have a big prick, I feel obliged to mention). This guy offended everyone he knew... except me, for some reason. He was critical, self-righteous, arrogant, self-centered, and just plain mean. He didn't have a kind thing to say about anybody, and as far as he was concerned everybody was doing everything wrong-- the world was being completely misrun. A tragedy.

Oddly, in a way, we had great sex. But that's all we could do. We had sex for HOURS. I mean a love-making session would last no less than two hours, usually bordering on three or four. Yes, you are wondering how this could be physically possible, but it's true. I wouldn't lie to you, Dear Diary.

Unfortunately, having sex was the only thing we COULD do. When we weren't having sex, there wasn't much else. We had nothing much to say to each other. I guess we didn't really like each other much. We were from completely different cultures, and Mr. Prick really didn't want to marry outside of his culture... therefore, what was he doing? Sleeping with me? Um, I'm not really sure. I guess he was 'sowing his oats' with the 'whores' outside of his culture before he found a nice girl to settle down with. The really sad part was, I think there was a really young part of me that thought I could change his mind, even though I would never admit this to myself. That was waiting for him to see how wonderful I really was, and he would change his beliefs around all that cultural stuff. Now that's magical thinking, folks. Really. You don't have to tell me. The relationship ended over something that I don't even want to go into... but suffice to say that Mr. Prick grew into an even bigger prick (again, not literally) by denying certain undeniable facts, and turning everything around, and making us both look like fools.

Whew! Aren't you glad that's over? Well, I am. Even though I was dumped, I wasn't heartbroken. That was a positive thing. I knew exactly why Mr. Prick was breaking up with me, and I knew that he wasn't being honest about it. And I honestly believed, in that moment, that I would find somebody who would love me more deeply. I didn't buy into Mr. Prick's bullshit and I didn't feel like there was anything wrong with me. There, progress. But, I am sorry to say, it didn't keep me from being awfully nice to Mr. Prick when I ran into him a couple of months later. Looking back on it, I wish I could have been suitably angry or rude. But no go. That should count for some points.

It's like Reservoir Dogs: Mr. Rosebud, Mr. Evasive, Mr. Fear of Intimacy, Mr. Prick.

Here is the update on What They're Doing Now: I heard Mr. Rosebud got married, but I don't know to whom. Despite his wild streak, I think he still has his desk job. That's really all I know. I used to see him when he worked at a music store, and he would save good music for me. So I think we sort of made up. It was a long time ago, anyway.

Mr. Evasive eventually married the Village Slut, and I suppose took over fathering her two illegitamite children fathered by two OTHER men. But the Village Slut didn't give up her title just because she got married, folks. Last I heard, she was up to her old tricks, and Mr. Evasive was arrested for embezzlement AND slid into bankruptcy, VS got a DWI and they got a divorce, many affairs later (on both sides). Not necessarily in that order, but I know all those things happened.

Mr. Fear of Intimacy has to be the biggest surprise of all. Last time I actually spoke to him, he called me from the airport. I forgot where he was going, but he was scared. He didn't know what he was going to do with his life. He had just quit his major corporate career and was quite frazzled. He was calling to thank me for the mixed tape I made him. He said it sure made him feel better. I was under the impression Mr. FoI had dynamite strapped to his chest or something. It was a strange call. Next thing I heard, he moved to California, got married and had a baby. I don't know if that means he's still afraid of intimacy, or what.

Mr. Prick. Yes folks Mr. Prick is still alive and well. I actually saw him at a friend's wedding several months ago. THIS would have been my chance to be suitably angry and rude, but sadly, I didn't do it. Instead he started a conversation with me... a one-sided conversation, wherein he discussed what he was doing, his plans for the future, etc. etc. As I was standing there, the thing I felt most was TIRED. I thought to myself, I spent 5 months listening to Mr. Prick talk about himself, and I think that is enough. I excused myself to get more punch, and never went back.

So. There you have it. I guess, even though my dumpee status is not official at this time, I'm doing quite well. I'm not following Frank anywhere, or leaving weird things on his porch. No doubt the Abandonment Monster is here, but I may have calmed him down a bit.

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