I have been getting over Angel quite nicely.
While she was in jail, life was a lot less chaotic. No need to visit since her new boyfriend / “fiance” was going every day. No communication other than one classic “dear john” letter she mailed early on. (Which I’ve been debating the dubious scruples of posting here.) My only anxieties were about the apartment we shared, and whether or not she was going to launch warfare upon me as she has been prone to do with previous exes.
Getting over her has entailed:
- realizing she never loved me back, and never would.
- understanding how much emotionally calmer my life would be without her never-ending drama.
- also understanding how much more efficiently my life would run without the heavy time demands of taking care of her.
- acknowledging how much financially better off I would be without her considerable expenses.
- not feeling guilt over abandoning her when she needed someone the most, since she found a new sucker to replace me.
The apartment situation got settled amicably when the apartment manager belatedly approved the release form Angel signed before she went to jail. Obviously, Angel had wanted me out so she could move Brian in. This means my name will not appear on pending eviction / unlawful-detainer proceeding. Huge sigh of relief.
And there has been no warfare. Within days of getting out she called me incessantly until I finally answered the phone by mistake. One thing led to another, she invited me to make the 1.5 hour drive to see her, saying it would be worth my while. Typical male, thinking with his penis, of course I went.
She insisted on going to her favorite bar for a beer, since her court-ordered UA’s weren’t scheduled to begin for two days. One beer led to another, and her talk led to how much she wanted to go back to the apartment and make love. Only problem was, she hadn’t successfully cleared the decks with the new boyfriend who was by default also scheduled to come over, didn’t buy her blow-off, and tracked her down at the bar. So it ends up I’m stoically sipping my beer, watching the muted Olympics closing ceremony on TV, while drama swirls around me. Not proud to be there, but a little proud of my calmness as I stayed above the fray, wondering if she hoped we would fight over her or something. She tells everyone within earshot how much she loves me and wants me. Of course, poor Brian has to go out to his car a couple of times for a little cry before wandering back in to argue with her some more.
(He’s got a lot more crying to do to catch up to me after everything she put me through. And, ironically, the only thing I had previously said to the man was the truism “if she’s two-timing someone with you, someday she will do the same to you.” Doubly ironic that she wanted to cheat on him with me.)
Bar patrons were in on the debate, and all of them were telling her to choose me. Of course, I already knew she would meekly go home with Brian. Self-preservation. No where else to go.
I would never see her naked body again, never be inside her again, indescribable pleasure mounting, her breasts rocking, as I try to read her enigmatic eyes.
Even before her closing ceremony mind-fuck confused me further, sex remained my final hurdle to getting over her. She was never very attracted to me, my body didn’t turn her on, she usually had to be drunk to do it, and couldn’t wait to get it over with. Ugh. No amount of romance ever seemed to kindle much passion in her. Not exactly my soul-mate, but dammit, there was something so exotic and erotic about her which drove me crazy with desire, I was hooked. Sex meant everything to me and nothing to her. I was patient and understanding, in it for the long haul, sincerely believed things would get better. But they got worse, and here we are. No way back. No way forward.
I am so much better off without her, but losing this one little thing with her is killing me.
There is something so childishly wrong with me here. Stunted adolescence. Serious separation anxiety. All goodbyes make me cry. And when I get hooked, I stay hooked for a long time. When my marriage failed, I didn’t have sex for four years, hoping against hope to win J back. Sigh.
Angel is concentrating on her sobriety, over her own momentary confusion, and won’t be making any more silly plays.
Time heals everything, this too shall pass. Maybe I can grow up a little too.