Real Life Diary of an Addict: Detox - Week #8

Pochahantas’ journey continues in trying to shake her Mr Unavailable, but it seems that even though she took two steps forward, she’s taken twenty steps back. It’s safe to say that a hardcore detox is neccessary before the self destruct button gets hit….
***
J warned me that this would happen.

I’ve spent the last three nights in his room trying to erase the memories, the bad karma, the negative energy that you…that we left in my room.

My sheets still smell like you, and though the smell generally lulls me, soothing me into a sleep boasting the most pleasant dreams; but now it viciously taunts me, reminding me of what was and can never be.

You and me. I can’t make myself wash them for fear you’ll really disappear.

You promised you’d be back and that we’d be “together” when you were “together.”

Right.

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Real Life: Diary of an Addict Detox Week #7

Pocahantas continues on her quest to ditch Mr. Unavailable and finds herself going several steps too far down memory lane on her birthday but ‘discovering’ the truth about her relationship with the consumate Mr Unavailable and having to face the very unpleasant reality. Her Mr Unavailable proves that he really is a dickhead and it looks like Pochantas is finally, truly recognising that she is worth a hell of a lot more than she’s given herself credit for. Hopefully….

I don’t know how I didn’t expect it. It is you after all. I knew that you knew who I worked for, but I had no idea that you would think it an acceptable use of your time, or waste of mine, to stop by and visit “for my birthday.” Why did you come? No. Seriously. Why? I feel old. Immeasurably so.

You made me believe that you wanted forever with me. Or maybe I did that. Did I?

It’s like you insinuated without saying it. Now when it matters it’s like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

But that’s cool. Most of the time I don’t know what I’m talking about either. The funny thing is for you: Everything is too much.

Knowing or at least SAYING that you care about me. Admitting that yeah, right now, you may not know exactly what you want, but I’m definitely in your long-term plans. What in the bloody hell is so damn hard about that?

I told J you were here, that you’d stopped by work. He said that I should let it go at that. I agreed. I lied. I knew I would call you. Invite you into my sanctuary. I needed to see you. Wanted to see you. I think that I just wanted to feel something of home, and, in reality, YOU are home for me. I invited you over for dinner that I’d cook. On my birthday. Loads of laughs, I know.

You came late. Of course.

Only to be expected of you. Bearing nothing but that sheepish grin I’ve grown to hate.

But what really appalled me was your attitude. You expected me to be so elated to see you that I wouldn’t mind cooking, cleaning, f*cking and sucking you off, and then leaving you alone, or making you a sandwich or something, I don’t know.

You shamefacedly shuffled into my bedroom and began your ritual of complaints against my housekeeping, or lack thereof. I will give you this, you organize a closet magnificently. Was that your birthday present to me? Or was it the very pleasant, ok, mind-blowing twelve orgasms that you gave me?

You’ve done better. But, I will say that I was more than satisfied. It’s been a while since you’ve performed like that. I don’t think that my neighbors were happy. Thank GOD my roommates dipped for the evening. But back to reality.

You drive eighteen hours straight after work to see me for two days (probably one because you’ll probably hook up with your homeboys after today) and then you act funny? It’s weird. The things that you do make me really believe that you could possibly love me. Really care about me. Be maturing to the point that would facilitate the feasibility of a future union. But then you open your DAMN mouth.

Insinuating that I might not want to be with you because of your financial situation???

I asked you three years ago for flowers for my birthday, but have I gotten them YET. Have you EVER brought me flowers? Even one WEED that you plucked out of your yard? NO. HELL NO. Everything I ask is TOO DAMN MUCH and I’m bloody freaking sick of it. I have guys who would try at least to buy me the Sea of Gibraltar should my heart so desire, but you can’t even buy me a damn flower. It’s not like I know you’re not broke. It’s not like I ask you to finance and fund my myriad materialistic machinations. I don’t. I understand your brokenness. I don’t dislike you for it. What I hate you for is your lack of passion. Your lack of imagination. I hate you because I know that you don’t love me.

I know what it was. How I got here that is. I’ve read WAY too many romance novels. So many, in fact, that I can’t differentiate fact from reality.

I made you watch “The Notebook” with me. I don’t know why. Ok I do.

I want them to be us, like every woman in America after watching that wretched production filled with maliciously mendacious misinformation.

Now I know.

I wasn’t asking you to watch this to torture you. I wasn’t asking you to watch this to show you how I SHOULD BE LOVED (even though your level of affection is not near where it should be), and I definitely wasn’t showing you to make you fall in love with me.

I do live in reality. At least every sixth Thursday of every 14^th month.

But the alternate reality that I’ve created for myself features us in love. You are as crazy about me as I am about you, matter of fact, in my reality; you are SOOO much crazier about me than I am about you.

You quickly crushed all hoped that that is, or ever could be, the case.

You reminded me that your grandmother, who lives five minutes away, has a birthday tomorrow, and that you are moving to Canada to finish your degree.

New York just happens to be on the way. In otros palabras (other words): you didn’t come to see me.

So, In view of the current situation: My confusion.Your obnoxiousness. And guided by my love stricken, orgasm induced, champagne fueled haze; I decided to ask you four important questions. It would have been two but you, naturally, declined to actually answer any of them so I just kept going.

Question 1: Do you love me?

Your Answer: Yeah sure.

Question 2: Do you want to be with me?
Your Answer: I don’t know. Possibly. Maybe. Why are you asking me these questions? Question 3: Am I the One?
Your Answer: What are you talking about? I take the 5^th.
Question 4: In 10, 20, 30, etc…you get the point…years, do you see me in your life?

Your Answer: I hadn’t thought about it.

My conclusions: Everyone in my life is right. I guess I just stuck to the safe questions, or not asking any at all because I was afraid to find out what I’ve always known: You are a JACKASS. I’m through. I’ve BEEN through, but now I’m shutting myself off to you physically and as a friend. Because were you my friend, you would respect my opinions, my feelings, and not make every interaction a one-way street to Ben & Jerry’s, my monkey pjs and a tearful conversation with whichever friend HASN’T been forced to listen to me rant and rave nonstop about your virtues a mere day or two before. Lately, that list has been running so low, this time I’ll probably have to call the suicide hotline. Or my mother. I’m not quite sure which is worse. Bottom line: Your saying that you’re not ready for a relationship means one thing; you don’t want one with me. Not now. Not ever. I just realized something. I actually HAD plans for this evening and I allowed an evening of drunken memories to ruin my birthday. My birthday creates the perfect opportunity for me to start new. Afresh if you will. While some people do it on Christmas, New Year, or their anniversary, I choose the only anniversary its beginning to look like I’ll ever successfully make—the anniversary of my birth. Today I’m one year older, and, you know what, I really feel it.

Have you read:

Real Life: Diary of an Addict Detox Week #6

Real Life:Diary of an Addict: Detox Week #5

Real Life: Diary of an Addict: Detox Week #4

Real Life: Diary of an Addict:Detox Week #3

Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #2

Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #1

Pocahantas is a 23 year old fiesty female with loads of common sense and yet an unstintingly healthy dose of cynicism when it comes to men and relationships. Tune in weekly for her reality check on single living in the great US of A.

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Real Life: Diary of an Addict Detox Week #6

We catch up again with Pochantas who is going through the excruciating phase of missing someone so bad you want them back but knowing that everything is wrong. Her Mr Unavailable is on her case, bombarding her with calls, messages and even a request for a visit. Pochantas feels so lonely in NYC right now. Can she make it through without giving in to his demands?

I hate missing you. Although I’ve been doing if for quite sometime. Somehow, doing it from a thousand miles away hurts far more. Read more

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Real Life: Diary of an Addict: Detox Week #4

Pocahantas’ journey continues as she settles in to her new place in New York but has to deal with speaking to her ex and realising that he is holding her back and her love for him has being the biggest obstacle to her moving forward. Shaking off a Mr Unavailable that thinks he’s doing you a big favour by ‘loving’ you is hard though…..

I’m so happy that I’m able to get back to you. I’m halfway done with the unpacking in my/our new place and although it took about a week, I finally feel like I’ve made the place home. I’ve got a couple of roommates, but I must say that it’s better then living with family any day! I love my job! I always do, in the beginning.

I will not be a pessimist. I will not.

You put up a valiant fight and I will give you credit for that much. You really surprised me. I just can’t believe that it’s finally over. That tantrum that you threw sincerely disappointed me though; I really thought more of you.

I never thought that you would try to hold me back. I guess I should have noticed that although you’ve always encouraged me to go after my dreams, it’s only been those dreams that kept me within the great state of Georgia—most specifically in Atlanta.
It’s my fault anyways, it’s not like I fought you. I knew very well that I’d have many more opportunities outside Atlanta, and I hate the South, but I never really considered leaving before and the truth is the reason was you.

I adored you. Every moment we spent every memory we created reminded of me of why I wanted to be with you and you just ate it up. You don’t want a relationship with me, but you don’t want me to have a relationship with anyone else. It completely amazes me the level of petty selfishness to which you will stoop to ensure that you get your way.

Funny though, when we first broke up, I believed you when you said that we’d be friends forever, trusted you when you said that you still loved you, had faith that you would accomplish whatever it was that you felt that you needed to accomplish; and then you’d return to me. I know it was foolish, trust me you don’t have to be the one to tell me that, but it’s just hard for me to accept that I was wrong. So wrong.

Thank you for not calling every hour on the hour as you vowed to do, and, sorry to disappoint you, but the number will be changed today. It’s just what I’ve gotta do, plus we don’t have a landline and I can’t give out my work number for everything.

I miss you, and you needn’t be alarmed, your pictures are still up in my room. It wouldn’t be home without you.

You’d be so proud of me, I started to actually clean and organise, you know that four-syllable word that I’m allergic to (sorta like commitment for you), but I’ve gotta get back to work.

Later.

Have you read:

Real Life: Diary of an Addict:Detox Week #3

Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #2

Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #1
Pocahantas is a 23 year old fiesty female with loads of common sense and yet an
unstintingly healthy dose of cynicism when it comes to men and relationships. Tune in weekly for her reality check on single living in the great US of A.
My new eBook Mr Unavailable and the Fallback Girl is now available to buy as an instant download. Find out more

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Real Life: Diary of an Addict:Detox Week #3

The story thus far: Pocahantas finally made the decision to move away from her destructive see-saw relationship and move 1200 miles to get away from the pull of her ex. She has packed all her things, got a new job in New York and is now on her way driving cross country.
I’m actually hyperventilating. Oh God WHY can’t I have a bag anywhere. BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE. Hey, it’s getting easier.

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Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #2

Pocahantas started her real life tale of freeing herself on her addiction to the very prevalent, unavailable man in her life. The first in this series had her choosing between staying in a city which she doesn’t like, doesn’t feel that there is any future for her, but did have her the man in question residing there, or upping sticks to a better paid job, in the big smoke NYC to start her life afresh with new opportunity. Last week we were left uncertain as to what her choice would be despite her appearing to be resolute about leaving him behind. Did she make the big decision?

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Real Life: Diary of An Addict: Detox Week #1

I must admit that when I read this I was riveted and holding my breath throughout. Pocahantas, our author behind this real life experience described this as ‘hilariously pathetic’. She gives a mental insight into what is running through a woman’s mind when she realises that things aren’t working, he’s clearly unavailable and she needs to make a massive change and ditch him. The yo-yoing of feeling is eerily familiar and if you’ve ever been indecisive about what to do, this fantastic post will make you cringe, make you giggle nervously and feel strangely sad. We’re rooting for you Pocahantas! Stay off the
relationship crack!

I’m hurting right now. Hurting for you. I’ve lost any semblance of pride that I might have once held and the tattered scraps of my long-discarded dignity are nothing but a hindrance to me in the pursuit of my goals. The goal of leaving you.

This is like an abusive relationship. You know where you want me and you know exactly
what to say to get me there and keep me there. You know what to do. You know that my love for you extends far deeper than the physical and that my loyalty to you is nearly unbounded.

The reason you’re here like this is because I let you be.
The reason that you treat me like this is because I allow you to.

I try to run, but the futility of this gesture quickly dawns as I find you, always, two steps ahead of me.

Maybe this is punishment for a past life.

Perhaps karma is paying me my dues. If this is the case then I suppose I have no choice but to accept the heartache. Each and every agonising moment.

I like writing these things to you. Mainly because I know that you can’t understand. You will feel momentarily saddened, then justifiably angry, then immediately defensive because you’ll be sure I’ve just had a flash of temporary insanity. This couldn’t be you of which I speak. You. Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. All-Around Good Person. Always doing good for others. The one who is perpetually taken advantage of, never appreciated, and generally overlooked. NO. I couldn’t be talking about you!

This place in which you live, this happy-shiny-people land, in which you have convinced yourself of your mettle, your desserts, and your thoroughly admirable character, is an alien nation to the rest of the world, a foreign and yet undiscovered wasteland wrought with treachery, lies, and deceit.

I know because I’ve been there with you, in your dreams. I helped create it by allowing it to exist, unchallenged, for so long.

So now as I sit here crying once again (as I do every night) for something that was DOA so long ago, I remember something my mother once told me. Long ago before the stings of rejection, failure, disappointment and defeat became my daily bread. She said that if ever there was a time when I was unsure. A time when I couldn’t tell one way or the other which course was the wisest, to just sit down, clear my mind, and give myself a choice. Not just any choice but I must consider the thing that I want or want to do, be or feel, in relation to something that can be construed as a much greater good. You. This. Us. A future. Or anything that I’d ever wanted to do, be, or feel. Whichever choice gave me the lesser panic attack, that should be, at least temporarily, my path.

My mother’s never been the best with advice, I will admit. And I love her for it as she does not press her opinions on anyone. But this was, quite possibly, the best advice I never knew how to take until today.

I got a call with a job offer a thousand miles away. I didn’t know what to do. My life is finally seeming to make progress here, I’ve got a job with potential, and I’m getting to a ’settled’ place.

I was exhilarated, thrilled, and, all at once, petrified. What if it doesn’t work out? What if I fail there? Surely failing in New York is a much bigger deal then failing in Atlanta…What if I get there absolutely love it, have a fabulous career in which I become mayor, then governor, then president? My thoughts raced, my imagination awoke to the endless fabulous possibilities, then my what ifs turned in another direction.
What if there will never be another you? What if you actually do love me underneath it all? What if you are working for us?

I was baffled, bewildered. What if I make the wrong choice? What if. It seems I do so every time.

After work, I went to the book store, you know, the one next to the movie theatre where, oh, I’m sorry, I digress…and I just sat there. For four hours. Not particularly interested in reading anything, just browsing, people watching, and thinking. I thought so hard my heart started to skip beats, my throat tightened, and my migraine intensified from a dull erratic thump, to the persistent patter of many militant, maniacal midgets’ iron-soled heeled shoes on the tender nerve endings of my cranial membranes.

Finally, I thought, “well, if I’m going to be so stressed about it, I might as well stop consciously avoiding thinking about it.” So I did. I got myself a paper bag–to control my panic attacks you remember–and sat down to weigh the pros and cons of this decision.

My mother was right, it’s hard. Plus I have the attention span of a crack-addicted cockroach and kept getting distracted. In the end I just had to make a list like I normally do, and, while reading the list, time the length and intensity of the panic attacks that I was sure to get.

On List 1

You
Us
You fighting against us

Me making a fool of myself for an us that may never be
Leaving behind my brothers
Job security

Minimal Salary (that has resigned me to a second job)
Cost of Living/PRO
You

On list 2
New York
New place I’ve never lived
Salary bump of $17,000
Paid for graduate school education
Getting out of Atlanta

New pool of un-gay, but slightly more insane, guys
Cost of Living/CON
Culture, history, Broadway

The COLD. I hate the cold. But I do like snow. But I hate slush. (This one’s a toss up)
Good friends.

Leaving Atlanta, hopefully for good. I hate Atlanta.
New York

What looks like an easy choice (to the untrained eye) is, in all actuality, deceptively difficult.

The things that I wanted were simple, but you needn’t worry I’ve remembered that everything I’ve ever asked is the “last thing you want to do.”
Truth is, all I wanted was a little reciprocity–remember, my word of the week. All I wanted was a little understanding, honesty, commitment. All I wanted was for you to say “I love you” and “I want to be with you” and stop trying to relegate our relationship to some unknown date in the future. All I wanted was for you to love me in deed and not in word. All I wanted was for you to spend time with me and stop relegating me to those moments in which you were either physically or financially unfit to hang out with your “friends.” All I wanted was for you to STOP telling me what a good wife I would make and START telling me what a good girlfriend I was/am. All I wanted. All. I. Wanted. Was. Your.Time. Your. Affection. Your. Love.

But it was too much. Far too much for your delicate male sensibility.

So this is goodbye and, though I hate to say it, good riddance. I’m sick of your indecision, your assumptions that I’m always going to be there, and your taking my love for granted. I’m fed up with your lies, your misrepresentations, and your using me for what you can get while you try to forge a “better choice” for your future. Truth is, I’m sick of you, I just don’t know how to get rid of you.

I figure this is my best option. My only chance for finding the life that I was meant to live because unlike you, I’ve been certain of what I wanted for over a year. It’s you. As jacked up as you are, I love you. And I’m not saying that I’m perfect. Never. I’m saying that we accepted and loved each other at one point in our relationship and in our lives and I sometimes wonder if that point is too far gone for recovery. I’m saying that you look at me, at your life, and you think that it’d be funny, while stringing me along with promises of life after “we’re 30″ to screw as many women as you can find and to forge tentative relationships with others on the premise that “if it doesn’t work out, silly old [me] will be there to get you off and lift your spirits.”

Well not anymore.
Screw you.
And everything we ever “had”.
I don’t want you back.
I don’t love you anymore. and this time I’m not giving you my new number.

p.s. I’ll be at your grandmother’s if you need to reach me.

Pocahantas is a 23 year old fiesty female with loads of common sense and yet an unstintingly healthy dose of cynicism when it comes to men and relationships. Tune in weekly for her reality check on single living in the great US of A.

If you’re into unavailable men, why not check out our new blog dedicated to the subject

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The Wingman

Although I am still young and most would envy my ability to function immaculately on 2 hours of sleep and 5 aspirin, I have actively avoided the partying lifestyle for pretty much my whole life. I don’t know what it is about it that has always simply repulsed me: maybe the sweaty, over-scented, under sexed crowd of losers stepping on my newly pedicured toes all willy-nilly—which I wouldn’t mind so much were they not firmly ensconced in my brand new stilettos. Possibly it’s the raucous disregard for common courtesy and manners; or, it could be the slack-jawed losers grabbing at my ass as I strut my magnificence through the crowded dance floor. It could just be the fact that I have absolutely no rhythm can’t dance to save my life, and prefer alternative to rap any day.

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It’s In His Kiss

My overactive imagination has been a source of constant irritation for just about as long as I can remember. Between my imagination and my predisposition towards reading romance and sci-fi novels, my views on reality have been slightly skewed to say the very least.
Every relationship that I have had has been in, both real and imagined, has been affected-for better or for worse by my dramatizations, of which my mind has seemingly inexhaustible resources. Reading romance novels can really screw a girl up you know, they just kind of build your hopes up to a level that can never be maintained by a real man, so you are inevitably disappointed, and, if you’re anything like me your life is irrevocably changed.

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On Being Friends with Your Ex

Have you ever reached the point when you’re fed up with talking? When you’ve said all you have to say? Talked until you’re blue in the face…this is possible, I’ve done it, and all to no avail. I’ve found that some things can be hashed, rehashed, eaten, regurgitated, and, well you get the point…no resolution will ever be reached. Such is the case with every relationship I’ve ever had. I have always felt that I shouldn’t be in a relationship with someone with whom I can’t see myself spending the rest of my life. As a result of this, I’ve dated dozens of decent, desirable, and in some case delectable specimens in the course of my young life, and have managed to produce only two substantive relationships.

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