Real Life: Diary of an Addict Detox Week #7

May 12, 2006 by Pocahantas

packet of pills 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.