An Out
B and I freaked out at each other today. Bernie is going to need $1500 worth of vet stuff, and that's just the beginning. That's the least amount I can get away with and I will have to come up with the whole sum in three days. If he needs more, I think he will die. I can't afford that usually, but I certainly can't right now. I am sick of pets dying near or on my birthday. I'm sick of anything dying.
Anyway, I talked to my mom and she told me to talk to the vet, be honest and see what options we have. I let B do this. It was a bad idea. Instead of asking them and then negotiating, he just tells them he's poor and what does he do, and then gets pissed off and hangs up. So I have to call back and do it myself anyway. And then he says that their options are shit and how can they let the cat die? And then he says that he can't afford it, so he's going to go get Bernie and bring him home. And I told him to please not do that, let me just think a minute. And he told me not to act like a three year old, and that we're not in a relationship anymore so I don't get a say. So I told him that I would just take the cats and figure it out and not to worry about them, they weren't his responsibility anymore.
And then I remembered why we weren't going to be together. This would be the same if we were dealing with a child. Everything would be on me, as it always is.
And so we went home and were very quiet and when we got there, he told me that I don't have to worry about the deposit on his new apartment because he was going back to Ohio to live with his family. I sort of had a meltdown at this point and cried, hit my head against the wall and collapsed. I hate that when it's my fault, I'm not allowed to be angry about the bullshit he puts me through. And he got mad at me, asked why I even cared, told me I had no say in this at all. And I freaked out more. Everything I felt was so conflicted. He was making me suicidal, I was making me suicidal. If I were dead, he would just move on. It's that I am in the world that kills him. I am comfort. There is comfort out there and he can't have it.
He said that there is nothing here for him now that I am not here. I know that going back to Ohio is the same as suicide for him; he's said it out loud before. I was so angry that everything I have done in the last six years was going to count for shit now. I told him that; I shouldn't have. I said that he didn't love me, that he probably never loved me from the beginning, and that I had thought it was enough for me to have just loved him. Loved him enough for both of us. But it wasn't, cause we're here and I'm sorry I couldn't keep pretending that it was. And he told me to stop talking and that I didn't know him at all. I told him that I had hoped that if I can give up so much of my life to having never been loved, then the least, the very least that I could take away from this would have been that we'd be better people for it. But that now, that was going to be shit.
He left. I followed him. I always do. I begged him not to go. Once he is outside, I can't trust him. I think that is why this breakup has taken so long. Because once he is outside, I can't trust him. I can't talk him down, or help him decide, or make things okay for him, and so I do not trust that he will come back to me, safe, unharmed, having inflicted no damage on the world, on himself. He told me to go back inside, to stop embarrassing myself.
I backed away. I couldn't go inside. I couldn't trust him. There have been too many times in my life that I have been stuck following some guy. Him, ex's, friends, the boy. I know their backs better than their fronts. I am so helpless then. So fucking helpless. If I say the wrong thing, they could turn around and hit me, throw something at me, push me to the ground. And the words. They're so much worse.
"Get the fuck away from me, you fat bitch. I fucking hate you."
"Fucking cunt, don't come any closer or I'll slap your face."
"Don't touch me. Stop embarrassing yourself."
They hate me in that moment. Everything they feel and here's their target. And I beg for it. Because that's one less thing they do to themselves. And for every step behind, I can watch and wait a little bit more. What am I even waiting for? I just keep following. I can't help. There's no one coming to help. If I can just say the right thing, if I can just wait them out, they'll never be alone. Nothing could happen to them. No one could leave me behind. No one could leave me. I don't want to be left anymore.
He went to the pool. I wanted to talk to Johnny. I wanted to hear his voice in that moment. Just for a second. I could tell him that Bernie's thing was serious so that he wouldn't be angry that I had to leave this morning. But I couldn't get him.
B came back to tell me he was going out to pick up something he left at his friend's house. He left. I let him go. I was worn out with sadness. I have been trying to catch him for years. And while I went to do what I always do, I thought about Johnny. And I realized that no one could touch me here. I am so absolutely alone in this. There was nothing anyone could have done. And that maybe, what I was doing with Johnny, it was a game too. Something we played because it took our minds off things, because it was so definite. And I thought, how could he help me right now? He's got his own shit and all this is just another burden.
I found a blade. I closed my thoughts to Johnny. I didn't think it was fair to B that if I was going to hurt, I would ask Johnny first. And then I sat down and began to shred my skin. The one cut I was allowed earlier this week hadn't done it for me. I am really ashamed of that cut. It took planning. I changed from jeans into a skirt and tucked the knife into my purse. I found a dark row of pews in the back of the church, and in front of God and everyone, I sawed at my skin. Knives require much more pressure and diligence, determination. If I only get one, it will not be the beautiful burning ribbon that a blade creates. It makes you bleed. A lot. But knives tear into your skin, wider, slower, you lose flesh with knives. They unzip you. Not much blood, lot of swelling.
Before I began, I had folded my hands over it and clasped them around the sharp edge. My palms are tough. But today, I sliced. I can't even remember a number. I always lose count after four. My mind blurs. Maybe eight. I had to press paper towels on them immediately because the blood starts to trickle down my leg, and I don't want to stain the couch. I cried. I stopped. I thought a lot about dying. I thought about how I linked myself to him and that if he died today, I would die as well.
And then I thought about Johnny. I thought about how fucked up I was for asking him to be a part of this. How I am so ashamed of my failures that I didn't want to share any of them with him. And how much this is a game if I feel that way. I mean, how is he supposed to fix this? He's still mad at me, at something, from this morning. And I am supposed to call and say, "Hey, you know howbusy you are, how inexperienced you are with this stuff? Yeah, well, I'm going to need you to fix that real quick and help me. No, no. Put your shit on hold, my shit is more important." Who the fuck am I? This is not his problem.
And so I emailed him. I told him that. Maybe in another time, when our shit isn't so fucked up, maybe then. He would stay in this even if it were bad for him, even though it has been bad for him. I can't waste anymore of anyone else's time with this. So, I'm sorry, Johnny.
Anyway, I talked to my mom and she told me to talk to the vet, be honest and see what options we have. I let B do this. It was a bad idea. Instead of asking them and then negotiating, he just tells them he's poor and what does he do, and then gets pissed off and hangs up. So I have to call back and do it myself anyway. And then he says that their options are shit and how can they let the cat die? And then he says that he can't afford it, so he's going to go get Bernie and bring him home. And I told him to please not do that, let me just think a minute. And he told me not to act like a three year old, and that we're not in a relationship anymore so I don't get a say. So I told him that I would just take the cats and figure it out and not to worry about them, they weren't his responsibility anymore.
And then I remembered why we weren't going to be together. This would be the same if we were dealing with a child. Everything would be on me, as it always is.
And so we went home and were very quiet and when we got there, he told me that I don't have to worry about the deposit on his new apartment because he was going back to Ohio to live with his family. I sort of had a meltdown at this point and cried, hit my head against the wall and collapsed. I hate that when it's my fault, I'm not allowed to be angry about the bullshit he puts me through. And he got mad at me, asked why I even cared, told me I had no say in this at all. And I freaked out more. Everything I felt was so conflicted. He was making me suicidal, I was making me suicidal. If I were dead, he would just move on. It's that I am in the world that kills him. I am comfort. There is comfort out there and he can't have it.
He said that there is nothing here for him now that I am not here. I know that going back to Ohio is the same as suicide for him; he's said it out loud before. I was so angry that everything I have done in the last six years was going to count for shit now. I told him that; I shouldn't have. I said that he didn't love me, that he probably never loved me from the beginning, and that I had thought it was enough for me to have just loved him. Loved him enough for both of us. But it wasn't, cause we're here and I'm sorry I couldn't keep pretending that it was. And he told me to stop talking and that I didn't know him at all. I told him that I had hoped that if I can give up so much of my life to having never been loved, then the least, the very least that I could take away from this would have been that we'd be better people for it. But that now, that was going to be shit.
He left. I followed him. I always do. I begged him not to go. Once he is outside, I can't trust him. I think that is why this breakup has taken so long. Because once he is outside, I can't trust him. I can't talk him down, or help him decide, or make things okay for him, and so I do not trust that he will come back to me, safe, unharmed, having inflicted no damage on the world, on himself. He told me to go back inside, to stop embarrassing myself.
I backed away. I couldn't go inside. I couldn't trust him. There have been too many times in my life that I have been stuck following some guy. Him, ex's, friends, the boy. I know their backs better than their fronts. I am so helpless then. So fucking helpless. If I say the wrong thing, they could turn around and hit me, throw something at me, push me to the ground. And the words. They're so much worse.
"Get the fuck away from me, you fat bitch. I fucking hate you."
"Fucking cunt, don't come any closer or I'll slap your face."
"Don't touch me. Stop embarrassing yourself."
They hate me in that moment. Everything they feel and here's their target. And I beg for it. Because that's one less thing they do to themselves. And for every step behind, I can watch and wait a little bit more. What am I even waiting for? I just keep following. I can't help. There's no one coming to help. If I can just say the right thing, if I can just wait them out, they'll never be alone. Nothing could happen to them. No one could leave me behind. No one could leave me. I don't want to be left anymore.
He went to the pool. I wanted to talk to Johnny. I wanted to hear his voice in that moment. Just for a second. I could tell him that Bernie's thing was serious so that he wouldn't be angry that I had to leave this morning. But I couldn't get him.
B came back to tell me he was going out to pick up something he left at his friend's house. He left. I let him go. I was worn out with sadness. I have been trying to catch him for years. And while I went to do what I always do, I thought about Johnny. And I realized that no one could touch me here. I am so absolutely alone in this. There was nothing anyone could have done. And that maybe, what I was doing with Johnny, it was a game too. Something we played because it took our minds off things, because it was so definite. And I thought, how could he help me right now? He's got his own shit and all this is just another burden.
I found a blade. I closed my thoughts to Johnny. I didn't think it was fair to B that if I was going to hurt, I would ask Johnny first. And then I sat down and began to shred my skin. The one cut I was allowed earlier this week hadn't done it for me. I am really ashamed of that cut. It took planning. I changed from jeans into a skirt and tucked the knife into my purse. I found a dark row of pews in the back of the church, and in front of God and everyone, I sawed at my skin. Knives require much more pressure and diligence, determination. If I only get one, it will not be the beautiful burning ribbon that a blade creates. It makes you bleed. A lot. But knives tear into your skin, wider, slower, you lose flesh with knives. They unzip you. Not much blood, lot of swelling.
Before I began, I had folded my hands over it and clasped them around the sharp edge. My palms are tough. But today, I sliced. I can't even remember a number. I always lose count after four. My mind blurs. Maybe eight. I had to press paper towels on them immediately because the blood starts to trickle down my leg, and I don't want to stain the couch. I cried. I stopped. I thought a lot about dying. I thought about how I linked myself to him and that if he died today, I would die as well.
And then I thought about Johnny. I thought about how fucked up I was for asking him to be a part of this. How I am so ashamed of my failures that I didn't want to share any of them with him. And how much this is a game if I feel that way. I mean, how is he supposed to fix this? He's still mad at me, at something, from this morning. And I am supposed to call and say, "Hey, you know howbusy you are, how inexperienced you are with this stuff? Yeah, well, I'm going to need you to fix that real quick and help me. No, no. Put your shit on hold, my shit is more important." Who the fuck am I? This is not his problem.
And so I emailed him. I told him that. Maybe in another time, when our shit isn't so fucked up, maybe then. He would stay in this even if it were bad for him, even though it has been bad for him. I can't waste anymore of anyone else's time with this. So, I'm sorry, Johnny.
posted by macaroon at 4:19 PM
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