"He was sweet, he was creative, he listened to the Grateful Dead. He broke up with me on our six month anniversary, without an explanation. Instead, I came home to find that all the things that had once been at his place, were now scattered throughout my living room."
I failed to mention what happened next. Less than 24 hours after he ended our relationship, I thought I should probably "unfollow" him on Spotify. I discovered that he beat me to the punch. I tossed and turned, awake at 2 am, curled up into the fetal position, wondering how could he move on so quickly? What else had he done in the last two days to solidify the end of our relationship? I logged onto the dating website we had originally met on, and there he was. Updated picture. Updated profile. "Active" at 2 am.
Fuck! Fuck? Fuck! How could I have been so stupid? All those times he told me he loved me, was it just a crock of shit? Was six months, just a really big notch in his bedpost? The anger I should have felt towards him, was manifested in in self doubt. I called a therapist the next morning.
Her office had the most breathtaking view of the skyline and the mountains behind it. I stared at that skyline and cried for the first hour I met with her. I stared at that skyline and listened to myself detail all the really misogynistic things he had said to me, that I just let slide. All the warning signs, the red flags that I eagerly dismissed, all because I wanted to believe that my search for love was finally over.
In the following weeks, I began to see him for who he really was, and to forgive myself for not being willing to see it earlier.
As soon as that happened, as soon as I was able to let it go, to move on, he started texting me. I ignored it. He came over one afternoon while I was not there. I ignored it. Finally, after many texts and emails I realized that he would not get it.
"Stop contacting me."
He stopped. That was almost two months ago.
Yesterday was my last day in Denver. I woke up at 7 am, worked in my garden, took the pup to daycare, got my hair did, and said goodbye to some friends. Then I headed home to finish packing and cleaning. And that's when it happened:
"Hi Lauri. Please talk to me and let me know how you're doing."
It was him. My hands started to shake. I cussed at my phone. I tried to move on. Half an hour later:
"I'm very sorry for everything that happened. I'd like to take you to dinner so we can talk."
Why? Why today? Did he see me getting my hair done in LoDo? Did he see me walking out of Sol Shine in LoHi? Did he see me as I got on I-25, just a block from his place? Or did he read my blog? How would he have found it? Was he sitting around and googling me?
And then he called. I let it go to voicemail.
I was done ignoring him. I texted him back to the tune of, "I don't want you in my life, I asked you to stop contacting me. Keep it up and I'm calling the police."
"I just feel so bad that I broke your heart."
Oh, hell no. Oh, hell no. It would take a lot more than a six month relationship to break my ticker. He did not get to have that satisfaction, of feeling like he devastated me. Ruined me. Oh, hell no.
"You didn't. I just think your a real asshole."
Apparently, this is not the best way to deal with a total nut job. Cause things just got much, much uglier, and somehow, I ended up in the fetal position at 2 am, once again wondering how I did not see this guy for who he really was, and full of self doubt.
After a restful hour of sleep, I packed my Subaru, loaded up the dog and hit the road.
Nothing helps clear the mind like ten hours of driving. In between audiobooks, and revisiting every playlist I've ever made, I had a lot of time to think about what unfolded yesterday. And then, Katy Perry told the truth:
"Days like this I want to drive away
Pack my bags and watch your shadow fade
You chewed me up and spit me out
Like I was poison in your mouth
You took my light, you drained me down
Throw your sticks and your stones, throw your bombs and your blows
But you’re not gonna break my soul"
So I'm driving through Texas, 35 years old, singing Katy Perry at the top of my lungs, tears streaming down my face, feeling oddly comforted by the fact that Katy Perry knows exactly how I feel. In that moment of teen pop music, I was able to let this all go....
I am strong and I am brave. I do not need his insecurities, his hostility. I do not need any of his shit to follow me to the Yucatan Penninsula and back. I visualized myself unwrapping myself from his weird twisted web of shit, and moved forward, though the muggy Texas mesa.
It's hot as hell in Texas.
They sell wine at Walmart in Texas.
Nilo is excited, yet freaked out, yet scared, yet excited. He's currently passed out. I'll follow him soon.