This is another really sore spot… You being out and about and without me. But it’s such a tangled ball of yarn. Because (as I creepily stalk you through Facebook) I’ve seen photos of you out at events with our friends while we were together and I wasn’t there. I don’t remember those BBQs, picnics, and nights out. Which means that I chose not to go. And that’s the real catch, isn’t it?
You see, I like going out and having fun. I revel in it (pun sort of intended…). I loved my life in Europe because there were so many nights out. But I don’t do that by myself. And I get uncomfortable at looking at why.
So let me be mad at you for a while longer, because in the beginning there were the surprise trips on the weekends and the you’re-coming-with-me-to-this party moments where you pushed just a little harder than I was comfortable with trusting me to trust you and do it anyway. Which is why I’m mad now. Because at some point you stopped. You let me say no and be home alone.
I defend you on that: that you did it out of love. By the end of things you saw I was hurting and didn’t want me to hurt more. But you also did it out of selfishness, because it takes energy to push somebody past her comfort zone and to manage the discomfort of having her not be the social butterfly you are. I want to argue that if you loved me more, you would have tried harder… But it’s rather pointless isn’t it.
Because I’m the one who kept saying ‘no’ even though I have it as part of my identity that I go out. That’s one of the reason I feel so abysmal and lame on my nights in. I want to be out and with people. That’s one of the reasons I picked you: you matched that self-image of mine. But then I didn’t…
And that’s really why I hurt, because I hate myself for not going out–on my own, with friends, with you. Because I feel like I’m lying about who I am and what I want rather than saying I’m scared and uncomfortable and not sure what to do. That I feel afraid I won’t be fun and people won’t like me. So much easier to stay inside with the self-loathing.
And you were supposed to help with that. I was going to make new friends and do better with you in my life. Funny how that turned out. On the day my life fell apart, only K was there and only sort of (as even now). Funny how life reflects our inner mess.
Now I’m so much better and there are more and more nights not at home. But I’m still not forgiving myself, especially like this week when I chose not to attend things I have said I would. I only see the missed opportunities and beat myself up on not being better when instead I should hold myself close and acknowledge the other crap that’s keeping me in.
Even when some of that is missing you.
Because sometimes I don’t want to go out without you. And sometimes I don’t want to go out and meet new people because that may take me away from you. And sometimes I don’t want to admit I’m sick or tired as that would just be lame (I mean for fuck’s sake you were out before Christmas with something nasty you caught from the twins).
Because if I don’t go out, I feel like I’m a fake and I feel afraid others will see through me and go she’s so lame!
So this is my work towards letting it go. Because it’s not really your fault, you did what you could for as long as you could. It’s not my fault. I’ve done the best I can every day of my life. And when I wanted (want) to be more, I went (go) to get help. And now I’m wonderful and struggling to find slots for everything I want to do and actually having things to blow off. Such a lovely change.
So I’m putting it here so I can let go: that you’ll go out with me, maybe forever. But that’s okay. I’m enough and I have a wonderful blessedly full life with lots of nights out. That is my responsibility, not yours. In time, I will fully process this and not hold it against you.
But I miss the fuck out of you.
All my love.