I haven't cared about anything I've written here lately. I think that's reflected pretty well in the quality of the writing. It's all seemed like it's been of such little consequence, and I'm afraid there's a very specific and not entirely flattering reason for that. It has been.
And it was that way by my very own design. You see, I've had something I haven't wanted to write about for the past month and a half. I thought I was doing the mature and kind thing by keeping it to myself. I don't think it's been good for me or for the blog, so let's have at it. Clearly, I've nothing to lose.
Before I start, though, I do want to say for the sake of the people involved that I'm going to try my best to be fair and see both sides of the argument, but I do reserve the right to be completely wrong. That's the thing about heartache and writing about it.
As you may or may not know (he says, facetiously), I fairly recently went through what some may call a breakup. I call it getting kicked in the face while your neighbor runs over your dog stealing your car as your house burns down with all of your uninsured stuff inside. But that's only when I'm not feeling dramatic. Every other time, it'd be much worse, of course.
But no, that's not what this post is about, thank the heavens. That section of the blog is done (until I feel like writing about it again, which could be the next post, for all I know). This is about what I'm calling, pretty adequately I'd say, the fallout. And like the nuclear kind, I'm starting to feel myself mutate.
I've learned from countless amounts of media that when a couple inside a group of friends breaks up, there's bound to be some problem somewhere. Tense feelings between the newly departed cause friction within the friend group and someone's bound to catch the first spark. I determined that in this breakup, it wasn't going to be me.
No, it was going to be quite the opposite, in fact. I was going to vault my hurt feelings and my pity and my despair and fully clear the bar so Super Bowl parties could go on unscathed. And for a while, they did. I even sought council from those I trusted to see if this was the wisest path. They told me, or at least I believed they did, that I was handling things rightly.
Then the bottom dropped out, as bottoms tend to do. Somehow, in the singular act of that Super Bowl party, everything changed. By not uninviting her, or inviting her after the breakup (I can't remember which is true anymore), I became the villain. The self-destructive, the pitiful, the doormat.
I was told this in just so many words, many of them seemingly thrown at me with such anger that the spirit I sensed behind them hurt worse than any of the words could (which is an interesting task when the love I felt I held was compared with abusive sex and heroin).
Why would I, after what I had been through, suddenly become the attacked? Is it possible that I really did push away those trying to help me? Evidence would suggest that I did, unless they decided to leave on their own. Either way, I'm here with an empty house and an even emptier heart.
If they left because I pushed them away, what does that say about them? That they give up when the slightest wind of opposition blows in their faces? But perhaps it says something about me instead. That I truly can be unlovable. That I really intended to get them to leave and when they did, I blamed them for it.
And even if every last word and deed of it was entirely my fault, down to the intentions of my very soul, didn't they leave exactly when I needed them the most?
If so, what does that mean I meant to them?
That question alone has kept me from their doorstep and from any semblance of honesty on this site.