They always end up letting you down.
And to think, you spent most of the day waiting around for someone who said he gave up on people who let him down.
Then he let you down.
Maybe you were pawning him off on someone else. You found a male friend who 'respects' women and it went too far. You decided to try to deflect some of the attention onto someone 'more his age' and more flexible with time and energy than you.
You're a married woman, for Christ's sake. Women cannot be friends with men. It never ends well.
Well, you get it now, no matter how resistance fleeced it still is.
Why do you care? Maybe you did feel more than you thought you did.
You went crazy when you fell in love with your husband. Miss 'Strong And Powerful And Confident' turned into a raving lunatic—past the depression and anxiety and potential yet undiagnosed symptoms of Porphyria, you're turning into a legit psychopath.
What started as a I just want to write turned into a public therapy session smearing your innermost thoughts across the Internet like an attention-seeking teenager overdramatizes every little nothing.
But it's your life. It's real.
Maybe you adorn it with a couple spiffy terms here and there, but this shit doesn't get any more veritable.
Maybe he read your crazy ramblings online.
Maybe it was the texts you let yourself feel pressured, no, distracted to write in those last few moments leading up to the near-death point in the friendship.
Presumption fucking blows.
He's probably just a dick. He probably is the person your gut told you he was when you first noticed him—a hot bag of air too inflated to ever materialize into anything worth nurturing.
You're bored, that's the problem. And boredom leads to bad things.
Boredom is what got you into those messes in your late teens and early twenties in the first place.
So where do you go from here? Do you give up on more friendships outside of the two stable ones you've got?
Do you cut supplementing with other people and demand more from your spouse who already carries everything on his shoulders?
Or do you officially say fuck it all and become the recluse you always planned to be?
Run away from this life and spare those who love you the pain of the truth. That you are, in fact, irreparable and only care about yourself.
That's easier than admitting you're a fraud who stole love and could never be happy with it, no matter how amazing it was.
But you could never say that to another human being. You couldn't muster the words to speak it out loud, past the keys and screens and paper and pen—the real words won't form in your mouth.
You didn't want to try, did you?
A notorious fuck up who takes everything down with her.
Yes, a loner it shall be then. There's no other option, I'm afraid.
Alone, but never lonely.
'How's your business going?'
'Fine.' I hate it.
My fingers are crossed, but I'm not sure if that's enough anymore.
They always end up letting you down.
It always happens in droves.
She caught me with the knife when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.
There's no winning with blame.
Every time I think I'm getting better at this whole life thing, I do something wrong and set it back.
I like getting older.
There's something about with age and experience comes wisdom that's exhilarating.
I'll see this one through, I tell myself. I'll finish it.
After this, I'll put it to bed. After this, I'll move forward.
Something I learned as a visual artist and writer is that some of the best healing comes from expression.
There's something surreal about standing in front of a crowd of strangers—writers who all want the same thing.
At the end of the Writers In Paradise sessions, everyone got a chance to present a refined version of their submitted work, or a new story they were working on.
I was the only teenager at Writers in Paradise with Dennis Lehane, Sterling Watson and other well-known authors back in 2006.