You hurt yourself the night that he was with some other girl, and you didn’t even know he was with some other girl. All night you were texting him, desperately pleading for his attention. Dying for you to be together again.
It would have been one thing if it wasn’t premeditated. And he just got so fed up with your bullshit, like he deserved to be. But it wasn’t. He had planned it. You knew something was different the last time he came home. You felt it as soon as they got in the car when you picked him up from the airport. There was an inkling before that, but you chalked it up to being busy at the conference and you played it cool.
The reality is that they are capable of lying and sneaking just as much as you are. You did it first. But this feels different to you. You didn’t even like that other guy, not even at all. There was nothing there but someone convenient to distract you from the pain of losing him. Somehow this doesn’t feel convenient. How is traveling hours a convenient escape?
Maybe that is all it is. But reading her call him nicknames is actually disgusting and you just can’t wrap your fucking head around it. You feel knots everywhere and you’re sweating and you’re shaking and you can’t even keep up with how fast your thumb is scrolling through these texts. How are there so many fucking texts??!
You know you shouldn’t be looking at these texts, but he did do that first. So, if you did the bad thing first and he did it second, he did the other bad thing first and you did it second. Except he told you he did the second bad thing and not the first. Actually, who knows if you would’ve ever told him about the first bad thing? He forced it out of you after he read your texts. Should you force it out of him? Should you ignore it and keep reading? How many times are you going to guess the password to his iMessage account so you can keep reading?
Then he asks you if you’re seeing someone. He’s projecting. He says he isn’t seeing anyone. Is that true? Can you believe it’s just playful texts that serve as a distraction? You want nothing more than to believe that. Talk about convenient.
Later he tells you he’s worried about being intimate with you because you told him you wouldn’t tell him if you were seeing someone else. That’s true, you did say that. And it’s taking everything in you not to say “IT’S NOT SO EASY TO TELL SOMEONE THAT IS IT?” because he’s there, texting some older, but artistic bitch living in new york things about painting and their shared place of work and even the same things he’s texting you.
And the next day you can’t stop thinking about how you’ve got nothing to offer him. You can’t make a painting, you can’t even draw. Your voice is shit and you can barely dance. You dropped out of getting your PhD, the only creative thing you ever did, and he never even read your writing.
You look up ways to be creative. You want more than anything to show him that you can be artistic, too. You find a class for weaving and sign up. Maybe you can weave. Maybe you can change your whole career and get out of biomedical science and get really into textiles. And be the best at carpets with lots of colorful circles or maybe lazy renditions of nature. Or maybe you can buy a violin and get good at fiddling. That would show him how malleable you are.
Or maybe you could grow up and move on. And find someone who is into research and blood and bones, and not interpretations of them, but the real deal. And maybe you’d never have to think about art ever again. You could hang stupid prints from Hobby Lobby on your walls with some doctor and never have a weird mold smell come from your walls ever again. Never have to bitch about all the beer cans and cigarettes covering the yard. Never have to doubt yourself and your worth because a group of people who are all artists who have nothing of substance to say about your interests.
But you would hate it. Everything is different now. A life like that would seem so boring. The truth is, you’d rather trip on a million cups and fall down a thousand stairs than to not be near him again.
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