I have been home for four hours and I have no idea what just happened, which is exactly how I felt after our official first date.

The intoxicating thing about being with LP is also the worst thing about being with LP and it is at the heart of the heartbreak I am feeling right now.

We are very alike. We are frighteningly alike. He said, “it’s like looking into a mirror.” It is, he said, “why we were so instantly comfortable.” And yet, he reminded me, that it is also a problem: “your intensity . . . it’s something I am working on in therapy.”



So, the thing that I am, that you encouraged within me, is what you are trying to dial back within yourself??? Really???

He said he is working to dull his intensity, but that I am just so intense.

At this point, I was just devastated, which was obvious to him.

Except I am not intense, which I told him, and that no one would describe me that way. (I just confirmed this with JerkFace.) I told him that typically within relationships I am rather indifferent.

So, literally, this destroyed me. This one moment. I scrambled to regain my footing and failed miserably. He kept trying to pull me back and I could not. He was explicit about this, he asked me out but weirdly (“we should have dinner at one of those restaurants in your neighborhood [I think he added, “at some point,” but I don’t remember if that was explicit or implicit], and he kept trying but I heard everything through the filter of: what you are is what I am trying to change within myself.

I referred to our date as “disastrous” while we were about halfway through. He disagreed, and was hurt that I said that.

Early on, he referred to me as “a good friend.” Diminishing me. He’s scared. Obviously. So am I.

He said, I am watching you slide down this path and I keep trying to stop you, to put speed bumps up, and you’re rejecting me. Which I did. Repeatedly.

He told me he was speaking “from a place of love,” which I know.

I know he loves me. I am him . . . of course he loves me. He is me . . . of course I love him.

He kept talking and I kept talking and he occasionally pulled me close just to press his cheek to me and to breathe into me. It was sweet and tender, but I was reeling. He leaned into kiss me at the coffee place and I kissed his forehead. Seriously. That’s how fucked up my head was. I was uncomfortable touching him. I would do it and then jerk away. He kept trying and I kept rejecting him.

I am on the verge of tears, and I am not really sure why. We hurt each other this morning, badly. He rejected me and us, I accused him of things sort of inadvertently, and yet . . . we’re still here, still kissing downstairs, still making plans, still needing to be together.

He hurt me. Badly. Things he said stung.

I hurt him. Badly. Things I said stung.

I made a grand apology via text (because that’s how we roll), but I do not know if he will accept it or forgive me.

Despite the hurt, he drove me home, held my hand in the car, as I rubbed the back of his next and head, and kissed me for so long he made himself late for a conference call he was leading (he called in via cell).

I have no idea, as usual, where we go from here, if anywhere. What I do know is that we love each other. We are somewhat unhealthily obsessed with each other.

I have not reached back out to him after my 3 text grand apology. I received no response, which he does, but not to cause offense. He outlined all the ways he disappoints women in his life. I will keep unwinding all of this over time but it’s raw and I hurt.