I have sobbed three discrete times, all of them indiscreet.
TNG and I are curled up unhappily and stressed out at opposite sides of his sofa. What should have been a wonderful celebration has turned into a bit of a nightmare . . . I think it’s my fault. I cannot seem to make him happy. I can only seem to make him unhappy. I cannot fix it and the kind thing would be to remove myself again from his life. Again. Except I actually love him.
And I make him miserable.
I canceled on N … big plans, another evening as his “wife” because I was too emotionally devastated about TNG, I think.
TNG is a lovely, wonderful man I adore. I’ve been toying with the idea of marrying him, having a family, etc. I’ve envisioned it and I like it. He’s convinced, like A before him, that he’ll never be enough for me.
I can’t make him happy, though I try. We had a wonderful afternoon at our favorite cafe, sitting outside on a patio on a gorgeous day, sharing a bottle of wine we love, and food we love, and being in love. I told him on that patio that I loved him. I told him it was important for me to tell him there because it was a place special to us. He did not share the sentiment, though he has told me before that he loves me, he did not say it then, which was okay. I told him I loved him, with tears in my eyes.
We kissed throughout lunch, and in the car, and then made out in the car in his garage, then on the sofa, then in bed, then in the bath. We had slightly tipsy sexytimes, and yet neither one of us was able to complete anything. Nothing. Despite our desire to.
After a ridiculously long time in the bath, we adjourned to the bathroom floor. He was tired, obviously, and wanted to cuddle. I wanted something to complete . . . dammit. We laid in bed together in towels and started talking, which eventually turned into me sobbing in his arms. Full on whole body sobs. Ugly sobs. We admitted we don’t make each other happy. We do sometimes, obviously, but we’ve been incapable of completing any of the sex we’ve attempted over the past couple of weeks. I don’t know why but it’s obviously mental and he’s really holding back from me. He’s not wrong to, I am sort of a mess. But it’s making me intensely uncomfortable to know that this man, who I love and adore, is holding back from me.
He made some comment to me in the car that “we all love you, despite the fact you’re crazy.” Both parts of that were true. Both parts made me cry. That was the second time I cried, as we headed off to our delightful cafe. I said to him, everyone does love me, but not enough.
And that’s the fundamental issue. A lot of people love me, just not more than they love other things, not enough to fully embrace me, not enough to love me completely.
So, I am still at his house, on a leather armchair as he sprawls next to me on the sofa working, and we’re both miserable. I am crying from time to time, silently, faking allergies, and trying hard not to throw up.
The thing with my eating issues is that right now, all I want to do is throw up. It’s all I can feel. I have waves of nausea hitting me over and over and I just want to throw up until it’s tomorrow. I want to spend all night suffering the physical manifestations of the emotions I feel.
I won’t. I am a fucking grown-up and I can control myself, my emotions, my heart.
I hurt people I love regularly. I do. I am a narcissist. I am intensely self-centered. I am haughty. I am opinionated. I am passionate.
I am an easy woman to fall for, and, apparently, a hard woman to love. To love a little, sure. To love a lot, no.
The tears are falling again unbidden down my cheeks. I can’t help it. He doesn’t notice. He’s working hard, preparing something important late on a Sunday night. I am glad he’s ignoring me. I want to spend the night with him, in his bed, in his arms. I want to know he loves me enough for that. But I don’t think I will and I am not sure he does.
I have been playing a dangerous game and I am losing. I may have lost completely. I tried, like the dog in Aesop’s fable, to get the other steak too. It was a foolish gamble, but I wanted to be sure that this time I was taking time and making smart choices, figuring out if I could build a life with this lovely, wonderful man. What I did not anticipate fully is whether ultimately he’d wait for me to figure it out.
He’s been slowing removing himself from me, slowly withdrawing as I drew closer. So now I am in his armchair, quietly crying as he works, and knowing I have only myself to blame for feeling so utterly devastated and crushed.