Written Saturday afternoon . . .
The levels of bad are so bad that I can’t quite cope with it all.
I made some seriously bad decisions — fucked up badly, chose poorly — and then was rewarded with love? romance? some sick codependent bullshit I am somehow deeply engaged in?
I am in a relationship with BV, which I forget, all the time. Like ALL THE TIME. Because I don’t really think I am. Because I collect men. Because I am commitment phobic. Because I always have a backup plan. Because I am a horrible fucking person. Because I am not entirely crazy and/or stupid.
So, here we are the day after I spent the second night with him in a week and I had one of the worst nights of my life (in which no one died) and then an incredibly lovely morning.
I am embarrassed to publish this at all, so I think it may remain password protected for eternity.
That’s the bottom line. I am ashamed of how I acted, of how he acted, of how it impacted a lot of other people. And once I tell you, it changes your view of everything for ever.
But, the bottom line is this is something with which I have to deal now. Which means it’s something I have to capture here. Which means I have to break my heart again writing it.
But, this . . . I think this is just for me.
Actually, I am starting at the end. That’s the part I want to remember.
This morning, BV’s alarm started buzzing at 8 am. And continued every 15 minutes. We slept in bed, despite trying to sleep on the sofa because “we” somehow broke the blinds last sunday morning. The room is really, really bright in the morning. The view from bed, which I have never noticed before, is breathtaking.
I am thinking, as I lay next to him, that it is the last time I will see it.
I continue to try to sleep, burying my head under the down comforter. The alarm chimes every 15 minutes. Chime is too soft a word — it sounds like a nuclear power plant is melting down. I begin to think, after an hour and a half, that I will simply throw his fucking 64 gb white iphone out of his window. Then, I fantasize about just throwing it against one of the bedroom walls, smashing it into hundreds of pieces.
I look at him as he’s waking and crashing every 15 minutes. The hairiest chest I’ve ever seen, connected to his great jaw line and greying hair. At times, I snuggle next to him; at others, I am in the fetal position away from him.
I am wildly conflicted about him. But I feel remarkably well. I am also rather certain that I will get to skip the day trip to which he invited me for today: bathing suit, beer, an hour out of town, much ridiculousness. There are storms far in the distance, which I can see from bed.
My cell phone battery is dying and I forgot a charger. I post from bed an apology and a status update, as a lot of people are worried.
He finally gets up and moving. There has been no sex, and none anticipated, which is sort of a bummer as he’s leaving for a month.
I ask him about his plans for later and for the rest of the weekend and he’s irritated a bit: “[Planner], I don’t know, I haven’t even thought about today yet.” Fair enough.
We decide we are going to skip the lake, grab brunch at a spot we both love, and then he is getting his hair cut at a place nearby that.
He doesn’t want to drive, or walk, or cab. It’s really not that far. It is, however, across the river from where we are, so, to him, it feels far. I say, look, I will order a cab. Fine. I get up to start getting ready. I didn’t realize I was staying, so I am woefully unprepared. No charger, low battery, small bag.
Still, I use this magical tinted moisturizer and I somehow pull together a rather convincing, I’ve not been in bed with a dude all night look.
I walk back into the bedroom and he is on the phone with the friends with whom he is supposed to be day tripping. He was calling them to say, hey, I overslept, sorry I missed you, only yo be told “we haven’t left yet.”
He’s now committed to go, in 45 minutes.
Brunch is off. Or rather, fabulous brunch south of the river is off.
He throws on a ridiculous pair of swimming trunks, another patagonia special, along with a t-shirt that does not come close to matching. He looks entirely absurd. I am in a sundress, which is awesome, and flats, as I had gotten ready the night before to attend a show with my friend think tank exec, BandMate, and Band Mate’s Girl.
We go to a wildly popular brunch spot a block from his building, and sit in the lounge, on a sofa. He had told me before we went down — repeatedly — brunch is on you. Fine, don’t care. He laughed from bed and said, the more times I say that, the less I mean it. I know that, too.
We order from the bar, and we are going to split a dish and we each have a mimosa. Deciding what to split . . . impossible . . . so I just let him order one of the specials and I don’t really care. He gets some complicated hash with brisket and two poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. It’s reminiscent of a Marie Callendar’s pot pie in flavor. It is . . . not good. It’s also quite expensive, especially given the quality. $16. Anyway, we are not there for the food, nor the mimosas. We are there to cap our evening.
He tells me this is his secret place. Where and how we are sitting, you’d never see him if you’re not looking. It is completely private. It is private enough that he leans over to kiss me mid-meal.
He is very happy, and looking forward to this day trip. The restaurant is getting really crowded and all of these other people are now sitting in chairs and the other sofa in this little area. BV of course introduces himself then introduces those people to the others. BV is a connector of people, even random out of towners at a chic little restaurant in the fashion district in which he lives.
I am giving him little bits of advice as we know he is leaving on Tuesday.
He actually makes it back to his building only about 5 minutes late. Somehow we made it through brunch in 30 minutes. We also make it through the crowds at cafe tables. I know we look silly. Rather, he looks SO ridiculous that we look silly. He kisses me goodbye and promises he will call me at 5 when he anticipates they will be done. (There is no signal while he’s going.) I tell him if I don’t hear from him by 7, I will call him. I head for coffee, bus, cab, whatever.
This is all very sweet and civilized and normal, which is actually quite crazy for us. It’s completing fucking insane given where we started.
The titles of my posts are often meaningful to me, but rarely as on the nose as this one.
We start on Friday night. I am meeting Think Tank Exec at the CHB, at his request. We are going to a show at 11, we meet for a drink at 9. TTE had picked up the tickets, so I open a tab. As we are sitting there, firmly establishing that we are in friend zone and talking business, I look at my phone, and I have an ok cupid alert from a user name I recognize — LP’s semi-private email. LP has joined okc and found my profile. That’s horrifying.
I mention to TTE what has just happened. And I am now a little thrown. It’s not that I am upset. I am not. I spent the night with him two months ago, and it was not great in any way.
Still, we’re talking about some intense business stuff, and I do respond back to LP a couple of times.
All of a sudden, I look up as someone plops down next to me on this long sofa (capable of seating three couples comfortable at separate cocktail tables). It is the Bon Vivant.
He does not see that he’s sitting next to me.
That is how drunk he is.
It’s maybe 10. He’s hammered and nonsensical. He looks like shit, too, as he’d been playing golf all afternoon.
So much goes wrong so quickly it’s hard to remember where it started.
Except I can never forget the extremely drunk Bon Vivant getting instantly and intensely angry because he sees I am on a date.
Which is not a date.
I introduce them: “Bon, this is Think; Think, this is Bon.”
BV is irrationally angry and awful, with lots of questions about who this fucking guy is and what the fuck am I doing.
I whisper to TTE, look, let me deal with this, and I scoot closer to BV to say, honey, this is the situation. I invited you to come with us. “No, you didn’t.” Honey, I invited you, sent you the links and offered to buy your ticket. On Wednesday. You never responded. “No, you didn’t!” Honey, through facebook. “[Smiles.] Oh, yeah, I guess you did.”
He starts telling me something . . . and calls me by the wrong name. His little drunk brain then starts reeling off all of this other stuff. In fact, to the best of my ability, I am going to write what I remember:
“Kim, I wanted to tell you . . . yes, I know I just called you Kim, Kim is the name of the love of my life from [state he grew up in] and I was telling my mother about you, and how beautiful and amazing you are, and how important you are to me, and how I haven’t loved anyone the way I love you since Kim. So, sorry, [with great emphasis] [Planner].”
That may be the best cover ever.
He’s completely hammered and ornery.
And the whole time this is happening, TTE is next to me getting really fucking pissed off.
And then the Bon Vivant, who is trying to convince me to derail my evening, and who is so drunk and dehydrated his contact fell at of his eye while he is sitting there, does something monstrous.
That is not a word I use lightly.
He does something so monstrous that he ruins my friendship with TTE, my evening, and my sanity.
Well, actually, he does something monstrous, I then make a choice, which causes all of that shit to go sideways.
This is what he does . . .
“I don’t think I am going to come back from my trip. I think I am going to kill myself there.”
So, now, he has my attention. Of course.
He has, intentionally and manipulatively, said the one thing he knows I have to deal with.
I fuck up here repeatedly. I derail TTE because I just want to get BV home and to bed. I still believe I can do all this before the show starts. I am paying for everyone’s drinks because TTE bought the ticket for the show and I don’t know, but I do, and we walk out. I tell him it will take a few minutes and wait for me. BV and I walk out of the Chic Hotel and immediately he walks me behind a column and into the Chic Hotel residences, backwards. And I am like you live ONE BLOCK from here, let’s go to your place.
Instead, somehow, they know him here. Well. The front desk greets him by name. They call one of his friends, who is not home but who directs the desk to give him the key to his place. The security guard walking through the lobby also greets BV by name and unlocks the elevator for us.
What the fuck?!
Meanwhile, TTE is waiting for me and the clock is ticking. My phone doesn’t work in the tower. We’re on 26, as a matter of fact. BV will not let me use his phone. BV is being monstrous.
He lies to me. He tells me everything he thinks he needs to tell me to keep me with him.
He is, I realize later, completely blackout drunk. He is just Id. There is nothing going through his mind but getting me back to his place.
He is singing — completely incorrectly — the Gotye song, which I find rather upsetting as it reminds me only of our breakup and the pain I suffered. I do not share that knowledge.
We are drinking tequila from the guy’s fridge. (Well, BV is. I pour two small glasses of it and BV drinks both at my insistence.) BV has the run of it. He’s also hitting on me. Being incredibly sexually suggestive in a way he NEVER is, like bending me over a sofa and grinding on me. Weird, non-BV aggressive shit. [BV’s typical ‘aggressive’ move: “let’s have sex.”] Also, he is trying to open the windows. This place does not have a balcony, but it does have windows that open. I am doing everything I can to distract him so it doesn’t.
He starts to sing “Home” to me. Many many many times. He’s playing it on his phone and he sings along.
He is behaving badly. That song means a lot. He is telling me how much he loves me. We are talking about when he knew he loved me. I ask him to guess which moment I thought that was, and he’s not willing to play that game.
He is willing to tell me everything he can to keep me there, including that he will be joining me at the show. Which starts in an hour.
I finally convince him to leave this place. He walks out loudly singing Home, again, deeply, meaningfully looking in my eyes. I am barely controlling my anger.
We walk to a ridiculously upscale sports bar where he orders us jameson (on me) and then walks out without drinking them. He says he’ll meet me outside. So I do drink them and I sign the receipt.
And then, I can’t find him.
He’s gone. Poof.
I walk from the end of the block to the other end and he’s gone. I walk to his building , two blocks away on this street. Nothing. I call him. No answer. I text him. No response.
I figure, fuck it, and I go to the show.
TTE is PISSED. Rightfully. He sort of refuses to talk to me. Rightfully.
I glance over and BandMate’s Girl is standing there by herself dancing. I bounce between the two of them a little, so overcome with nausea/anxiety. I am legitimately afraid for BV, I am also incredibly angry at him. Because of his bad behavior, he is making everything else awful.
I just can’t cope with what’s happening at the moment, which is me being miserable while watching a show by one of my favorite bands. And knowing I still don’t know where BV is. Which means that after this show is over, I STILL have to go deal with his bullshit.
The show ends, TTE leaves early, and I watch with BMG as BM was in a horrible mood and sitting by himself in a corner. We all catch up and leave together and as I walk down the street, I tell them I have to go find BV, my drunken ex-boyfriend, who is stumbling somewhere around downtown. I walk back to where I last saw him, thenI realize I can’t pick up signal. I cross the street and there are police and ambulances everywhere, which only enhances my anxiety. I send a message out through social media indicating how awful this night is. I call him and he finally answers. I cannot hear him. Nor can I understand him. He’s so drunk it’s barely English and the music is so loud.
This goes on forever. In fact, just today, I realized he left me a voicemail. Now that I know what was happening on his end, it’s actually charming. He is playing “God Only Knows” and singing along really badly. When the song ends, so does the voicemail. It’s rather awesome, actually.
I finally just start walking the two short blocks to his building, looming above me. I glance up and the lights are on, but that’s doesn’t convince me he’s there. I get inside the lobby by knocking. I am mostly sober. I’ve had a few drinks, but I also ate bison tacos from a trailer and the adrenaline is helpful. The front desk dude . . . total asshole. Even after hearing BV slurring, yeah, send her up, he won’t until BV puts it in writing, saying, well, there are a lot of people on his list and you’re not on the list. [BV later says, that’s a lie, and frankly, it sounded like an asshole thing to say.]
A neighbor coming down lets me up instead.
I get to BV’s door and it’s locked, which is unusual. He’s a fucking mess when I see him. He’s in pajamas pants. His shirt tossed towards his office. His shorts and shoes in the bathroom. It’s bad.
I insist he drink club soda and he’s slowly sobering up. I ask him where he’d been and he doesn’t know. He says, I need you to hear this song, and he plays God Only Knows again.
I am just this combination of infuriated and charmed. It’s weird because — I do love him and I do worry about him — but he’s behaved monstrously. All he wanted was to get me to spend the evening and then the night with him. And he tried everything. And ultimately, he succeeded.
But singing God Only Knows. And looking at me soulfully, communicating exactly what he’s been trying to say to me all night . . . it’s beautiful and pathetic and horrible and lovely and I cannot really process what’s happening:
If you should ever leave me
Well life would still go on believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would living do me
God only knows what I’d be without you
It’s . . . subtle. If by subtle I mean “not.”
He plays it again and again.
Finally, I am singing along with him, wondering exactly how I got here. He plays more equally maudlin songs. He puts on the Violent Femmes and I realize, I know all of the lyrics to kiss off. Which is appropriately the only song I sing to him.
This goes on for a couple of hours.
Then we put on a movie, Michael Jackson’s This is It. It’s amazing. It’s also quite loud. It is now after 4 am. He’s sober enough. We have decided to sleep on the sofa together and I take off my dress and my bra. He opens a bottle of wine, which is actually amazing. And then realizes too late he opened a special bottle he was saving for after he gets back a month from now. He sits back next to me, leaning against my legs wrapped in a blanket and the madness that got us here is fading. He moves to the love seat eventually because he really wants me to watch. Fine, whatever. It’s beautiful. I implore him to turn down the volume and eventually, a neighbor knocks. We don’t answer. We do turn it down.
Over the course of the evening, he invites me a few times on a day trip tomorrow. I am sort of thrilled to be invited, but it’s not something I want to do.
Once the movie ends, I convince him that we’ll be more comfortable in bed. I cap the rest of the bottle of wine, get ready for bed and we put a second movie on in the bedroom. He asks me to make french fries for him. Um . . . it’s after 5 am, but okay, I do not want him messing with hot oil. He walks me through how to do it, and by the time I finish, a mere 8 minutes later, he’s incapable of eating. The plate goes on his nightstand and we go to sleep.
I sleep fitfully, still feeling awful about everything that happened tonight, and wondering how or if I can fix it.
The next morning . . . everything is different.