It’s been a while since I wrote something for the weekend coffee share. It’s been a while since I wrote anything, really… excepting the last few posts which I’ve since deleted. I broke my own rule about keeping the guy I was seeing out of my blog. I needed to vent and because I wasn’t getting what felt like honest communication from any direction, I wrote it out on here, as I prepared for the end. The end of something beautiful and glorious and that will be fondly remembered. Mostly.
But, even as amazing as it’s been, one of the biggest problems that seemed to keep arising was based on a bit of… not fantasy per se, but not wholly truth either.
I kept saying on here, in my blog, that I wanted it to be permanent. That I hoped it would become permanent. And oh I really did, that’s no lie. The lie comes because that’s not what made this special.
Every relationship, every date, every mildly romantic encounter is one that I hope will lead to something real, something permanent. I’ve spent the last 4 years lamenting that none of the guys I’ve ever dated ever wanted anything permanent from me. I’m always an option, or a temporary fix. A stand in for the person they really want. Nothing more than a plaything to be used and tossed aside.
And I’m tired of it.
Tired of feeling like I’m unworthy of love because none of the men I date want anything real. Or rather, they might want something real, but never from me.
The Bartender told me that he was too early into his divorce proceedings, so he couldn’t get too involved, and then promptly promised me the world, telling stories about taking me to New York to meet his mother, and planning future vacations together. Only to find out he wasn’t divorced at all, that I was just the other woman, and that because I had made him happy, he’d been able to work things out with his spouse.
Before that (or after that… it gets jumbled) there was the Pirate, who told me, like so many others, that he wanted to be friends first and then to see what happened from there. “Friends first” is inevitably code for “fuck buddies,” and then if I happen to fall into feelings, I’m the one who’s not being cool and am unceremoniously thrown away.
Mr. Nice Guy, Superman, the Investment Broker, and so many others, some with nicknames, some never even making it that far, and all of them looking for just something temporary.
And with each of them, I have attempted to play it cool, and yet I need a defined time frame of how long I can wait to see them because I get excited and want to be around the person I’m interested in. Me needing them to give me some idea of how long I have to wait until I see them again tends to make them think I’m more interested than I am, or worse: they tell me I’m clingy or too needy.
Each one, I’ve spent countless hours wondering what protocol was I expected to follow to not scare this one off. Waiting to get a text back, and timing it to try and surmise their level of interest. Looking for clues about whether or not they found me interesting or was I just an object to be used to fulfill their baser needs?
With each of them, all that wondering left me in an anxiety riddled state, panicking over the slightest misunderstanding.
Something about the last one was different. I never panicked. I was never worried about whether or not he was interested in me. I didn’t spend hours agonizing over why he didn’t return texts right away, or whether or not he was ignoring me…
Well, not until the very end.
I did wonder if I was a plaything for him, because of things he had said, things he kept adamantly repeating, but I don’t think I ever believed it. The contradiction bothered me, bothered me a great deal as a matter of fact, but I never really believed it. Or I didn’t want to believe it.
It would upset him when I brought it up… bothered him a great deal, too, it seems. But there was this inconsistency that I couldn’t put my finger on. We finally cleared it up. Too late, we cleared it up, but it was finally cleared up. Again, mostly.
This one was different.
Like I said, I was never worried about if I’d see him again, or how he felt about me. I didn’t worry when I asked when I could see him again. There were a couple of times, very early on, that I hesitated to ask when I could see him again, out of fear that he’d take it to mean that I was addicted, or clingy, or needy, or any of the other negative things men had said in the past, but (I think it was the third time we’d been together) when I asked, he smiled. I never worried about it again, and in fact, I quit needing to know.
That was the moment things changed for me. That was the moment I realized that this was special, that there was a connection.
I don’t know if it was love. I don’t know what that feels like. I just know that from that point on, we had that simple, easy going, comfortableness that everyone tells me is a sign of the real thing.
And from that moment on, even though on here I might have repeated that I hoped it was real, that it would turn into a permanent thing, I never questioned what it was or what it would be. It was what it was, and while, yes, I had hoped it would continue, that was simply because I always hope that the man I’m dating will choose me. I’m still waiting for someone to find me worthy of being more than just a temporary fling.
I think this one may have been the only time I ever get to experience it, so I held on, and a part of me is still holding on, while the rest of me is back on Tinder, looking for someone who might be interesting enough to take my mind off how bad this feels.
I’ve already talked to and eliminated 7 Tinderfellas. I’m currently talking to 5 of them, hoping one might be something remotely close to the guy I was seeing… It’s not quite over yet, but it might as well be. And in the meantime I keep swiping.
I think the word for that is “cushioning,” where you start looking for something new to cushion the blow of the end of the old.