The Wrong One

I can’t even begin to go into it. There are facts hidden among rumors and accusations. Now there is even a formal investigation. Only G-d knows the full truth and may He deliver justice (and exoneration) accordingly. The worst part is, my testimony is being called on and while we have been directed not to discuss it any further, my desk at work is Grandfucking Central Station. And his name comes up. Someone claims they saw him sneaking out of her room at dawn. He says it’s a lie meant to hurt him. But it’s really not about him. It’s about her. Rampant unprofessionalism, undermining the mission and making repeated ‘jokes’ about shooting people she worked with. Ive never met a more miserable human being. She might benefit from counseling and medication.

I don’t know who or what to believe so I take my mother’s advice again: Sometimes you just have to make a choice. And again it comes back to this; does it matter what the truth is? Would it change the end of the story? Is there anything I can do to change it?

Even if he’s innocent, he’s angry. He’s being a dick. I finally snapped “Youre not the only victim here. This is making me physically ILL. So point that fucking finger somewhere else, open your g-ddamned eyes and SEE who is truly responsible for this. I am the one person who gives a shit about what happens to you.”

There is one truth I do know: I cant suddenly stop loving someone just because they stopped loving me.

But I’m trying. I go out. Nice men who buy me drinks and open doors. And I think of all the ways they are not him. When I look at photos of men online, I ask myself “Can you see yourself on your knees in front of him?”

I read some inspirational wisdom on Pinterest yesterday: Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is that you are stupid and make bad decisions.

Thanks.

Remind me again why I’m here?

I’m reading Psychic Shielding for Dummies (or something to that effect).

Although what I SHOULD be reading are articles and books on Equality, Ethnicity, Diversity, Oppression, and other school-related texts on sensitive social subjects that irritate me. Whoever said I could earn a Masters degree with only 60-90 minutes of work a night was a damned liar. It’s week one and I’m certain the instructors –excuse me, I mean professors–already despise me. For one, I belong to the George Bernard Shaw School of Punctuation (in that I don’t believe in it). Although for the sake of scholarly conformity, I pledge to try and play along. If there is punctuation here, it is because Microsoft Word auto-corrected me like a Butler chasing their naked Lord down the road, shouting “But Sir! Your coat!” When asked to give a fun fact about myself during class introductions, I said “I swing” (crickets.) “As in dance”. Tough crowd.

I’m sorry, what was the question again? Something about racial and ethnic labels, socialization, perceptions, and psychological dimension…Wait! Ethnocentrism! Yes! That was the word I’ve been trying to recall since I got my first degree that couldnt even land me a GS-5 position as a professional coffee-fetcher, I mean, office assistant. And I had to look up the definitions of ‘pejorative’ and ‘heuristic’. I fit in among these Sociology and Psych majors about as much as Elle Woods at Harvard Law.

This is a Masters program. Time to get no-shit serious.

I was grumbling about these assignments at first but that was an hour ago and two glasses of Ghetto Sangria (cheap wine, a shot of Henny, and a shot of Manischewitz) ago.

Now where was I?
I have no idea. I forgot to leave a trail of breadcrumbs and lost my place online and in the books.

I think I’m just going to watch another episode of Hemlock Grove and call it a night.

“I will not always love what I can never have. I will not always live in regret.” ~Jimmy Eat World

My fever broke today. It only took 7 weeks.

A half a tab of Xanax and a glass of water by my bed, just waiting for the alarm to go off and my anxious heart to start thudding.

But today, I got out of bed without it.

And I made it to work without it.

And I made it through work without it.

Day 1.

For all my prayer and meditation and hinting and begging and writing and crying… all I got in return was Silence.

So I wrote to you, perhaps the last handwritten letter.

You never gave any indication that you read any of them and it hurts me to think that you might have let them stack up, like an obligation or a homework assignment that you kept putting off.

I hoped to never regret you. I had hoped I meant as much to you as you did to me.

And I told you I love you. I didnt say it to make a play for you. It doesn’t matter that you’re married and live 1,000 miles away. It doesn’t matter if you’ve changed your mind, or forgotten what you loved about me, or that I was just a crutch to lean on, a means to an end, to be used and be discarded as soon as I was out of sight. It doesnt matter that/if you found a new crutch as soon as I was gone. I fell in love and I’m not ashamed of that. I don’t think it is ever a bad thing to love someone or to tell that person that they are loved.

I also re-joined online dating sites; I didnt tell you that in some sad attempt to make you jealous. I told you that to alleviate any concerns you may have that I could potentially turn into a ‘stalker’ and cause problems for you. Even I have a little more pride than to chase a man who doesn’t want me. I know even if you do slay your dragons, you have no intention of ever coming for me. So I’m just trying to press on, pray for you, pray for me, pray that we both find what we need, not just what we want.

I want you. I expect I always will. Because you were a lightning strike and that hasn’t happened to me in many years. But I won’t wait for the Never.

I hope that I still cross your mind sometimes and you think to drop me an email to let me know you’re alive and well. You said you would. But that was weeks—an eternity ago, when you promised that.

I’ll never look at a full moon the same.

I love you.