“It haunts me that I never got to say…” – Frenship

I’m not angry at you as much as I’m just feeling sorry for myself right now. I don’t have any right to be angry so when I get upset, I think it’s best if I just don’t talk to you. You don’t think I’ll cry but I know me and when I get frustrated, I cry because it’s that, or punch a wall and scream…sure, everyone does it but the SANE ones do it in private. I don’t take my frustrations out on others if i can avoid it. And that’s what I was doing: avoiding it.

I struggle to explain why I even got so upset. I know why, I just can’t find the right words without feeling stupid. I don’t like the word “jealousy” because that sounds so petty.

You know how weddings can sometimes be cool bunch of adults drinking and dancing but this was NOT that kind of wedding. Surrounded by kids, couples and remains of a past life, which i suppose i should have expected the same way I expected the kids and couples. But that made it worse for me. Added pressure like a high school reunion with everyone wanting to rehash the past while sizing each other up. 

Maybe it’s all in my insecure head but nothing like a wedding full of kids and couples to remind those of us (solo hand in the air) that we are chronically single.
By choice, I suppose. I turned down Asheville. Turned down Portland. Turned down San Antonio. Turned down Downtown.

The problem may be (and my mother has pointed this out to me) isn’t that men don’t want me but I only want the ones that dont. I was loved by a few, but not loved enough.

I’m not sure how to fix my “picker”. That’s what my family says: the women in our family have “got it all” except we are all born with “bad pickers”. It takes a few tries to get it right. More than a few in most cases. Some of us have yet to get it right. In fact, as much as I want you, even if if it were mutual, my head tells me you’re not right for me either. Certainly not as-is with strings still attached. And I can’t base how good of a guy you would be in a relationship with me on how good you were/are to everyone else.

Every night I want to petition you to come home. I try to coax you with pictures of palm trees and water, remind you of the things you used to love. I don’t tell you I miss you or ask if you miss me because I already know the answer:

You left.