Thursday, June 16, 2011

Hello, all.

WARNING: This post is very long and possibly depressing. It also talks candidly, but not at all explicitly about sex.

My last post was about a generally positive experience. This one not so much.

Just over four weeks ago, May 17 to be exact, Lomond and I broke up. Amicable, but that doesn't make it suck any less. So here's what happened:

Back on May 4 (May the Fourth be with you), I was in study days before final exams and Lomond had the day off, so he picked me up and we went to the old Rock Church in Norse, TX, because it is one of his favorite places and I had never been. We had a nice time looking at the beautiful old church and walking through the churchyard and smiling at all the delightful Norwegian names on the headstones.

On the drive back, however, he started talking about things. About how he feels drawn back to Africa, where he spent a summer interning for a charity a few years ago. About how he needs to be doing something to improve the world. About how his life here seems meaningless. We had been talking like this for about 30 minutes when I realized he was trying to break up with me. By then, we were getting back into town. We were on one of the main drags in town when the tears started building up in my eyes, but I don't know that he noticed yet, since my glasses have wide side pieces. We barely got inside his house before I fell apart. This then set him off the same way. He said he couldn't stand to see me cry.

I don't really remember how the ensuing conversation went, but it ended with weepy kissing and the discovery that he was out of condoms. So no break-up sex; just break-up fooling around. Afterward, I think we watched the previous night's Glee on Hulu before he took me home.

I held it together well enough that night, listened to some sad music. Then as I was about to go to bed, he called me having a very hard time with it, saying he didn't know whether he had done the right thing. I told him to go to bed and see how he felt in the morning.

The next afternoon, he says he needs to see me, so he comes to pick me up and we go to his house. Basically, he couldn't stop thinking that he had made a mistake. He had been talking to a few friends about it, and one of them pointed out that the conversation had been very one-sided, that he had not given me an opportunity to give my input on the matter. This friend also asked him, "This feeling that you made a mistake, is it in your head or in your gut?" Lomond said that it was in his gut. He also told me that he had realized how silly it was to end something good just because of the idea of going back to Africa when he had no idea when that might actually happen. So we agreed we had both made a silly mistake - him for suggesting it and me for going along with it - and we got back together. We made a run to the drugstore and had amazing make-up sex.

That weekend at faire, I confided in my friend Colour about what had happened, but didn't feel the need to tell anyone, since it was just a silly little hiccup. The next Tuesday, Lomond and I had our usual date night/Glee viewing followed by what may have been the best sex I've ever had. Just saying. That Saturday, he took a few hours from work to see me graduate from the Unnamed Baptist University, but had to go back to work before lunch.

But the next Tuesday (the aforementioned May 17), when we picked me up for our usual date night, I could tell something was bothering him. We were back at his house before we got to the heart of matter. He was having the same feelings as two weeks previous. I made it fairly clear that I may have just sat there and listened the first time, but I was going to stand my ground this time. When he kept bringing up all the same things he had before, I kept saying variations of "I'm not giving up on this." He asked what I thought we would do if he did go to Africa for 6 months, a year, or longer. I said we could deal with that when it was actually happening, but that I was willing to do long distance. I kept citing CSI Friend, whose husband is in Iraq for a year, as an example that it's hard, but doable. He kept saying that he didn't think he could do it. I realize that it was happening again and I went into defense mode. I said we would never know unless we tried, that we shouldn't give up on what we had just because it might be hard, that I wasn't going anywhere.

Then the song "And I Am Telling You" from Dreamgirls started playing in my head. For those not familiar, this song is sung by a woman who refuses to admit that her diva antics have ruined her career and pushed away the man she loved. She is fighting tooth and nail for something that is already gone. That is when I fell apart, buried my face in the bed and when Lomond questioned, I said, "I'm pathetic. I'm like Effie White, fighting to save something that's already gone."

By the time that conversation was done, it was almost time for Glee, so he ordered a pizza. In my mind, I thought, "You just broke up with me for the second time in two weeks. You can certainly buy me dinner." The Glee funeral episode, pizza, beer, and then several episodes of The United States of Tara. And that's how that night ended. The only people I told about it that weekend were Colour and Gelfling, but word spread around a bit. That's okay.

On his suggestion, we still got together the next Tuesday for the season finale of Glee. We picked up Panda Express and a bottle of wine on the way. I paid for the wine before he could even get to the counter. Glee was good, as were the wine and the Chinese food. We watched even more United States of Tara, and I got hooked. The evening seemed only minimally awkward, and I thought it was a good step toward staying friends, which he first suggested and which we both agreed we wanted to do.

We let the next week go by, which is probably a good thing, since my birthday was in that week, and it probably would have been awkward, especially considering how sweet he was on my last birthday. But then last Monday, I asked how he was doing and whether he wanted to hang out some time soon, since I had the once-lost English version of The Blue Angel on Netflix, and he said sure, since he loves foreign films, so we made plans for the next day. That day, however, while I was out on my first jog of my most recent health kick, he sent me a text saying that it seemed too soon. I responded that I was just making an effort to stay friends, but that I understood if he was feeling uncomfortable. Not that I wanted to be so understanding. I wanted to scream.

Now I feel like a selfish bitch, because he was supposed to put The United States of Tara on my new external drive. I mean, I want to see him too, I want to stay friends with him, but I still have my selfish motivations for wanting to see him. I'm thinking about texting him tomorrow to see if he wants to hang out. I have Hei├čer Sommer on Netflix. Maybe he won't be able to turn down a campy East German musical from the 60s.

I'll let you know how things go.