Why You Gotta Be So Mean?

I just want all of you to know that I'm drinking my roommate's wine and eating pizza rolls with ceasar dressing, because there is no ranch in my house.


Well folks, it's Tuesday night (or, Wednesday morning), and I suppose there's no time like the present to finish the beautiful love story of myself and Washington.  By beautiful love story, I of course mean tragic but yet not surprising terribly ending story...but you should have guessed that by now.  If you didn't, you haven't been paying attention, so head on back to Tucker Post #1 and let me know when you've figured out that my love life is a giant joke and nothing EVER ends properly.




When I last left you hanging (sorry...but not really), I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my Prince Charming.  In a matter of days, the love of my life would be making his way from the West Coast to the Midwest, and I could not be more amped.  I'd gone through my pre-future-husband checklist: clean house, get a tan, get a brazilian (sorry mom), get a pedicure...the whole bit.  If anyone could be more prepared than I was for his arrival, I'd like to meet them.  I had this whole "welcome home" thing on lock down. Bring it on: I was ready.




The week of D-Day was here. Finally. I was so many things. Amped. Nervous. Impatient. Terrified. Hopeful. In love. Sick to my stomach. Monday morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing with a text from my boyfriendbutnotofficially. Just like he did every morning, around 5:30am my time, he sent me a good morning text. I'd typically wake up, groggily read the message, and fall back asleep until I woke up at a sane person hour. Per usual, I followed my routine, and crawled out of bed around 9am, a few hours later. I responded to his text, wishing him a good day and sending my love. I wandered downstairs, made myself a cup of coffee, and settled in for a morning of puppy snuggles while I enjoyed a day off, house sitting for my parents. I turned the tv on, cozied up to my sweet black lab boy, and checked in with Facebook.


I noticed I had a message in my inbox, from Washington. It wasn't unusual that he'd send me a message if things were slow at work, so I clicked the icon without giving a second thought to the matter.  When I started to read the words on the screen, my stomach dropped.  "Hey. We need to talk for real."



Well...fuck.



I mean, let's be honest.  Those words are never a sign of happy things to come.  They almost always mean that whatever you think is going on in your life, is a big joke, and you're the only one who wasn't in on it.  They almost always mean that you're about to have the proverbial rug pulled from underneath you, at a moment when you least expected it.  Those words are the words that provoke the sickening feeling that you're about to lose everything you thought you held dear - everything you thought meant the world to you.  Those words are the beginning of the end, and everyone - including me that Monday morning - knows it.


I read his message fully.



"Hey.

We need to talk for real. I woke up last night with this lingering in my mind of my job and us and where things are headed. If we can do me in the military long term and stuff. I know we've "talked" about it - but not if I stay in long term and what that would mean for us. I don't know - it made me start thinking about things and I can't just act like its not there.

I would call you to talk to you about it but of course I'm out here all day.

I guess write me for now if you can."



Mind you, this is following my everyday, 5:30ish a.m. text of  "Good morning, babe! Off to work - text you when I can.  I love you! xoxo"



I stared at the screen in front of me for a few minutes, trying to comprehend what was written in his message.  Of course, at first, I panicked.  What was he trying to say?  Was this an exit strategy?  Was this a freakout moment, similar to the one I'd had myself not too long ago?  Was this a cry for help - a desperate attempt for some sort of comfort that he needed from me - a plea for an assurance that everything would be okay when he came home?  I wasn't sure what it was, but I hoped for the best.  I remembered that it wasn't so very long ago that I'd had my own moment of panic, where I doubted everything we had and tried to run away, to avoid the pain of heartbreak I was certain was on our horizon.  I mustered up the strength and composure it took to respond to his message, choosing my words carefully and praying that by giving him the calm, confident reassurance he needed, I could shoo away any doubts or fears he had lingering in his mind before he returned home.


I reminded him how much I cared for him.  That I understood our geographical situation wasn't ideal, but we had a friendship that our relationship was founded on, first and foremost - and beyond that, we had developed such a deep love and respect for each other - a connection that was so far beyond a physical chemistry, or a convience of being nearby and accessible. The feelings we had developed for each other were not born of a cheapened physical encounter, or even that of a flirtacious friendship that conveniently allowed us to become enamored with each other.  Instead, these feelings had arose as a result of hours long conversation, novel length e-mails, and a slow progression of the discovery of each other.   I reminded him of our commitment to caring for each other, despite our physical separation.  I reminded him that I care for him on a level beyond simple being able to be next to each other.  I reminded him that he had pushed so earnestly for our relationship to reach this level - constantly being the one to give me the strength I needed to persevere through the hardest times of loving someone so very far away from me.  I was certain that by patiently reminding him of all the reasons we had been able to make it to this point - so close to his return - he would be able to take a deep breath and rid himself of the last minute jitters that seemed to be plaguing him.



Unfortunately for me, this effort failed miserably.



Instead, he was mean.  There was no gentle let down.  No "I'm sorry, but my feelings changed".  Not an ounce of remorse, nor a flicker of feeling whatsoever infiltrated his stoney response to my heartfelt attempt at calming his nerves.  Clearly, nerves were not the issue.  Instead, the man I had let my guard down for - the one who so determinedly rallied for my affections - turned a deaf ear to my tries for reassurance, and walked away from me like we'd never been so much as friends.



In the beginning, I was sad.  It was providential that I had the day off work, and was house sitting for my parents that day.  Without my oversized bed, built-into-the-wall instant coffee maker, and three canine snuggle buddies, I may not have made it through that day as in-tact as I did.  I was hurt, confused, angry, and embarrassed.  I wanted to hand myself a big ole "I told you so", as I was the one who had so diligently reminded myself what a terrible idea this had been from the beginning.  I sat alone that morning, numb and discouraged.  A part of me still hoped he was experiencing the same wretched doubt that I'd gone through myself a few months prior.  No matter how badly I wanted to believe this, though, I couldn't ignore the icy tone in his cold, rigid messages.  He was done.  This was over.  I had no clue what I'd done wrong.



After my initial pity party came to a close, I began to feel a wave of anger take over.  Who the hell did he think he was, breaking my heart this way?  It was his prompting that encouraged this blog in the first place - which meant he knew, better than anyone, how completely broken I was after the Tucker ordeal.   He knew, better than anyone, how hesitant I was to let myself trust a man again, let alone one thousands of miles away.  He knew I was guarded, knew I was jaded, and yet he pursued me with a reckless abandon that eventually caused me to give in.  How DARE he take advantage of me like that?  How dare he push so hard to form a relationship, knowing our less than favorable circumstances, when he knew I was already so fragile? 



Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I let him have it.  I fired questions at him with no concern as to whether or not his feelings or ego were bruised.  Why did he waste the last three or four months of my life, when he knew the uncertainty of his job the entire time?  If that was the main concern, why would he work SO hard to wear down my resolve, to break through my wall, and to get me to succumb to the relationship he so desperately wanted? 


Did he simply want someone to talk to?  Was the loneliness of his job too much for him to handle, and he craved the kind and loving words of a woman so badly that he was willing to hurt someone in the process, just to feel loved?  Did he so badly want someone to "come home to" that he ignored the inevitable blow to the gut when he informed me he wasn't as emotionally involved as I'd become?   Was he just bored, and wanted the satisfaction of knowing he had the prowess to woo a woman and make her love him?  Was he jaded by the ex-girlfriend who left him in the dust when the distance became too much for her, and he was making some sort of twisted effort to get revenge on the gender who left him broken hearted months before?  Had he begun a relationship with someone else, and needed a quick-fix breakup with me to free his conscience so he could pursue a relationship with his new suitor?


I was so angry that he had pushed this relationship on me, when I'd been insistent, from the beginning, that I wasn't interested.  He had been a flirty mother fucker from the very get-go, and it took me weeks to come around to the idea that he might be worth investing my heart in.  I told him I hated distance.  I told him I didn't want a relationship.  I ignored his blatant and pathetic attempts at flirting with me via text message fifteen times per day.  Time and again I pushed him away, but he never let that stop him.  He pursued me, when I didn't want him - and now HE had the audacity to make it seem like I was the one who was too serious?  Who the hell did this guy think he was?




Questions plagued me, but asking them yielded few results.  Denial here, anger there, "how dare you's" everywhere.  I haven't seen someone go on the defensive as quickly as Washington fought to save his own reputation the moment I suggested there may be more to the story than the simple fact that his feelings had changed.



Cliche as it may be, the hours seemed like days, that dreary Monday.  By the time night fell, I'd gone over the situation time and again, rehashing the details and grasping for any sort of straw I could find that might help me piece together the reason for our demise.  At the end of the day, I was lost. 







What had I done to drive away the man I thought I would spend the next leg of my life journey with?













At what point had I lost control of the relationship, and given him the power to decide our fate, and ultimately destroy my heart?


















What was I supposed to do now?  Now that my friends and family were all anxiously awaiting the arrival of the man I'd been gushing about for months.  Now that I'd planned an entire two weeks around the arrival and departure of this man.  Now that I'd spent the last three months preparing myself for a moment that was no longer about to come.






















What was I supposed to do now?