With 20 minutes to kill before my already-postponed Tinder date, I got another text. “Can we push it back another 30-45? Got caught up at work.” Feeling relief, I suggested putting it off to another day. I sat down on a bench in a tiny park wedged between three roads, listening to the traffic. My shoulders sighed with relief, tired of carting around my deodorant, tooth brush, computer, back-up underwear and t-shirt, book, and all my chargers. I have time to spare for the first time all week. Free time is unpleasant these days.
My ex had called me the night before, needing to talk to someone after a draining fight with her family. I stupidly felt the need to comfort her etc etc, fell asleep there. The next morning I cleaned the apt a little, got my stuff in order, talked with her a bit, then I headed out. It took me until 6 hours later, sitting on that park bench, to let the full weight of her telling me she fucked someone else to hit me. After she’d told me she wasn’t that sexual of a person, (even though she cheated on me and fucked someone like less than a month after breaking up w me) to get out of sleeping with me for the last like month and a half of our relationship, instead of just telling me she wasn’t into me anymore. She seems perfectly capable of being sexual with everyone else. Just tell me you need me more than you love me, so I don’t feel like a repulsive fucking human being.
That’s who I’m living with right now. A person who needs me but doesn’t want me. I fell for it.
I texted my friend asking for a place to crash.
So there I was sitting on a bench, with my change of clothes and all my toiletries in my bag, plus everything I need to go to work, wondering if I had time to go home before hanging out w friends for movie night.
But then I realized who I was and where I was and who was living in the place I’m paying for; I don’t have a home right now. I teared up like the pathetic little shit I was, waiting for my friend to get back to me.
I don’t think I’ve been loving myself enough.