From 1998-2003, I was nearly always in a relationship. It’s a terrible, horrible, life-destroying addiction. I’d get drunk, sleep with a girl I knew and then do something dumb like say, “Let’s be official” or “I don’t want to see other people” or “I respect you as a person.”
And then I would sober up and realize that there’s a reason I only ever thought to say this while drunk: it’s because while drinking I have the decision making skills of a neurologically impaired, crack-addicted chimp. Who am I kidding—it’s not like I’m much better while sober.
When the relationships finally ended, there were two distinctly different withdrawal symptoms. The first hit about two weeks after the break up and was purely physical. I didn’t care if I was getting the most inanimate, uptight, embarrassingly poor sex in the world; two weeks later I was ready to stab someone. I remember that there were a few girls who were so bad that I decided sleeping with them wasn’t even worth the car-ride over. It was like making love to a corpse that’d been violated by a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. None of that mattered. Two weeks after the supply lines had been cut, I thought I was going to die if I didn’t see naked breasts.
The next part is the emotional withdrawal. I’ve been in love three times. The worst part about those break-ups is not even the pain, but the feeling of “oh fuck, you mean I put all this work into this and now I’m back to square one?” Even when the relationship sucked, I at least had a sense that I knew what I wanted—I had something to work at and towards…and then it was gone. That’s what the emotional withdrawal is all about. You sit on your ass, sure that you’re never going to find love again, replay old relationships in your head, and start planning on a long life where your most meaningful relationship is with your cat.
I’m back to the depressing stage of relationship withdrawal. It’s so bad…I’m a total chick right now. I’m obsessing over meeting someone (which is the worst, because as soon as you start looking, you stop finding), and feeling generally unattractive and worthless. I swear to God, I’m about a pint of ice-cream and a bad hair-cut away from bitching about my thighs.
Deep down I know hope is not lost. I had a friend who recently told me that Hell would freeze over before I got married. I sort of take that as a compliment. Because as many heart-breaks, betrayals, and bad break-ups as I’ve had, I’m still not ready to settle. I’m not ready to just say, “I can’t deal with the self-degradation that the dating world requires. I’ll just marry the next thing that comes along so I can stop this living Hell.”
A co-worker commented to me recently that I had contradicted myself. I had said that I had no standards and was looking for a very particular person. Everyone listen up: I’ve got low standards for interviewing and the very highest for promotions. Meanwhile, I’m going through both emotional and physical withdrawals in the worst way. So here’s hoping a worth-while applicant comes along before I get drunk and tell some innocent girl I respect her.
No comments:
Post a Comment