27 nov 2017
I can dance around having to write about relationships all I want, and believe you me, I am over giving time and thoughts to the romantic challenges in my own life, I am more done than a hard-boiled egg, but this blog is about regrets – it will be fake not to speak about the source of some of the deepest, albeit stupid, ones. I feel obliged to squirt in a “Dear Diary” once in a while. Especially since a ghost has recently decided to materialise, over the phone, under a blocked number (why is this still a thing?), pretending to wonder if he could “show me a real good time this time”. As opposed to the last time, years ago, when he f-cked me (over) to do a runner and leave me hanging like a self-destructing yo-yo.
Stood me up, too. Irresistibly old-school.
Ours was a brief affair (his choice, not mine – duh), exacerbated by heightened vulnerability (mine), excessive drinking (ours), generally feeling extra and overwhelmed (also me). Did I know I shouldn’t have gone with him that first drunken night? You bet. Had knowing ever stopped me from doing? Please. In my (weak) defence, I did burst out crying during that first night, pleading that, seeing as I was in too vulnerable a place and making bad decisions, this fling would kill me and end in more tears than I could handle, but he assured me, of course he did, that he would not let that sh-t happen. I wanted to trust him because a) I’d known him for some time b) who uses a woman’s desperation to get their way? and c) I was more than slightly pissed. The next time I saw him, for another “friendly drink”, he straight up told me, “as a friend”, that if I wanted to keep a dude I shouldn’t sleep with him on the first night. Come again? Whatever, arsehole, I stand for my honesty, if I like someone I will sleep with them whenever I please, thank you very much.
During the few months we were “together” (he insisted we were friends, but he was totally ploughing me, so that definition of friendship remained out of my grasp), I was not introduced to his mates, not invited anywhere outside a pub or the bedroom, not taken seriously, not given priority, not anything that should have mattered. Yet I was almost physically incapable of standing up for my pathetic self, holy sh-t I felt so in love the world seemed to spin faster, I saw so much greatness in him, so much character, fun, wit, charm – I was the loser before the battle had even started, and I would turn both cheeks with eagerness in hope for anything other than an inevitable end. That end was unsurprisingly brutal.
He called one morning (hell, yes!) and arranged a… I don’t know, I should say a “date” but I can’t be sure since, hello, we were “friends”. 2pm. Bond Street. "We’ll walk or go for lunch maybe". Omg. Mind spinning. Earth cracking. 2.25 I dial him – it’s getting too cold for me to wait, it’s winter, my nipples are cutting glass – where is he? Turns out he didn’t remember arranging anything, or even making the call. Perhaps because that morning he “took antibiotics and they made him lose his memory”. Wow. Antibiotics. So mind-altering.
Did I put an end to it then and there? If you said “yes” you don’t know me very well.
It ended, eventually – in a suitably classy way, I was ghosted (big up millennials for coming up with words that explain precisely the actions behind them). Whatever. He was a smoker so I spent the next few years hoping that Karma would take care of him in the form of lung cancer. I don’t wish for that any more, anger is stupid now. To this day, I stay amazed at how human nature, designed for self-protection and survival, backfires and fails time and time again (I rarely learn from mistakes, do you?), with idiots like me deep-diving into a concrete ground whilst remaining convinced that it’s an actual pool with actual water. It’s incredible how many times I had insisted on refusing to believe when someone showed me who they were, how often I’d found it thrilling to go for whoever didn’t want me, how predictably doomed and vile my choices had been, how “good times” had to mean painful times.
Yes, I am sad it’s taken me literally decades to get better. I’m here now though, and when he’s called (FROM A BLOCKED NUMBER), after a 5-year-long silence, with familiar intensity in his deep voice, the voice I used to miss so much, asking for another chance without half an apology for what he’d done, I mean, join the queue, stupid, I will never be interested. “Why?” – “Because you are mean and an arsehole and a dick.”
And yet… AND YET. “Do you regret us having sex?” he asks. “Whaaaa? Pffff.. Nahhhh...” I guess, the old Taylor CAN still come to the phone - this annoying, creepy “nice girl” is still in there, protruding through the skin, worrying about hurting a fragile man’s feelings. OF COURSE, I regret it! I regret everything about us! OBVIOUSLY.