Butterfly Boy visibly paled.
"You're breaking up with me."
The proverbial light bulb over my head---
YES! Yes, that is exactly what I'm doing.
Until he uttered those words I had made no decisions, had no clear plan of action, merely some nebulous outline for one of those loathsome "talks". I despise "talks".
All we've done is talk, I thought--- talk about what he could do, should do, should be doing...
Months of listening to the litany of things he needs to do for himself--- to grow, to overcome, to evolve...and then he'd put that daunting mental list aside to make me an origami peacock out of a Comcast bill.
No time for the difficult, internal, mental/emotional work that we all need but hate to do. No, he had cakes to bake for me, potholders to sew for me...
And I was taken in by the loving subterfuge, trying to be a good woman to a wonderful devoted man.
But what an insidious trap, being the "good woman", the supportive girlfriend, the cheerleader/caretaker/counselor/healer.
"I need to...I need to...I need to..."
"You need to have a support network that isn't me" I'd said "I'd like to just be your girlfriend."
So he finally sought out and talked to the people I found, called people I'd spoken to on his behalf. He dutifully considered the advice and suggestions we made...and followed none of them.
I watched him spend countless hours admiring and praising all of the information, all of the tools he had amassed, and then sitting, paralyzed and bemoaning his failure before he'd even begun.
I tend to take people at their word.
His words of late spoke only of failure, despair, self-loathing, and self-sabotage.
Should it be surprising that a person's words should make them more or less attractive to a writer?
Give me words like passion, confidence, hope! Sex?
How about a phrase?
How about: "Fun, passionate, carefree sex"?
It doesn't exist when you feel more like a cheerleader/caretaker/therapist than a girlfriend.
In my heart of hearts (and loins), I wanted to want BB, but it would have felt like a pity-fuck.
I would have snapped sooner, had we not had an open relationship, and I'd not had an outlet.
But the day came when I finally did snap. Desperation (and a very dear and sympathetic friend) took me away for an impromptu beach getaway.
After months of feeling physically and emotionally drained, and being unable to discern the cause, I got a reprieve. After two days of being completely apart from BB, I felt more like myself than I had in months. I finally had the moment of clarity I needed.
I began to piece things together: I found him this person and that person to talk to, I'm always suggesting solutions/angles/perspectives. What has he done? Has he done things based on his own initiative or merely gone along with my suggestions (read: nagging).
When did I become this person? The cheerleader? I hated cheerleaders!
All of my energy and hours of every day spent reassuring, encouraging, supporting to the point of feeling like I was the only one actually trying to shore up the whole toppling mess while he stood by, throwing his hands up in bewilderment and cooking me dinner instead.
Rather than get trapped under the rubble, I made my exit.
"I love you, but in true Leo fashion--- I love me more."
It remains to be seen whether that house of cards will stand or fall, but whichever way it goes, it's not my responsibility and never really was.
There is something so very freeing in that realization.
And in helping him realize that it is, in fact, his.
Owning up to that kind of responsibility has not been his strong suit, however, at least not where our shared experience is concerned.
It's the reason why, for two years, I lost my Blowjob Mojo---but that's a story for another blog...
Infamous CoatCheck Girl