Last night, out of no where, Steve texted me to apologize again for being a butt while we were together. While I've grown a tad annoyed at the men from my past that have popped up lately, I appreciated his sentiment. It was heartfelt. I didn't feel like he wanted anything from me. He identified his past actions as narcissistic, which, I guess they were. He took ownership of his shit. It almost made me want to give him another go. Almost. I'm done recycling ghosts from my past. But I look forward to a nice friendship with him.
Fred has of course been on my mind lately. Our last meeting, I admitted to him that I love him, and that I always will. But I don't like him. And that's obviously a problem. One of our last encounters before the final show down, I recall sitting in his apartment in Los Angeles. I don't recall what sparked it, but I started rattling off the fucked up things he's done to me in the past. I sat stoically on his futon, as tears streamed down my face, as I named infraction, after infraction, after infraction. And he sat in the room, across from me, repeatedly uttering, "I'm sorry." I eventually looked up at him and said, "dude, you're always sorry. I don't want an apology. I want changed behavior." Long story short, the friendship/relationship/situationship/whatever you call it, is a wrap.
Anyway, back in May, I wrote about my "friend" Curtis, and how it looked like things were blooming. And they fizzled in a monumentally fucked up way. Curt and I were spending every day on the phone leading up to my move. Texting one another frequently about the things we were experiencing and observing. It felt nice to finally be moving in the direction he'd been trying to get me to move with him for years. I finally opened myself to the possibility of being with him after years of swerving him for one reason or another.
I'd made plans with Curt to help me move on the final day. He was to stay the night the night before the big move, to help me pack and clean up. And the following day, he was to help me load up the van and hit the road by noon. The only issue is that dude didn't show up the previous night. He pretty much disappeared the morning of my move. I had to call a couple of guy friends to help me at the last moment. And Curt finally appeared, after not answering my phone calls. At one point, I texted him "I'm really hurt and disappointed." I couldn't believe that not only was he playing me on my important move, he played me after chasing me for years. Damn homie. I give you a shot just for you to blow it the second I give you a chance? Really?!
I know what it was though. He didn't want to see me go. We'd spent the greater part of the last 5 years laughing over coffee, talking shit, flirting. Even leading up to my move, he came to my apartment and helped me feed ducks and another time shot off fire works with me. We were free, young lovers with old souls, bonding. And then he fucked it up.
He didn't want to see me go. So in his own way, he sabotaged it. I don't know where he is, but I have no desire to speak to him. But I know that he's sorry. Atlanta is pretty small, and there is no doubt that I'll see him again. And even if we speak, even if he utters the two words that have become too familiar, I'll never trust him again. Because I'm tired.
I'm tired of apologies. I'm sick of fucked up behavior being lodged in my direction, followed by attempts to act as though I was never wronged. I'm over emotionally underdeveloped men who believe that it is my birthright to carry their shit and allow them back with open arms the second they realize that they screwed over an amazing person.
I'm glad men are at least finally seeing my value and acknowledging that they fucked up royally once they lose me. Now if only someone could see the prize before them and act accordingly before he needs to utter those two words. Because once they're needed, there's no going back.
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