I was on the phone with my buddy Stephanie the other night – I’ve known her since we were fourteen or fifteen, and she’s quite familiar with the fuck-up that was my only other relationship.
I’ve been mostly OK about my current breakup, though there are times when I experience these terrible moments of absolute grief. B is a good man. Despite all our troubles and differences, he is really wonderful, and I know I’m lucky I dated such a great person. We just weren’t right for each other.
“Just think of it this way,” Stephanie said. “When you broke up with B, he didn’t threaten to kill you and drink bleach. That’s an improvement from that other guy you dated. It’ll all get better from here.”
Gee, it better.
I feel like every time I try to get into some kind of sexual relationship with somebody, it all goes bad. I’ve had two relationships and two brief affairs. One guy was an abusive fucker. The other one too emotionally exhausting for me. Breaking up with both of them was incredibly hard. I’d like to say the affairs were better, but one of them nearly cost me our friendship, and the other one had a girlfriend who later threatened to kill me.
I’m not seeing a real great pattern here.
