30-Something, Single Female: Drunk Texting Or Something Similar

I am the worst blogger ever.

The entire point of me having a personal blog is to share snippets of my everyday life. Meanwhile, drama is unfolding behind the scenes and I’ve been sitting on my butt missing it all! I’ve simply got to do better.

My mind is a mess right now. My emotions are even worse off. I actually feel drunk or otherwise intoxicated even though I haven’t had a sip of liquor in years. Even though I feel a slight disturbance brewing in my stomach region and an overwhelming sense of “WTF have I just done” is washing over me, I believe I have done the right thing, at the right time, for the first time ever. I just drunk texted my ex-fiancé. Well, sorta. Okay, not really.

Like I’ve previously mentioned in a prior post, I’ve been poking around on a dating app for the last week or so. Despite looking around and talking to a few interesting sounding characters, something has been going awry in the background. If I’m honest, I’ve been having a lot of fun with the whole dating app this time around, which surprises me. A good majority of the men are attractive, successful, the works. My conversations have been intriguing as well. There are two or three guys I would be willing to consider meeting up with…even if only in a strictly platonic manner. But still, something hasn’t felt right.

A twinge in my soul.

A check in my spirit.

An ever deepening sadness for which there is no apparent cause.

Then something strange happened. I started getting these emails from the app that alerted me whenever someone “liked” me. Okay, that part is completely normal. However, when I would open them, there’d be a collage of pictures. Somewhere in that collage is a man who has shown interest, but of course, you never know which one until you click the attached link. At first, I didn’t pay too much attention to the pictures. That is, until I saw my ex.

At least, it looked like my ex. You know, if my ex regularly made it a habit to wear a big red clown nose. The guy in the photo was clearly trying to be incognito or simply had a really bad Halloween outfit. All the same, it looked just like him. Same face shape. Same feature positioning (despite the honking foam nose). Same facial expression. Same…dorkiness. I was fully convinced that it was him from the first time I saw the guy. Then it showed up again and again and again. I’ve seen the photo at least twenty or so times, but not once have I said, “It can’t be him.”

It can’t be him…canit? How would he even show up in the collage? Last time I checked, he doesn’t live anywhere remotely close to Arizona. The odds of him showing up in local matches are similar to the odds of me running off to a convent to be a nun—with my foul mouth, that isn’t going to happen! However, it has to be him. I know him. It’s like being married to someone for twenty-five years and being separated for a few years before bumping into them again. Even if they changed, went bald, grew a beard and looked like a bootleg Santa Claus stunt double…you would know them.

Anyway, this has gone on for a few days. It’s been driving me stark raving mad. I would try to shrug it off as me just seeing things. I’d go back to my conversations and try to put my ex out of my mind, but then the urge would come. The urge to contact him.

Truth be told, I have had the strongest desire to reach out to him for…months. I don’t know what it was, but something in my spirit kept telling me to do it. Again, I’d duck and dodge the feelings, writing them off as something I needed to forget about doing. So, it isn’t as though “seeing him” triggered me to want to speak with him, you know?

Well, in the last few days, the urge has been growing to monstrous proportions. Every time I would start having fun talking to someone…BAM! I would end up with this startling bout of anxiety and dread. It sort of reminded me of how I’d feel on Sunday nights back when I worked a traditional 9 to 5. I would never want the weekend to end, so my stomach would tie itself in knots from the notion of me going back to my cage (aka my office) that very next morning.

No matter what I did to resist contacting him, I kept feeling sick. It was as though my body was finally (and violently) protesting my refusal to comply with that little tug of my spirit. Tonight has been the worst. I sincerely felt like I was going to burst—just blow up and send my head flying across the room—if I didn’t reach out to him some way. It didn’t matter how.

Smoke signals.

Courier pigeon.

Trained falcon.

Morse Code.

Hogwarts owl.

I had to settle for email. I have long since deleted his name and number from my contacts list. Social media was a possibility, but that didn’t seem personal enough (says the girl who never uses social media, but should). So, gathering all of the courage I could muster, I incoherently pecked out an email. I don’t think it took me longer than a few minutes, but it felt like it took me a lifetime. I couldn’t gather my thoughts. I’m not exactly sure what I said. Whatever it was, I meant every word of it. I just hope he sees it the same way.

Nothing is wrong with dating apps. Okay, there’s a lot wrong with dating apps, but none of those things have anything to do with why I can’t benefit from them. I simply don’t want to belong to anyone else. I don’t want to date someone else. There is no “someone else”, so what—no, who am I looking for?

Who can erase what I had with the person I’m so desperately trying to live without?

I wish someone would tell me. I hope he will tell me.

I love him. I always have and always will. Nothing I do seems to change that fact either, so as I see it, I’m s— out of luck.

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