For some reason, today’s throwback post really caught me off guard. I’m unsure if it was because I hadn’t remembered this particular event until I read it, or if it was due to its eerie similarity to the night I tearfully screamed, “It’s over! Don’t you ever call me again, you “blanking” (expletive)!” into my phone’s receiver.
Oh, I was so dreadfully dramatic at that age. It makes for wonderful reading though, so I won’t spoil the end for you.
It was strange remembering Adam calling me in the middle of the night, slurring his words and such. Heck, it was strange when it actually happened. I want to lie and claim that he never drank because he so rarely ever did. The boy smoked like an oil refinery, no doubt, but drinking was always my thing—not his.
In fact, he never liked for me to drink in his presence; it bothered him. Something, something about not wanting to feel as though I needed to be drunk to tolerate him or find him attractive…I don’t know. I usually tuned him out whenever he started in on his whole feeling sorry for himself thing. Adam never had the best self-esteem from the start, which I found quite preposterous at the time. He was the most gorgeous thing.
Meanwhile, there I was plodding about feeling blimpishly non-thin, starving myself every chance I could and running solely off of Starbucks and phentermine. It all seemed quite unfair, you know, that he spent more time worrying about his own suitability than noticing I’d lost two pounds since he’d seen me the weekend prior. It was never enough, of course, but I’d worked so hard at it. It was all for him, you know. Everything was.
I find it ironic that drunkenness (even as seldom as it occurred) managed to mark the beginning and the end of our formal romantic relationship the way that it did. I say “formal” because we never seemed to have a genuine end. We were like one big, long drawn out sentence with a gross lack of punctuation, the two of us. There was so much back and forth between us over the next six years…it’s amazing that I didn’t get whiplash or something.
Ah, but unlike the infrequency of his drinking, we always suffered from an incurable plague of self-sabotage, self-medication and denial. Gosh, there was so much denial. If you’d asked me then, we had absolutely nothing in common. Only now can I see how similar we were. We were both deathly afraid to lose each other, but we were also both too proud to ever admit it. It’s all rather absurd now that I know better, but that doesn’t change anything, does it?
You just wouldn’t believe the years of anguish we created for ourselves. And all because we were too stubborn and stupid to prevent it.
September 9, 2006
It’s a dull night. I am just sitting here listening to music as I stare up at my whirling ceiling fan blades. I haven’t any desire to get dressed, get up and go out, so I’m writing again. I am happy here in the peaceful solitude of my bedroom.
That is, until a few minutes ago—Adam just called. Completely wasted, mind you. My poor little dear.
Well, you know what they say, “Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, never fear.”
The poor thing apparently had his beer first. That’s going to be the hangover from hell. And he would have to work in the morning. Early.
Hmm…our call just got disconnected. I’d better let him recover. He’ll call me back if he’s able to.
That’s one thing I seriously do not miss: getting smashed and feeling like utter shit afterwards. That is why quiet nights like these are such treasures to me. I’m perfectly content with my state of soberness, thank you very much.
Hmm…now I’m concerned about him. Gosh, just when I felt like pouring my soul out on here. Oh well, another night, another chance for endless ranting. I’d better call him back and see how he is doing.