So I was digging around in the pile of old papers and whatnot on my Pile O' Crap at work today, looking for a form I desperately need. (I didn't find it -- why is it that I have 800 odd bits of paper I don't need, and the one thing I really do need has vanished? I never, ever throw anything away -- as the 800 odd bits of paper show -- so where is this form? Damnit!) Most of the crap on the shelf was, well, crap -- notes to myself about things I needed to remember to do, handouts from various classes, work memos, etc. Under all that, I found an old notebook I'd used for school, and, as I flipped through it (hoping the elusive form had hidden itself inside) two things fell out and ambushed me: one was the agreement I'd written up when I moved out of Barry and my old place -- I handwrote it on a sheet of notebook paper, probably torn from that same notebook. The writing is almost illegible, because my hands shook like crazy during that whole period of time. Barry's signature is scrawled angrily (he suggested the agreement, then tried to refuse to sign it -- I made him do it, because I knew damn well he was going to try to keep everything we owned and I wanted something in writing.) I thought I'd thrown that away, but there it was, hiding. I looked it over, and then wadded it up and tossed it into the recycling bin. The second thing really rattled me. I was sure I'd thrown it out. It was a letter, neatly folded -- it slipped out of the notebook, and landed on the floor near my feet. I didn't recognize the handwriting -- far to tidy to be mine -- so I unfolded it. It was from my dad, one of the last letters I got from him. And it was a particularly unpleasant letter, at that.
I haven't written about my dad here for a variety of reasons. This journal was enough of a train wreck for a while, and I just didn't want to bring in any more drama in. I also worry about offending my family -- I know my aunt and my grandparents read my journal every now and then, and I really don't want to cause them any pain (even though they already know most of this stuff anyway... or at least they understand it to a degree.) So, um, you guys? If you're reading, you might want to click away to another entry. Really.
My parents split up when I was a freshman in college. It was an unbelievable shock -- something I never expected would ever happen. Poor Eric had to deal with the fallout, since he and I were dating at the time. (And he was wonderful about it, which is one of the main reasons why I still count him as one of my best friends, even though he pisses me off most of the time lately.) Their breakup, though, is really the smallest part of the problem.
I haven't spoke to my dad in over a year. It was my decision, and most of the time, I don't regret it. See, we were never close. No, I take that back. We were close when I was a little kid. As soon as I started to grow up, to get some independence, to become my own person, I somehow dropped beneath his notice... most of the time. When he wasn't ignoring me, he was firing off little criticisms. I am fully aware that, the reason why thoughts like "I'm stupid," "I'm ugly," "I'm not good enough," "I'm not worth much" circle through my head once or twice or 50 times a day are because I heard them so often growing up -- if I brought home a B, it should have been an A. The major I chose in college was a waste of time. If my opinion differed from his, I was wrong. If I had a snack, I was told I shouldn't eat whatever it was, because I was getting fat. (And yes, that is an almost exact quote -- I came home from school very late, after rehearsal for a play, and I hadn't had time to eat since breakfast. I went to fix a snack, and he told me "You should be careful how much you eat, you're getting really fat." I lost my appetite, and went to my room -- my mom protested, and his response was that it was his "parental right" to tell me things like that. That was in, oh 1990 or so, and I still remember it word for word. Sticks and stones, my ass.) When I did achieve something -- making the All-State Music Festival, or going to the All-State and All-New England Drama festivals, he took no notice. (My mom says he would brag about it when I wasn't around, but I think she was just trying to make me feel better.) The one time he came to visit me in Boston, when I was living in the first apartment I'd ever rented, he said the other thing that sticks in my head, and replays itself over and over: "You know, you might be attractive if you lost a lot of weight." Hmmm... I'm not just fat, I'm ugly too. Thanks, there. Those two things are just the two that stand out from the steady stream of criticism -- the stream I became numb to after a while, or so I thought. I preferred being ignored, and found a whole lot of reasons to be away from my house during the year I took off between high school and college. I discovered my love of driving during that year -- I would leave for work early, and take all the back roads to town. I would take the back roads home, too. I always visited my friends at their houses, rarely at my own. (This isn't to put down my mom at all -- she was at work during the day, is all. If she was home, I lovbed being there, because my mom has always been one of my best friends -- and my dad's polar opposite.)
So it was a relief, of sorts, to move to Boston. I felt free, knowing that I could say whatever I wanted, and do whatever I wanted, and not have anyone looking down on me for it. I'd always wanted my dad's approval desperately -- I would lie in bed at night and try to think up ways to impress him, to make him notice me for a good reason, rather than for the fuck-up I believed I was. When my parents broke up, it was an ugly, sordid mess -- mine was a Saturday morning cartoon compared to theirs. During the last major confrontation, the night he moved out, I asked him why he had done what he did (which was, basically, the exact same thing Barry did, almost to the letter.) His response was "I don't have an answer for you. I don't consider you my responsibility anymore. I have more important things to worry about." His girlfriends' kids, namely. I didn't speak to him for a while after that -- I was too angry, and that anger was only fueled when I heard stories of how he attended his girlfriends' daughters dance recitals and the like, and behaved like the model doting daddy. Eventually, I did decide I wanted to try to have some sort of relationship with him -- he had been contacting me, so I figured it was worth a try. He'd agreed to pay half of one of my student loans, which I accepted -- I couldn't pay them on my own. I wasn't happy with the arrangement, but I didn't really have a choice, so I let him help. I thought maybe it would help, because we'd have to be in touch at least once a month. I visited him a few times -- went to his house for dinner a couple of times, and got together with him around my birthday. It was always weird. The first few times, he acted like everything was perfectly normal -- when we did talk about the whole divorce mess, it was by mail, except for the first time I visited him at home. We had it out then, or so I thought. He said he didn't remember making the remark about my not being his responsibility... but he didn't say he didn't feel that way, either. He's always been very defensive about the whole thing -- he can't, or won't, understand why I was angry at him. He doesn't think he did anything wrong, and if he did, it's none of my business. So, until last year, it was a sort of stalemate... I'd write to him, long chatty letters, and get no reply. I'd call, and leave him messages, and he'd never call me back. When he sent the loan check every month, he'd sometimes include a one-sentence note on a scrap of paper... but most of the time, he just sent the check. Like he was paying a bill, taking care of an obligation. I would give up writing and calling, and then a few months later, I'd get a long letter from him, wondering why we weren't closer, and making it seem like my fault. I would write back, and say we could try again, and tell him to write to me, or call me, or visit... and he wouldn't respond. The cycle would repeat, and repeat, until I just couldn't do it anymore.
He pretty much ignored my wedding. I tried to keep him informed about what was going on with the planning -- dropping hints like anvils left and right that we really could use some help planning, and paying for it all. When I'd call him (and actually catch him at home) he would talk for ages about how he was helping with a friend's wedding. He'd never mention mine. If I brought it up, he would change the subject. I decided, based on that, that I wanted my brother to walk me down the aisle. (I'd have walked alone, but knowing me, I would have tripped over my skirt or something.) The minister worded the ceremony so that there was no mention of giving the bride away. I'm sure my dad was unhappy about that, but I wasn't comfortable with him participating, since so many other people were pitching in to provide the decorations, and food, and all the little details, and they were doing it without being asked. He showed up at the wedding -- which surprised me, to be honest. He didn't talk to anyone (my brother had to force him to sit near the family, instead of in the back row) and he wouldn't have a picture taken with me. He left right after the ceremony, after giving us a card with just his name scrawled inside. I didn't expect riches or anything, but when my brother got married, he gave them a bed he'd built. Something would have been nice, some acknowledgement that his only daughter was getting married, and it was important to him... but nothing. I spent my wedding night crying on Barry's shoulder over that.
Shortly after the wedding, I got another of the "Why aren't we closer" letters. My reply was impatient, to say the least. I told him that if he wanted a relationship, he was going to have to make an effort, because I was sick of doing all the work myself, and getting no reciprocation. I don't take that from friends, and I don't want to take it from family, either. His letter had said he thought we should talk about the divorce, since "we never dealt with it." I told him I had dealt with it -- in 1992, when it happened. I was tired of rehashing it, I said, and I didn't want to talk to him about it anymore. It happened, it's over, everyone has dealt with it and moved on -- and what mattered to me was the fact that my mom was happy. What he was doing with his life was his business, and he needed to let it go. His response was the letter I found today -- full of nasty comments about my mom (never a way to get me to be friendly) and defensiveness. I wrote back once more, and told him -- again -- that I wasn't going to discuss it. And that he'd better knock of the nasty comments, because I had no respect for that. Neither of them talked shit during the divorce, so there was no reason to start years later. And that, if he wanted a relationship with me, stop talking and do something. Pick up the phone, write a letter, something. His next letter? All sweetness, like the first two had never happened. And then, not a word. And he stopped sending the loan checks without a word, either -- which he knew caused me no end of financial hassles. He'd done that before, when he was upset at me, or just forgot. And there was no sign of that relationship he wanted, either... so I gave up. I wrote him a letter -- telling him I'd had enough, and that, unless he was prepared to actually follow through on what he said, not to contact me anymore. All he did was cause me pain, and he never even tried to see me as a real person. He didn't know anything about me, because he'd never had any interest in me at all. And I just didn't have the strength to deal with it, so I told him to just leave me alone. He has -- he didn't try to change my mind, which somehow hurt more than I thought it would. I hadn't expected him to, after all. I know he's told my family his own version of the story -- mostly reversing it and saying that I'm the one who never tried -- but I can't worry about that. They seem to understand my feelings about it -- or at least they respect my decision.
I don't miss him. What I do miss, sometimes, is having a dad. I sort of feel like I never had a real one.
Smoke and Mirrors turns one year old tomorrow! Who'd have thought it... not me, to tell the truth. I started off as just a little experiment, just to see if I liked it, or if anyone would read it. Now, of course, I'm thoroughly addicted to it. (Not that you'd know from my slacker update schedule, but hey, I try...) I've met some very cool people, made some friends, gotten tons of moral support when it was needed... and only one hate mail! (From a guy who thought I made up the stories about my divorce, then told me I deserved to be cheated on because I talk about my cat too much... that one was easily dismissed -- he can bite me, AND my cat! Nyah!) So, all of you, thanks for reading, and keep the emails coming! (Damn straight that's a hint!)
I'm damn tired today. I started classes again yesterday -- I'm taking a management class Wednesday nights, and an online information services class Thursday nights. I'm going to have to remind myself to set the VCR on those nights... last night's class was good. I like the professor (even though she gave us a buttload of handouts -- that turned out to be a good thing, though. They're the readings we'll need to do for class, and most professors just put them on reserve. I'd rather not spend money on photocopying if I don't have to.) I'm not keen on studying management, but maybe it'll help me to understand why my superiors do the things they do sometimes...
This is a terribly dull journal-birthday entry, I know... but there's not a whole hell of a lot going on. That's a very good thing, though, considering how things have been going lately. My mom's still on the mend, and doing much better. My brother calls frequently to update me on his hamster, Walter (the best name for a hamster ever, I think.) Work's busy, but that's okay. And I've resigned myself to having a cold for the rest of the winter, since I seem to catch a fresh one as soon as I start to feel better. I ought to buy stock in Dayquil.
It's all white outside. I fell asleep with the window open last night, and the cat woke me up early this morning, all distressed because of the mounds of snow drifting against the screen. It's still coming down like crazy, and blowing all over the place -- I'm debating whether it's worth trying to get to the laundromat, or if I should just wait until next weekend...
I'm very angry about some developments in my mom's health right now, but I'm not sure she'd want me writing about all the gory details here... if she gives me the OK, I'll post an entry about it. For right now, suffice it to say that she really, really needs to get some legal advice, badly.
Yesterday was spent lazing around, and making meatloaf (which turned out lovely in spite of my improvising, since I really didn't have most of the ingredients I wanted -- but hey, you can't go too wrong with meatloaf, can you?) until around 7, when Lee and Patrick and Blue came to pick me up to go to the movies. We saw State and Main, which was hilareous -- I found it funny because I spent my high-school years living in a small Vermont town, just like the one in the movie. The people? They're really like that. There are huge debates over potholes, and traffic lights, and local schools' football teams. There's nothing else to talk about, after all! I liked my town well enough -- I knew everyone, and everyone knew me (hell, after I wrecked my car in a spectacular manner, I was some sort of local celebrity) and it was somehow comforting, the way nothing ever changed. I was happy to move away, though -- it is a very nice place to visit, but I couldn't live there again.
Patrick ended up missing most of the movie -- he got sick shortly after we arrived, possibly because of the strawberry Julius he drank. (I was introduced to the bliss that is Orange Julius, oh my...) I figured out pretty quickly that he wasn't feeling well, but I didn't know it was as bad as it was until after the movie -- for which I feel really bad. And I hope you're better now, Patrick...
I'm very glad it's a long weekend. The Cold From Hell is still toying with me (I don't actually have it yet -- it's still deciding whether it wants to attack or not) and my stomach has been having temper tantrums for the past couple of days. I get it every now and then, and it's never fun -- it involves a whole lot of pain, which nothing really alleviates. All I can do is wait it out, which sucks. My doctor told me it's likely a stress thing. It must be delayed stress, though, because everything is relatively calm right now.
I had my yearly job review on Friday. It was good on the whole -- I'd say 98% good, and 2% bad. One of the bad things was understandable -- my boss told me I need to project a bit more friendliness. She understands that I'm not really good at the small talk thing, and tend to be very quiet at work, and she's stopped trying to get me to change that. But I can be a bit surly, especially when I've been at the desk alone for eight hours, and someone decided to upbraid me for a policy I have no control over. I'm aware that, if I'm trying to get a pile of work done, and I keep getting interrupted, my irritation shows -- I know I need to stop that. So her mentioning it was fine. The other bad thing did chafe me, though, because it's not something I'm doing. A while back, both my mom and one of my best friends had email at work, and the three of us abused it like mad. We had these excellent three-way conversations going on all day long, which was not good for work, of course. My boss told me to quit it, and I did. Since then, it hasn't been a problem -- we don't have a policy outlawing personal email at work, so I do check it from time to time. I read both my work email and home email first thing in the morning, before we're busy. I keep my work email up and running all day, because I use it heavily for -- you guessed it -- work. I usually have to email two or three professors a day, to ask them questions about the books they want on reserve. I also need to be in touch with the reserves people at the other libraries. I don't get a huge amount of work email every day, but enough so that it's easier for me to keep that account open in the background while I work. I usually check my Yahoo account -- which is also used for some work stuff -- around lunchtime, and a couple of times in the afternoon. In total, maybe an hour a day is spent on personal stuff, and the rest is all work. Someone keeps telling my boss that, since I type so much during the day, I must be goofing off. I have to type a lot at work right now -- processing reserve requests basically involves data entry. No way around it. Lately, I've been doing that for 6-8 hours a day. I also have to go online to look for books we need to order -- I use a couple of online databases for that. So, unless someone is standing behind me, looking over my shoulder, they can't tell what I'm doing. I think I know who the complainer is, and it makes me angry. I've been doing the jobs of two people lately, and doing it well, and I don't like being accused of just goofing off, especially when it's coming from someone who has no idea what I do all day. But, aside from that, it was all good. I left the review feeling like my boss really appreciates the extra work I've been doing, and that's a nice feeling.
I ended up going home from work early after that, because I felt so crappy. Went home, had some soup, and curled up in bed and watched TV mindlessly until I fell asleep. Yesterday I slept far too late, and loafed around the house for most of the day. Talked to my mom on the phone, complaining about how bored I was. When I got off the phone, I noticed that these was a voice mail waiting -- it was from Lee, telling me that she and Patrick were on their way to my house, and would be there in 15 minutes. The message was left at 6:15 -- I looked at the clock, and it was 6:35. Gah. I figured they'd already been by, and left -- our doorbell doesn't work. A few minutes later, I heard a car horn honk, and then heard someone yelling my name, so I dashed out into the front hall, and told them I'd be right down. Threw on sone clothes (I was in pajamas, very comfy for loafing around) and dashed out the door. I wasn't feeling great, stomach-wise, but I wanted to go out, dammit. We went to see "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," which was just excellent. Loved it. Though I do agree with Patrick -- when I watch a martial arts film, I do feel like I'm missing something important. This one, though, I just gave up trying to get, and just watched the fight scenes in slack-jawed amazement. When I wasn't wishing I could use some of the moves on our fellow moviegoers, that is. First off, go read Patrick's entry about it -- he sums it up very well. (And hilareously.) Now, I have rarely had a truly bad experience with people in a theater -- occassionally there will be some lout who has to talk, full-volume, through the entire movie, but usually a glare or two shuts them up. I've been to a couple of movies that were full of kids, even though the film was very much not a kids' movie -- "Jurassic Park," for one. Yes, it has dinosaurs. And yes, your adorable little Timmy loves dinosaurs. rent him "The Land Before Time," okay? I'm thinking he won't love dinosaurs so much after he sees them chomping people in half and such. Really.
We were first appalled by the people who came in with two or three very young children, and sat them down right in the front. This was a violent movie, for one thing. Not the sort of thing I'd want my three-year-old (if I had one...) to see. Plus, I have never met a small child, no matter how well-behaved, who could sit quietly through a two-hour movie, and these kids were no exception. I lost track of the bathroom trips they had to make, and the one kid yelling "Pee!" every five seconds lost his charm really quickly. More disturbing, though, was the woman who brought her tiny, teeny infant, in a car seat. And sat toward the front, right where the sound is the loudest. Sometimes the sound effects in movies hurt my ears -- you'd think it would enter the mom's mind that her newborn's ears are very sensitive, wouldn't it? And yes, the baby was asleep when they came in, but as soon as the first fight scene started, the baby started screaming. At least the mother took it outside right away... but since it happened during every fight scene (and there were a whole lot of them) it got a wee bit annoying. I'm utterly sympathetic of the fact that new moms can use a night out every now and again, but for pete's sake, hire a sitter. Get the kid's grandparents to come over and stay with the baby. Don't bring them to a loud, violent movie, then get peeved because the baby doesn't sleep through the whole thing.
And the cell phones. Don't even get me started on the cell phones. One going off during a movie I can handle -- maybe the owner just forgot to turn it off. But a dozen of them? Please. Shut it off, before I beat you about the head with it. Thank you.
The thing that annoyed me most, though, was the woman sitting directly behind us, who wanted to eat individually-wrapped hard candies during the movie. The kind with the crinkly, crackly wrappers. I think she thought that, if she opened them really slowly, they would make less noise. That doesn't work, folks. That just means the people around you have to listen to you going *crinklecrinklecracklecrinklycrackle* for five minutes, instead of two seconds. If you absolutely have to have that peppermint, just open it quickly. Yes, it will still be annoying, but brief annoyances are okay. I was about ready to turn around and ask if she needed help opening it, or if she would rather have me shove it up her nose. (What, me, surly? Never!)
So. In short, the movie was great. The other people sucked, and reminded me why I much prefer watching movies at home. After the movie, the stomach pains were bad enough that I just asked to be dropped off at home -- unhappily, since I really wanted to hang out more. But since I couldn't think of much except "OUCH!" I knew I wouldn't be good company. I crawled back into bed, and discovered that having a very warm, heavy cat sit on your stomach for a while does wonders for a stomachache -- maybe it's the vibrations from the purring. Whatever it was, it helped enough that I could fall asleep. I slept far too late again today (and will likely do it again tomorrow, woo woo!) and am now pondering taking a shower, so I can go do laundry.
Everybody at work has The Cold From Hell. Hacking, sneezing, wheezing, aching, ickiness... and guess what I'm catching? Yep. I woke up this morning feeling all stuffed-up and achy, but I have far too much work to do to stay home. The thing is, I really hate having to be one of those people who comes to work sick, and spreads the germy joy all over the place. I'd rather just stay home and keep the misery to myself, but I was just away for two weeks and all. Plus my job review is tomorrow. (Wish me luck!) So I shall just dose myself up heavily on Dayquil and play the martyr -- at least I have Monday off, so I can try to sleep the germs away. I don't have the full-blown cold yet -- I'm in that nasty just-coming-down-sick stage, and I wish the would just cold would just do its thing, already. Meh.
I'm also feeling very cranky because my landlord decided to raise the rent -- it's still more than reasonable, and well below market value for the size apartment I live in, but still... I'm poor enough as is. I was just starting to feel like I was getting it together financially. More than anything, it makes me want to get my degree, so I can get a job that actually pays me a decent salary.
But, two things are cheering me up -- first off, Patrick is out of the hospital, and home, and doing much better. Hurrah! My little cold is nothing compared to what he just had to go through, and I'm very happy that he's on the mend.
Second, I got belated birthday presents in the mail! I don't know if the senders would like having their names used here, so I'll go with initials -- thank you, S. (who sent me a lovely, gorgeous Sandman book) and P. (who sent me a CD by the Orb -- and it's the one with Little Fluffy Clouds on it! Yay!) I know S., and have his email, and can thank him properly, but P., if you're reading, email me so I can lavish you with praise!
And now, I am off to make some dinner, then curl up in bed and play with my new stuff, and try to ward off the germs... *sneeze*
Just woke up... I've been meaning to write an entry for a couple of days now, but just haven't had the time. Work is insanely busy (my boss wasn't kidding when she said I would be stunned by the pile of work waiting for me after my two-week absence) and, by the time I get home at night, I'm too tired and dazed to do much more than crash in front of the TV.
My mom's doing better -- she's back at work, and saw the doctor yesterday. I still hope she gets a second opinion, because I don't trust that doctor any farther than I could drop-kick him, but that's really up to her...
Tuesday was my birthday -- 28, gasp! It turned out good, in a quiet sort of way. Got to work and found identical email cards from my mom and my aunt (it was a cute card, so I didn't mind) and one very sweet card from a reader, and a Happy Birthday email (in huge red letters) from a friend. On my way home from work, I stopped to buy cigarettes, and got carded for them (which always pleases me). When I laughed and told the clerk that it was my 28th birthday, he said "Happy Birthday!" and gave me the cigarettes for free. Went on home, and my roommate gave me a bag of birthday loot -- a set of pillowcases to match my sheets (she'd given me new fluffy pillows for Christmas), a set of wineglasses (very pretty), a bottle of wine, and two lipsticks. The day before, I had gotten a package from Joanne, which was a book and the funniest toy I've ever seen -- it's a little plastic man (he kind of looks like one of those Fisher-Price Little People, or maybe an overgrown Lego person) called Tommy Toot. (That name sounds vaguely dirty to me, for some reason...) When you blow into the top of his hat, he makes a squacky noise like a duck on helium, which is amusing it itself, but even funnier when you realize that the sound is coming from somewhere underneath his pants. It cracks me up -- and had me in hysterics giggling when I was demonstrating it to my brother over the phone, and my roommate rushed into the living room, thinking there was something dreadfully wrong with one of the cats...
So all in all, a quiet but nice birthday. My mom is planning to come to Boston to take me shopping as soon as she's feeling up to it, and the weather improves (the drive from Vermont is no fun in the snow.) I just finished reading a book Joanne sent me, (Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett -- it's hilareous) and started reading the book Sean sent me for Christmas (A People's History of the United States). Today, my friend Dana is coming over, which means I really have to go buy her a Christmas present today. (She and I never manage to exchange gifts until long after Christmas -- this year, we're even ahead of schedule, which is why I'm all unprepared.) So, I'm going to go shower, and get ready to hit the mall. Have a good day!
I hope you all had fun, and are now all sleepy and bleary-eyed as a result. I did, and I am -- spent the evening at Lee's, with Patrick, MuppetGirl, and MuppetBaby. And Lee, of course. (And I'm too sleepy and bleary-eyed to do the links, but they're both on the Links page...) Lots of munchies, loads of talking and giggling... and late Christmas and early birthday presents! Patrick gave me volumes one and two of the Buffy Watcher's Guide, which I stayed up until 4 o'clock this morning reading... well, okay, a large part of that was spend looking for pictures of Spike, because I'm sad that way. And Lee gave me my own copy of The Sims! Joy! Now I just need the computer to play it on, and so I am waiting very impatiently for my student loans checks to arrive. MuppetGirl gave me a very pretty, handmade Christmas card (which I think I left at Lee's by mistake...)
Yesterday afternoon, I employed a very effective method of warding off depression (the reason for which I'll get to in a minute): spending a wad of cash on new shoes. John Fluevog Derby Swirl boots, in this case. I've longed for a pair since I first moved to Boston, and had a friend who owned a pair -- I figure nine years is long enough, and yesterday seemed as good a time to splurge as any. (The soles have little angels on them, and proclaim me Satan-resistent! Always something to look for when buying shoes, I think...) I also found that flirting with the cute, scruffy shoe store boy cheered me up remarkably well. And hey, he has my address! (So I can get a catalogue... shame he didn't ask for my number as well...)
After the shoe purchase, I attempted to head for home -- an attempt that was thwarted by a broken-down train on the Green Line. You know it's bad when the conductor tells everyone they may as well just get off and walk... which I did, figuring that I'd just cut through the Prudential Mall (stopping in the bathroom on the way) and get on the Orange Line. I forgot one thing -- the people. The Pru was jammed with them -- and they were all of the walk-really-slow-and-stop-every-five-stes-for-no-apparent-reason variety. Arrgh. By the time I got to the Orange Line station, I was seriously contemplated whacking people with my big, heavy shoebox, just to get them to move. Finally got on the train, and headed for home, where I happily clomped around in my new boots, making a late lunch/early dinner before Patrick came to pick me up.
So. The reason for the depression. Remember, back a couple of months ago, when I talked about writing that letter to Eric? The one that confessed to him that I still have very strong feelings for him, and even though he lives far away, if he wanted to get back together, I would leap at the chance? (Well, it wasn't worded in quite that pathetic a way, but you get the idea.) We had talked about it, and he had told me that he was happy that I felt that way, but he just wasn't in any state to have a relationship with anyone. That if things changed, he'd let me know. Leaving me with the hope that he felt the same way, at least on some level. Ha. I called him Saturday night, to let him know I was back in Boston. He had told me to call him that weekend, and I know he's generally home Saturdays. He answered the phone, sounding all giddy and happy, and announced that he couldn't stay on the phone long, because he had a date over. Ouch. Okay, so it isn't that big a shock, really. I never expected him to be a hermit, pining away for me. But... ouch. I think I managed to get off the phone without whimpering, (after he said, twice, "I have a date tonight! What are you doing tonight?" Um, sitting home with my cat, thanks...) and then called my mom to cry on her shoulder (and she was logical about it, dammit!) I thought it through, and decided I just have to let the whole thing go -- I can't have feelings for him anymore, obviously, and I need to decide whether even being friends with him is doing me any good. (And I figure that it's good that he told me this time -- a few years ago, before that four-year gap when we weren't in touch, he neglected to mention he had a girlfriend until he called me to announce his engagement. A month or so after calling me to say that he wanted me to think about moving to the state he was currently living in when I got out of school. Yeah.) I had pretty much gotten over my unhappiness about the whole thing by last night -- until I checked my email in the wee hours of this morning. He'd sent me an email, bragging about his date. I don't know whether it was deliberate -- he's never seemed the type to play head games like this -- or just stunning insensitivity. Either way, it was in poor taste -- and I sent a terse reply that said "I'm happy for you, but given the fact that you know full well how I feel about you, maybe you could stop rubbing it in now." The sad thing is, I don't expect any sort of response. i don't think he'll even get it. He probably won't even notice that I was upset, and it won't cross his mind that he hurt my feelings a whole lot. Who knows, maybe he was trying to. Whatever the reason for it, it comes down to one thing: I have to let this go, and figure out whether I even want the friendship. He always was one of the people who knew me best -- and when we were dating, we were incredibly close. I always thought we were really close friends too -- though I had realized, in the past few months, that he's gotten remarkably self-centered. He's behaved in ways that have shocked me lately, and it's made me very sad. i don't want my memory of the sweet person he was to be tarnished by his current boorishness. So maybe just not talking to him, at least for a while, is the way to go. I don't know.
I'm going to go clomp around in my new shoes for a bit. Happy New Year, thanks for reading (my journal turns one year old this month! Woo woo!) and may this coming year be the best you've had yet...
(Oh, and please excuse the typos in this entry. AO-Hell has this annoying little quirk -- when I hit backspace, it takes me back to the last web page I looked at, and deletes the whole entry. It took me six tries to write this one, since I hit backspace so often. So, after much swearing and retying, I decided to just avoid backspace all together.)