I don’t know if I’m being a savior or a little shit.
I sit across the table from Prepdude.
Same beautiful blue gaze.
He holds my hands in his. I feel the chemistry, but know not to fall for it. But I can’t leave him alone right now, I just can’t.
I was with him for almost three years, I can’t just walk away and let him die alone.
I was busy running victory laps over my revived music career when the brief message entered my world. But come it did, and once again I am amazed how a single sentence can change things. And I probably should have just said no, should have just let him figure out his own issues. But this is life and death, and I can’t pretend I don’t know. I am more than a little frustrated, there are no easy answers here, and for the gatrillionth time, I wish for a how-to manual for my life, do this, don’t do that, watch for the third step because there’s a loose board that’s going to kick up and smack you in the face, that sort of thing. But we never receive an owner’s manual for life, in spite of the vast need for one.
Therefore, I am at a loss for what is the right thing to do. I don’t even know that I asked anyone’s advice, my usual modus operandi, and possibly something I should have done, in retrospect.
Prepdude’s friend had been calling me intermittently since the breakup, to remind me that I was missed and boy, wouldn’t you like to give this another try? I don’t even know if Prepdude was in on this, if he was having him call, but I kind of doubt it, he wouldn’t have wanted me to know that he was struggling when it came to all things Monica, that he still wanted me back, that he was depressed and lonely and… I did love him when we were together, though in our relationship I was a forgotten toy on a shelf, there when you want it, neglected when you don’t, an unwitting appendage to be used at will. This was the guy who couldn’t be bothered to drive the twenty odd minutes to see me when I was in the too-bright emergency room, doubled over with a mysterious searing pain in my side. So why the hell am I here?
Because I still love him. I always will, in a way. Not the go back to him kind of love, but I most definitely care if he dies. And as silly as it may sound, I don’t want him to die alone.
Prepdude needs brain surgery.
The tears were instant and prolific the second his friend told me. This guy, who keeps asking me to reconnect with Prepdude, has finally discovered the single solitary event that might actually cause me to do so.
So, here I sit with the man I once loved, hearing all about the surgery he will have to undergo. They have to remove a cyst. He had surgery to repair this fifteen years ago, long before I was around, a surgery and recovery that turned out to be spectacularly traumatic. It’s back, and though they have a better solution this time around, it still involves cutting the skull open and poking around in gray matter the texture of Jell-O. And I can’t handle the idea of him thinking he could die alone.
I’m going to make him think we’re possibly going to get back together.
Is that shitty? Maybe, but I don’t want him going into this situation by himself. I want to give him the strongest will to survive he can possibly have through this surgery. And if he doesn’t survive, at least he exits this world feeling not alone, having love in his life even as he winks out. If he lives, well, I’ll deal with that when the time comes. See? Little shit, I am.
We talk about the breakup. I ask why he didn’t tell me about his checkered past, his affair and ensuing extra child, the length of time he lived with his mom and dad. He says he was embarrassed, and I feel nothing but compassion at this point, my own halo banged up, tarnished and hanging askew off an ear, a blaring testament to my own fuckups. Though I never did cheat. I always considered it an extreme betrayal, connecting your lips, and body, to another then pretending nothing happened to your significant other? How do you do that? How do you not tell? He knows how, yet I see no guile in his wide eyes today. Which may mean he’s just really good at lying, though I suspect he’s learned some serious life lessons since his past indiscretions. If I can change, why can’t he? I extend this grace to him, not enough to permanently return, but enough to walk by his side through a dark place, until tunnel exited, he is safely in a green meadow again.
I’m pretty sure this was a codependent move on my part, but it’s nevertheless what I did, and what I did is the tale I tell, so I shall commence.
We talk, and reminisce, and before you know it hours have passed and it’s time for me to go. He kisses me gently, and I know he’s no longer the same person, and neither am I. He’s broken, and I feel terrible for having been part of what broke him. I go home still feeling ambivalent, not knowing if I’m doing the right thing. I still don’t know.
I meet with him a few more times before his surgery, he’s excited about the possible reconnection. I allow all of this. Get him through the tunnel, honey, just get him through the damn tunnel.
Then he has this ridiculously high-risk surgery. And his friend calls and informs me it went well. Good. I’m very happy this worked out for him, that he can live a normal life.
Weeks pass, he recovers well. We communicate, albeit intermittently. I know I can’t stay in this, I just couldn’t handle the idea of him feeling he was all alone going into a life-threatening surgery. So shoot me.
He is finally in the meadow on the other side, and I make the inevitable phone call, and explain to him though I will always be his friend, it really isn’t going to work this time. I can’t unchange who I have become, the progress I’ve made since our breakup. I know in my heart I would never date him now, I’m getting to know the real me so much better, and this is absolutely Mr. Wrong. Good chemistry and cerulean eyes notwithstanding, I know he’s a terrible match. The algorithms at any dating site would give us a big fat goose egg in compatibility, and I finally realize it takes so much more than just chemistry, more than PLEASE touch me now!!
Feeling a bit sad and a thousand years old, I drop the phone back on the table, difficult conversation concluded, knowing this hurt him, but hopeful for his future, major surgery solidly in his rearview mirror. My bizarre mission is accomplished, he didn’t have to fear dying alone. Life is weird.
I’m such a little shit.
But at least I’m my own little shit.
I think this little shit is ready to do some cool shit.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 