It’s weird how I keep thinking about things. Or, to rephrase that slightly so as to actually make sense, I am thinking about certain things that I haven’t thought of for a long time, but suddenly they keep rushing into my head. This is a recurring thing with me: when something bad happens that is pretty much entirely my fault, I start thinking about every single other bad thing that I can remember for which I have either been singularly or partially responsible. Trust me, that’s a lot of stuff—and that’s just the stuff I remember, which I’m sure is maybe 2% of the grand total of horrible chains of events that have been my fault.
Of course, in spite of all these random painful memories shooting through my brain, what I mainly think about is the badness at hand. There’s very little I can do about it now, at least for the time being, but my mind is constantly plagued with the things I could have and probably should have done differently to save that vague illusion of a relationship. Or even to improve upon it. I didn’t, though, and it’s too late to dwell. But dwell I shall, because it’s what I do.
I think it all boils down to a lack of commitment on both of our parts. She wasn’t ready for a mature relationship, and I guess I wasn’t either. I thought I was and that I was just playing along, waiting for her to be ready. But I was lying to myself. Also, I was harboring inappropriate—and perhaps misplaced—feelings for another person throughout pretty much the entire course of the relationship. In the beginning, I was using her as an escape from those reluctant feelings.
So I could have strained for more commitment. I could have been more serious about it. But it would have been selfish, and it would have been bullshit. And, goddammit, if I’m going to seek refuge in self-destruction, I’m not gonna bring her down with me. She didn’t deserve that.
Then the inappropriate lusting after someone I couldn’t have and really didn’t actually want dissipated because she moved to a different state and, as a result of a wide variety of indiscretions, we are no longer on speaking terms. After that, I tried to be more serious and more committed. And less paranoid. And it didn’t work. And she broke up with me. And I deserved it. And I know that.
But still…I don’t want it this way. I’m straining to say what I should have said to her, but I can’t say it now and I couldn’t say it then because I don’t even know whether or not it’s true. I’m an idiot. And I’m bad at relationships. And I have commitment problems. I’m like 95% of other guys on the planet. Fuck, I try to move on. I try to hit on girls who I think I’d be interested in. They’re always married. I don’t know how that happens—they look so young. And every time, I’m too fucking stupid to check for a ring before I start hitting on them.
I started working on my novel again. I do that every time things are going badly in the women department, so needless to say I work on it frequently. It’s also really bad. It has no focus, no direction—it’s a moebius strip of the written word. Doesn’t start, doesn’t end. Just words. Meaningless words.