Turns out, I’d rather have my teeth drilled by a dentist than have a relationship with one. Well… one in particular. He’s not very nice.
It took me awhile to figure out what was going on. My natural tendency is to expect the best of people, cautiously. Knowing I have lots of my own character defects, I often try to figure out what I’m doing wrong when I see bad behavior in someone else.
I’m still not quite sure if I have an accurate analysis of the situation, but I’m very sure that he’s thoughtless, and I don’t have room in my life for that right now. I tried not to take anything he did or said or didn’t do or say personally, but as I shoveled myself out of my house yesterday, and four of my neighbors offered to help, along with my coworker who lives down the road, I couldn’t help but silently curse the Dentist and his fucking 12 acres that back up to my neighborhood and his quad which couldn’t seem to find its way to my home.
The story may not have had the impact it did if it hadn’t followed an evening of obvious and hurtful stinginess from him in the bedroom, where I asked nicely when I would get my turn. He said he needed a nap first, and I acquiesced, but upon waking, he seemed to have forgotten about the entire incident. He then followed me out to my car, which sat outside his empty 3-car garage, covered in thick snow. He watched from the warmth of his doorway while I cleaned it all off and drove away. My exit was pre-plannned and not done in spite, although I was quite angry by that point.
I begged for a phone call the next morning so we could discuss it. I just wanted to understand what happened. He reluctantly called me, but had no answers and wanted to hang up. He said he’d call me later.
Instead, I got the silent treatment.
I hate the silent treatment more than just about anything in the world.
My suspicion is that the disease of alcoholism has both of us in its ugly grasp. Neither of us were the drinker, but both of us are just as sick as our former spouses. I don’t know if it makes a difference that I have a program and he doesn’t. His behavior took me right back to a very bad place I haven’t seen in awhile.
It’s hard to let go, because I love having someone so close to do things with, and I was looking forward to having a date on Valentine’s Day, which I haven’t had in years. I guess I will be watching tonight’s big game all by myself, as well. But a little loneliness is better than the insanity of wishing someone were not at all who they are.
Enter, Stage Right… the Belgian.
Last weekend, I sent the Belgian a short text after another let-down from the Dentist. I missed the Belgian – I have been missing him. I wasn’t expecting a response, and I felt a bit like a fool for sending it.
My former European lover responded with a 20-minute phone call in his sexy French accent and with words put together in poetic sentence structures undiscovered by American men. I hung up with an invitation to Europe this summer, and an explanation that he thought he could not give me the things I wanted, and so he let me go so I could find it.
And I believe him.