Last year I wrote a poem. I titled this poem “New Years Revelation” and I’m sitting here just 2 weeks before the end of that “new” year, laughing at how ironic that poem has now become.
The poem went a little something like this..
Maybe the real reason for leaving
Was you
As much as I want to not admit the truth
As much as I want to hate you
As much as I want to sweep it under the rug..
Home’s supposed to be whenever I’m with you
But you were with me
And it didn’t feel like home
So deep down I left home to spite you
Now I’m no longer with you,
Not home
And I try
And try
And try
To lie to myself
And tell myself
These arms feel like home.
I know, pretty lame right? I’ve written a lot more since then and this poem sounds like a joke when compared to everything I wrote after it. Even when compared to that one poem where I call to the “queens” and ask for some good dick. Regardless of the, (in my opinion) laughable comparison, it was real and exactly how I was feeling on January 1st of 2018.
Let’s breakdown this poem so I can give you the real story behind it and so it’ll hopefully be easier for you to understand why it’s become ironic.
Sometime in the spring of 2017, my crazy ass sees an an old friend of mine crossing the crosswalk of an HEB with a white girl. It had been almost 2 years since he left a box covered with blue scotch tape on top of my little green banged up Ford Ranger. On the box was his number and it said, “text me if you want to talk.” It had also almost been 2 years since we last spoke.
I saw him with this white girl but didn’t even in the slightest take into consideration who that white girl might have been to him, proceeded to roll down my window and yell his name. I yelled it with such certainty that he’d be just as happy to see me. He approached my new(ish) car with confusion as to who exactly was yelling his name.
I’m just sitting there in my Ford Escape with the stupidest smile on my face like, “Yoooo. It’s me! Blah blah blah. How have you been? We should catch up!” He just stood there, not as happy to see me, with that same old frown on his face. Regardless of the lack of happiness in seeing me he so obviously expressed in his face and posture, he asked for my number.. Claimed he didn’t have it anymore.
See, I didn’t care that he was trying to act like he no longer had my number, the only number I have ever had in my life, the number that he would text to reach me consistently from different phone numbers for 6 years. I didn’t care that he wanted to act like we didn’t talk for almost 2 years because he just so happened to lose or forget my number and not because I simply stopped responding. I didn’t care because I really wanted to catch up with him, because I thought he was the love of my life. I missed him.
I didn’t care that he was already trying to hurt my feelings and almost instinctively scrambled in my car looking for a pen and paper to write my phone number down on. I probably looked desperate. I think I was desperate, desperate for what I thought was passion and love? Maybe inspiration? Possibly peace of mind?
Let me save you some time. I did not receive any one of those things from this brief reunion. I did however, move to a whole new city to avoid ever running into him again and as the poem states, “to spite” him.
You’re probably asking, “How exactly are you spiting him by just living your life?” Exactly! How can one just living their own life be considered a way of intentionally trying to hurt someone else?
It’s not until recently that I’ve come to my own conclusion and I had to come to my own conclusions when regarding what went on during those 6 years. If it were up to him, he would keep me hanging on, continue to play games with me, and never ever give me the honest closure I needed to move on.
I came to the conclusion that all he really wanted was to control me. Although he did in fact have an emotional hold on me for 6 years, I would always back out when he would hurt me. I’d tell him, “we should just be friends”, because I value friendship so much and I don’t ever want to give up on anyone.
I stopped writing and continued in early September of 2019
6 years. 6 years of lies and manipulation. 6 years of mind games. 6 years of weird phone calls from random phone numbers. 6 years of answering the weird phone calls and not hearing a single response from the other end. 6 years of sorry’s. 6 years of “illnesses”. 6 years of uncertainty. 6 years of obsession. 6 years of toxicity.
It took me 6 years to finally realize that trying to understand a sociopath, a pathological liar, a monster, would get me no where. It took me 6 years to finally get angry, come to terms with my reality, and walk away. It took me 6 years to realize that hmmm.. idk? Maybe all of it was a sham from the beginning.
That’s the irony guys. I titled the poem “New Years Revelation” and I literally spent 2018 and some of 2019 realizing some pretty tough stuff. Like for example, sexual abuse or any type of trauma as a child, can resurface later in your relationships in some troubling ways. That no matter how much time you’ve spent in the mirror trying to make yourself believe you are enough and worthy of the normal healthy perception of “LOVE”, you find yourself putting up with 6 years of bullshit. You find yourself about to forgive another asshole who body shames you. You find yourself panicking when someone actually wants to have a normal thing like a ~relationship~ with you. You find yourself falling for the guy who put an expiration date on whatever the fuck that was going on between y’all.
So,
*confidently raises shot glass
here’s to revelations and not knowing what the fuck to do after they’ve been made aware to you.
*takes nasty ass shot
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