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Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Men and Me


What is it with me and men? Either they die on me or I push them away. I’ve had a fight with my Friend-Boy, and it may cause an irrevocable rift in our relationship. We both said things we shouldn’t have said, did things we shouldn’t have done, and now I am lonely and missing him.

He has a right to be mad at me, and I have a right to be mad at him. It’s just that I want to make up and he doesn’t. Shit.

I had a session with my therapist this afternoon, and she, who takes no prisoners, says she thinks we will be okay. I don’t know. Since Clint died, I have not been the strong and centered and self-confident woman I used to be. Oh, I’m making a comeback, but this is just so hard.

I don’t want to go into details, well, just because I’m not ready to share them with anyone except my therapist, but I will say that it is ugly.

Not fair to tease my readers? True. But I need to share my feelings with those who care about me, and I will say that he and I are not sexual; we are truly friends - without benefits, at least not that kind.

I am giving him space and hoping for the best. And as much as I want to believe that we will weather this storm, I am still afraid of losing him. See what I mean about men and me? I have lost so many men, starting with my father at the age of six, followed by my brother at age 12 and another brother ten years ago and ending with Clint’s death last June 10, at 6:33 PM, and after all that loss I believe I may have actually caused another one.

I’ll tell you a little bit about my Friend-Boy. He’s a retired physician; he was Clint’s physician until he retired. Our relationship goes back years, thirty years. He is funny and intelligent and well read and very metro - a rarity in Macon-Fucking-Georgia. He makes me laugh.

Here’s an example: When I am depressed, he does things like calling me up and asking to speak to Sylvia.

“Ms. Plath, take your head out of the oven. This is the gas company and we have turned off your service, so take you head out of the oven and meet me for dinner.”

We are both Pink Panther Fiends, and we speak Pink Pantherese fluently. I have been known to call him up and say, “This is Officer Bardot, but you may call me Brigitte. How about a little stroll through the Bois de Bologne?”

Thank God I finally got a job.

I miss him. I really do. (Sob).

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