Through the tears and the chokes, she said that she’d hit rock bottom.
What’s rock bottom? The person you wanted returns your affections, you have a good job that you enjoy, the people you love are close at hand… What’s missing?
You take trips into the city to indulge your consumer whims, to the cinema to take in the latest in pop-culture fodder, to his house to snuggle in bed and rinse and repeat. Life is a game. You talk aspirations and do little to further them, but if that’s your choice, what’s missing? What’s missing that concerns me?
Why do you call me? Do you respect me so little as to defy my one request? All I asked was that you not contact me. You agreed. You have a boyfriend, cry on his shoulder, lean on his goodwill. And yet…
Is it because I don’t want to be my father? Is that why I coo comforting words into your ear? Make promises I know you’ll forget? Is that why I’m a pushover, a mat to be trampled on the way in the door to clean one’s soles? Are you truly this broken up by your lack of company, the dearth of constant stimulation to which you feel entitled? Is this my fault? Should I have stayed, despite my instincts, pushed myself to accept the two of you together, to revel in your union despite my misgivings? Is that what I could have–should have–done to avoid this, to seal your insecurities behind the wall of a convivial charade?
I can’t do that. I can’t sacrifice myself like that, pretend that my emotions bear no worth, no strength. I can’t be a toy, I can’t be a plaything for someone to enjoy and then toss away. It’s not in my nature and I’m proud of that, but it’s hard to watch you in pain, to know that I have a hand in causing that. It hurts me, too. It makes me upset at myself, depressed in my manner, and angry at you. Angry at the person who made me such an important part of her life and then shut me off, kept me from doing so with her, in turn.
No. That’s not accurate. She was an important part of my life, ‘s true. It’s that such investment was taken for granted and snubbed that draws my ire. And that is why, when you call me crying, I whisper false promises that I wish I could believe.