I’m writing for the sake of writing. I’m writing because I should and because it’s a Band-Aid for what ails me. It’s my martini, my escape, my legal crack, my therapy. Since the last time I wrote, a great deal has changed. I gave someone very important the much-deserved boot from my life because of meaningless lies which piled up into a giant, gelatinous ball of WTF. The lies were meaningful in that they shook the trust we had, in that they had been going on for almost six months, in that they covered a lack of constant employment when we were moving in together, and in that the person who told them to me was a boyfriend of three years.
The lies were meaningless in that not a single one of them was ever necessary—even to delay any potential crankiness on my part. After nearly three years of friendship and love, after he helped see me through a monumental depression this past summer (not coincidentally the anniversary of my grandmother’s death…a woman who is largely responsible for the best parts of me), after working together, and after mutual understanding, he deemed it necessary to lie about his place of employment, fabricating lie after intricate lie to assuage his own guilt and shame at not getting his perfect, wonderful, till-the-end-of-time ideal job. He lied to me, his mother, his friends, my friends, and the rest of his family. Everyone. Then, when he lost the other job he had, he lied about a period of unemployment, about the new job he got within a month’s time, and about any number of things when he was found out.
There was no infidelity. There was no money laundering. There were no illegal substances. There was nothing but pride and stupidity, broken trust and amazement, and more lies even when the truth lay bare and exposed. Even when all this came to light, I gave him another chance, stressing that this is what couples do—if one is down and out, the other steps in and helps. There are second chances. If the other is trying and honest, the relationship survives. But in less than a week the lies began again. The overwhelming message here is that if he had been honest, he would be with me now. He says he loves me and that he wants to make it up to me, and I believe that. I shouldn’t, but I do. However, as the apt saying goes, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. In this case, the road may not lead to Satan’s cloven hooves, but rather to a dead end. Love isn’t so pretty when you keep shitting on it.
The irony is that within a week of all these continuing lies coming to light, he had not one but two jobs. Small jobs, menial, not careers, not the ideal job he lied about having for six months. (Like anyone ever gave a shit where he was working as long as it was legal). But it is work. Consistent work. All of the lies were always for nothing, but this added a layer of bitter irony to the smegma-cake he dealt me. Trust was shattered and then obliterated for abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
I miss him horribly. The new apartment feels empty and alone. I keep waiting for him to come in the door and entertain me, to chat with me, to make us happy and content outside of ourselves. Instead, I watch movies, I write, and I tell myself it’s for the best, that he did this to himself and to us. But it doesn’t help.
I’ll be okay: I was not shattered. I was not broken. But I’m a little fragile at the moment, and I’m healing, and though I’ll be fine, it’s hardly a party up in this bitch. It will be hard; there will be days where it seems as though the world is filled with ramen and bills and loneliness, but I will manage. There is no doubt about that.
But, oh, what could have been were my love and support met with honesty.