Over the past 6 months I tried and failed at the Single and Vaguely Attractive gambit. In retrospect I failed on purpose.
I was never one for random hook-ups, discounting the LD/open college years, and even then it wasn't really my bag. I ended up fucking around a couple times with a guy friend when I got lonely the summer I initially broke up with the main dude. 'Sides that I wasn't at all prolific, and remained faithful for the duration of the relationship, so I don't have all that many scalps on my belt.
Downloaded Tindr and got a shitload of matches, but didn't bother to go any further than that. I hate the new hookup culture and had no interest in strange no-strings dick, but as time went on I started exhibiting some maladaptive behaviors. Bar culture was a big part of my social life when I was in my twenties- which obviously had to taper off as I got older, being monogamous and in a relationship with a guy that didn't have much interest in hanging out with my weird artfag friends. I get along alright with my coworkers and do things with them socially on occasion, but I'm not close enough with any of them to have a shop-wife/husbando. This was a matter of choice. So when I started getting out of work and going to bars, I was doing it alone.
I wasn't even trying to get laid. I like sitting at the bar and listening. It's a very strange inclination and I know it, wishing to be part of the crowd but somehow apart from it. Purposefully went to bars where I would be younger than most of the people in there, as a safety net, but that just turned into an operation of voyeurism. Creeping on the struggles of twice-divorced Tonies and run-down Sheryls. 90% of the time I wouldn't actually speak to anyone or get involved in the conversation. Met a few handsome and bold lads and let them run through their shpiels, smiled and nodded, fucked off when I got bored of listening to their resumes. Very much felt like an exercise in futility.
Last time I went out I got assaulted by a massive, black-out drunk DJ Khaled motherfucker. He was a regular. Crowded Thursday night barroom at 9pm, he walks into the building with this ghoul of an associate, passes by where I'm sitting, puts a hand on my side and tries to yank up my dress, presumably up and over my ass. Bully shit. Keeps going, goes to the end of the bar to accost the two slags working the counter. I make eye contact and say 'No', shake my head, prepare to move on. The incoherently-drunk 60 year old welder who just got done telling me how much I turn him on gets up and goes to the bathroom. DJ Khaled sits in his seat. I put my hand out for a handshake. I say 'listen, man, I'm not mad at you, but you can't go around touching strangers. That's fucked up.' It was softer than he deserved but the guy had to weigh 320-350, a real Action Bronson motherfucker. He starts fake crying on my ass. I shake my head and turn to another 40-something vulture sitting on the other side, and realize I'm a fucking idiot sitting alone in a chum bucket with the only other two girls in radius watching and hoping something bad is going to happen. I feel very foolish in that moment. Khaled's friend starts accosting me about paying him money to 'see something', and out of the corner of my eye I can see fatty feigning punching me repeatedly in the head. YGWYFD, I suppose.
I stayed longer than I should have, but only because I didn't want him to think I was afraid of him. Finish my drink on my own time, get up. "Good night, sunshine!," the bar wench crows as I give her a big tip and smile like I just had a great time. Everyone watches as I get up and have this guy follow me out to my car. Nobody says shit. I had the foresight to park it in plain view of the forward windows. He gibbers at me incoherently. Asks me where I live. I get in the car and go home. Can't even say I'm upset, just weirdly numb about the whole thing. Probably because I realized it was only a matter of time before my stupid shit got me exactly where I could've expected to end up.
While all this is going on, the boy has been coming over once every couple of weeks for a glorified booty call. I would look forward to it all week. For everything that happened, nothing cheered me up like the idea that he would come over, have some dinner, and then a full evening of chilling the fuck out watching videos and movies and listening to music. The sex was good. I keep it under wraps and mention it off-hand to one coworker, and in less than 2 days just about everyone has brought it up and off-handedly mentioned that they hope I'm fucking with a condom, because I'm a fool if I think he's not dipping his wick elsewhere. This is the part where I effectively stopped speaking to my coworkers about anything related to my personal life and I believe it is something I will be maintaining in perpetuity.
As you can imagine, it ended up exactly how one might expect. He moved back in two months ago, and we made it exactly 72 hours before I had another meltdown on him. 4 months and nothing was different. It felt like going back in time. He came home to a banshee. Now that it wasn't just booty calls I was presented with the exact same scenario that had me kicking him out in the first place. Finally, finally, after 6-7 years of pleading/nagging/harrassment, he goes and signs up for his sleep study. I don't think I ever mentioned but he has SEVERE untreated sleep apnea. It was the reason we slept in separate bedrooms. The reason why I would be shaking him awake at 10pm because he's gasping like a dying fish. The reason I would freak the fuck out about watching a man's marked cognitive decline happen 20 years before its supposed to happen. I sincerely believe it is the reason he has no ambition, no drive, no energy for anything other than hanging out.
I hope the shells have finally fallen from his eyes. He's down to 70% oxygen saturation overnight and has wake-up events 90 times a fucking hour. Even living with it as I have, didn't expect it to be that bad. It's crippled him. He can't move to fix the things he needs to change because he's literally too fucking exhausted to do so.
A few years back I posted a horn-tooting and masturbatory bit about the growth of relationships over time. How I remained close to the appeal and comfort of making life with your man work for better or for worse, because we 'had crawled out of a hole together.' I realize now that our lives were not nearly as intertwined as I wanted to believe, and that our trajectories were not the same. I crawled out of my hole, or can at least pretend I'm halfway there. He's still stuck in his.
The guy needs my help. If I ever loved him, it doesn't matter if I don't truly see the truth of who he is as a man. If I kick him out he would be exactly where he was when he first moved to this country. I would be putting a sick person out on the street or telling him to run back home to what family is left to him.
It doesn't even matter if he doesn't love me like he used to, or I him. It doesn't matter if I'm losing precious months or years for the lost cause of our impossible ideal relationship. The guy took me in when I had absolutely nothing but the priveleged cushion of my background to hold me up and trudged on for 10 years holding my hand while I bounced off fucking walls. He supported me the only way he knew how, with the little money he had left, until I finally had enough and stood the fuck up for myself. The roles reversed and now it's my turn. Even if it's just the act of a friend.
We'll see what happens once he's on a machine. There's a lot of things that need to happen from square one. Not putting a timeline on it. I guess I'll end up keeping you guys posted.
