If there’s one thing I should have learned about myself that I haven’t is that I often get delayed responses to things. No surprise since I do certain things by the seat of my pants, like getting a tattoo the day after I’ve drawn it for example. In this case, it’s The Frenchman. Yes, him again. I’ve been feeling fantastically low for a good few weeks now and it’s not letting up. I think it kicked in properly when I was feeling ill and spent a whole day crying like a demented baby. Since then, it’s come in waves. Today was a bit shit, really. Things like listening to music, any music, is disgustingly horrible, but I still do it because, well. It’s music. And I can’t live without it, which is why I’ve got music stuff incorporated into tattoo number 5. I’d love to share pics but I can’t because…well. Anonymity and all that malarkey. Even the fact that it’s my birthday tomorrow and I’ll hit the big 2-9 is just….meh.
What didn’t help, was that I met with The Ex yesterday. Since we’ve missed each other at a mutual friends’ last couple of gatherings by an hour or so and we’ll both be going to a christening next month, I thought it a good idea to get the first meet out of the way instead of doing it in front of everyone. It was fine. We had a drink and a bit to eat. He’s doing well, still with his girlfriend and apparently less on the coke, more on the gym. It wasn’t particularly awkward, though he did bring up ‘us’ a few times. But I sat there, opposite him and thought, I spent 9.5 years with you…how? There were absolutely no residual feelings on my part, which was good, but all I could think about was The Frenchman, and how their qualities were so different. This feeling I have now is way deeper than the regret and sickly ugh-ness I felt after The Ex. And I didn’t like that. Nor did I like the fact that as soon as we walked into the pub, ‘Lights Out, Words Gone’ by Bombay Bicycle Club came on. It’s a song that made me cry the first time I heard it, just because I think it’s beautiful. And all that was in my head was lying on a hotel bed, listening to it in Toulouse with The Frenchman. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard it played anywhere at all.
I hate this about myself. I hate that I feel things way later than I should. I hate that things might have been different if I’d have voiced my concerns before throwing my toys out of the pram. He’s since told me that there was no conspiracy for me to not to meet his friends. The first few times he wanted to spend time alone with me and the last time, they were busy. It was a major bone of contention for me and perhaps, if I’d have just said, I’m not happy with this, I’d have made a different decision.
I dunno. I miss him, a lot. And when he comments on my Facebook update leaving a trail of kisses in caps, it really hurts. For the first time, I can understand why people choose not to to keep in touch with exes, because it hurts more than it helps.
Oh well. As Freddie Mercury said, show must go on.