![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Sep. 30th, 2013 06:47 pmHe makes me happy.
Not when I text him and he doesn't answer. I say hello, wish his a good week, invite him to the myriad events I go to to keep depression at bay. To the parties. To the festivals. I ask him if he's feeling okay. If he's going to meetings. If he's working on his house.
Not when I sit there feeling like a fool for responding. When I swear off contact, pledge myself to a ninety day no-contact rule and break it six days later. When the fishhook in my brain starts vibrating and itching and ringing and the only way to stop it is to reach out to him. I know he hasn't blocked me. I know he reads them.
Not when I manage to get through and we make plans and he stops returning calls. When he says he'll come and then texts me 15 minutes beforehand that he's sick. Or when he says let's go to a show and turns his phone off. Or when other people ask me, "is your friend coming?" and I don't know what to say. Yes? No. Maybe. Is he alive? Yes. Maybe. If that's what you call it.
Not when I'm throw my values in the trash and get drunk with him. He returns my texts when I want to do something that's destroying him. That keeps him from living life. That keeps him stuck in some perpetual neverland where the lost boys are all green and sticky. Where his book will never see the light of day and happiness is another hit.
Not when I have to share about him in my codependency meetings. I open myself and say how hard it is to let go. How I can't put it into practice. How I am failing to take even step 1. how I scan the place looking for potential friends instead of concentrating on my own recovery. Eleven months and I'm still in the same hole holding on to someone who can't even congratulate me on getting a new job. I share the hurt and go back into the jungle to get stabbed again.
Not then.
Not then.
Not then.
Only when he smiles.
Not when I text him and he doesn't answer. I say hello, wish his a good week, invite him to the myriad events I go to to keep depression at bay. To the parties. To the festivals. I ask him if he's feeling okay. If he's going to meetings. If he's working on his house.
Not when I sit there feeling like a fool for responding. When I swear off contact, pledge myself to a ninety day no-contact rule and break it six days later. When the fishhook in my brain starts vibrating and itching and ringing and the only way to stop it is to reach out to him. I know he hasn't blocked me. I know he reads them.
Not when I manage to get through and we make plans and he stops returning calls. When he says he'll come and then texts me 15 minutes beforehand that he's sick. Or when he says let's go to a show and turns his phone off. Or when other people ask me, "is your friend coming?" and I don't know what to say. Yes? No. Maybe. Is he alive? Yes. Maybe. If that's what you call it.
Not when I'm throw my values in the trash and get drunk with him. He returns my texts when I want to do something that's destroying him. That keeps him from living life. That keeps him stuck in some perpetual neverland where the lost boys are all green and sticky. Where his book will never see the light of day and happiness is another hit.
Not when I have to share about him in my codependency meetings. I open myself and say how hard it is to let go. How I can't put it into practice. How I am failing to take even step 1. how I scan the place looking for potential friends instead of concentrating on my own recovery. Eleven months and I'm still in the same hole holding on to someone who can't even congratulate me on getting a new job. I share the hurt and go back into the jungle to get stabbed again.
Not then.
Not then.
Not then.
Only when he smiles.
