No Time for Exes, Fixes, or Complications
How I decided to love myself a bit more by cutting off access to exes on both ends, holding myself accountable, and embracing being a bit of an asshole.
I am no romance expert. Life coach I am not, and mental health guru I ain’t. In other words, take this as the opinion piece it is. If you’re seeking peace of mind, a wake-up call, or a means of being left the hell alone by a certain demographic, I’m the middle-aged gremlin you’re probably looking for.
Don’t get me wrong: I love love. Seeing stories of people reuniting and feeling so good after a time of growth is wonderful. It can be inspirational, but I don’t see myself in that kind of scenario. When it’s over, it’s usually just that. I want to move on with my life. I don’t think I need to look back. When it comes to fate and I, the winds of change usually push me on a path of advancement. Did I learn the lesson? Will I make that choice again? Will I forget that hurt? Has the experience matured me? Looking back is the kind of stuff I did in my twenties. I thought I was being open and mature by letting time heal wounds. I didn’t want to come off as a closed-off jerk who was cynical and bitter for no reason. But alas! I left myself wide open to crap, complications, and bored exes. By my late twenties, the tune changed drastically. Value, reflection, maudlin poems, and Tumblr did a number on how I began to see myself as both a woman and a human being.
If you choose to lay down the finishing blows to break my heart, why should I let you back in? If you decide to come sniffing around me because you’re bored, I’m familiar, and your days are numbered — why should I be receptive to being used? I suppose that because of how I look, I’m supposed to settle out of desperation, right? Nah. Give me enough money to have a ranch house, food, and utilities so I can be a happy and alone cat lady. I will not play second fiddle to low-tier shenanigans!
I’m in my late thirties. My ability to have children has passed, I am who I am, and the past men in my life need to stay where they are. If they’re bored, I suggest dabbling in a hobby. If they’re wondering about me, they can circumvent being blocked and check out my boring Instagram. We don’t have anything to talk about, nobody needs to wish me a happy birthday/holiday, and life goes on. I want to conjure up a new, healthful, positive romance to last the rest of my life. I’m asking for happiness, not over-the-top fictional mirth. Respect, not settling with somebody who sees me as a target.
Breakin’ All The Rules
So let’s break a personal rule. I try not to write about any of my exes. I don’t want to mention them, all the pics have been deleted, and the social media blocks stand so that they can’t rustle up a conversation to mess with me. Once again — the need to connect dissolved years ago. It dissolved when one decided that he was done talking to me, but wanted to stick around and lurk on social media. So much for friendship, right? After so many years of off/on complications and text message thesis statements. Why was he in my world? Out he went because I put him out. Seeing him randomly try again made me cringe. Was it commentary about the poetry book? Belated condolences for Nana Ellen? My BS radar went off regardless, and I was super good about not referencing it in cryptic social media texts. (I failed this test in the past, he bit the bait, and we fought digitally. FUN!) I wasn’t going to give him the power.
Remember that — don’t give them the fu**ing power. It becomes an immature song and dance, quickly.
I don’t regret the poetry book. I don’t regret any poem I have written, because it helped me heal in time. I purged myself with those poems. Just like my little sadness lists helped me to work through things during the first time I was dumped. I worked it out with Prince, Mariah, Amy, and Remy Shand.
If he valued my friendship and acted like a real friend, I doubt that there would have been a need to reconnect in the first place. There we were after years of icy silence, playing catch up. I was happily taken but very open to having an old face in a new light. It jabbed me a bit when all of a sudden I’m getting ghosted and he has nothing to say, again. Unlike the sobbing idiot baby 20-something, I moved on. If you don’t value me, you don’t need to be around me. You don’t need intel on me. I’m a non-factor, right? Silly me, trying to be friends with everyone. Trying to have some kind of collective love-in to prove to the world that even those who’ve crushed me over and over get a seat at my table. Stupid.
When he tried to contact me recently, I deleted messages from two numbers he texted from. Thesis statements that were more than likely full of crap. Whatever those texts contained, my radar kept telling me he was laying it on thick to get on my good side. A sob story, self-depreciation, and the usual string of guilt-inducing phrases that would have made 20-something Veronica reflect. Barf. Complications I would have fed into, upsetting myself. My blood pressure is high enough. I’m old, I’m an ass, and I have other stuff to do. Blocking is easier than engagement. Whatever was going on in his life, it was none of my business.
When I was younger, I played that common game of checking up on exes. A dumb, curious, and hurtful game that gets you nowhere. Another rule — what the hell’s the point of checking up on them? Stop it. It’s weird. This is why blocking is essential. It’s none of your business how their life is going without you. With some folks, when they know you’re watching…they put on even more of a show. Save the drama for reality TV.
Maturity in Marietta, Neglect in New Rochelle
Another ex bought me the office chair I’m sitting in right now. How do I describe him? Do I resent him? When I got support from a gifted third party concerning the mysteries of his actions, taking a step back to protect myself felt right. He was yet another former complication from my 20s. To call him “mysterious” is an understatement. A popular, unusual man with a highly erotic nature. Once sent to screw with me ages ago once an internet paramour wanted his sick kicks, we ended up in some off/on again long-distance tango that never really went anywhere. With him, I didn’t mind the flirtations and the likes. There was something about him that was metaphysical and mature. He was the Blerd of my dreams, but also the desired harem king of a lot of beautiful women. I was…”Yum-Chan”, but felt like a frumpy-faced disaster low on his list.
Puffin Cat (a very unoriginal nickname I came up with because I was super into a show on YouTube, and thought he was just as adorable…) and I got into some lewd pic exchanges and nerdy conversation. It was hard seeing him be friendly on MySpace with other girls. We fizzled and I didn’t get a hard feelings vibe from him. It was just weird how he popped up after a certain amount of time. I learned how to block emails, numbers, and social media accounts by then. I was very much into saving myself, but somehow he got around it.
He’s not a bad person, but his method has a bit of a sinister vibe. He would emerge from the digital shadows in such a way that made it seem like he was always there, whether he was following me or not. Aside from being called “interesting” by him, I never understood just how I fit into his world. I surely didn’t seem to make much of an impact for him to get up and come see me. Was I really someone he could love, or a pathetic piece of meat he went looking for between sessions? Why was I so open to him versus the men in my own area? He was different from those men, but not necessarily better. He was receptive to who I was, and I believe that’s what made him interesting to me. I could be a geek and a weirdo. I could be my lame self. I felt accepted by him. Where I lived, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I kept wishing he would change some things and just come see me.
It wasn’t until my dad and I had a frank talk about men in their 20’s that it all made sense:
“Men are hard-wired after a point in their 20’s. If they want to change something or do something big for you, they will. Because they think you’re worth it. Otherwise, they will not. You cannot change a man. They are who they are.”
Well, ouch…but, good to know. It ate at me. The insight of other men also made it clear that sometimes men aren’t even into you, but just want to see if they can pull you. When they’re done and bored, the moment has passed. Gone again. You’re catching feelings, they’re…doing guy stuff and having meat or something.
Again, ouch.
Not exactly the kind of stuff to make a woman feel good about herself. Not exactly the kind of stuff that makes you want to be an open person. I’ve been very open and vulnerable with a chosen few…and this is how I’m repaid? Cue 808s and Heartbreak. I’ll pop in some earbuds and write maudlin poetry. I wrote it back then but also resorted to farming on RPG games to blast the pain away. A lot of it had to do with my choice of men, but I wasn’t ready to quite face that just yet.
My latest ex knew the score. An older man who has gone through a lot in his life. A cut-off is a cut-off is a cut-off. I respect that and am thankful that he was so done with me that I’m a non-factor and horror story over chicken and booze. A distant memory between DnD sessions. A clear-cut “fu** that bitch” while laughing with friends over an XBOX Live session. I don’t bring him up unless I’m asked. I don’t ever have to worry about him and hope his voice-over and cosplay career are both going well. I miss some things about him but have accepted our time for what it was. He made a mean taco salad. I miss parts of where he lived, because it was an interesting little place. I was a geeked tourist seeing Williams Street and the CNN building in person. I went to conventions and saw the very beautiful Yaya Han in person. Nothin’ in this world like fries from the Marietta Diner at 3 AM.
To avoid the unforgettable spikes of his sharp tongue, I will leave it all at this — he woke me up about that whole “girls look for men who’re like their fathers” thing. I love my dad, there’s nobody like him, and I only have room in my life for ONE spicy Capricorn fussing at me. I’ll take Ronnie David, please, and thanks!
Puffin’ in The Pit of Catastrophy: Dopamine, Regulations, Resolutions
With “Puffin Cat”, there’s always this hint of falling into the pit of adoration too soon. He’s smooth in a way that makes conversation blossom into “something”. In the seasons of our light switch encounters, I’ve always felt like an idiot when the embers cool. How could I have fallen so quickly over nothing? WHY was I falling in the first place? In the back of my mind, I knew that he wasn’t willing to take a flight or a train to see me in the past. He had plenty of beautiful options nestled in that gorgeous little piece of New York. I was nobody.
I had to make up rules to protect myself from his words. We could be cool, but I wasn’t going to let myself sink any deeper than friends or flirtatious pals. I wasn’t going to let his words create feelings where I was thinking of a future. It was so easy to conjure up a future because he reminded me of my father so much, right down to the zodiac sign. I’m a sucker for Capricorns. Blerds boil my potato, and a thick-bodied man is an ultimate turn-on for yours truly. Yet even as I called myself protecting feelings and ideas, I found myself wanting some kind of place in his life. His world. For frack’s sake, he bought me a chair.
He was mostly harmless, even though some of his social media posts reeked of the “good guy always mistreated” thing. I hate that in a guy — good guys didn’t have to announce it over and over. He didn’t do that a lot, but how long was he going to hold on to crappy exes and friend-zoning girls who did him wrong? Was I one of them? Could I even be seen as an ex? What is it, anyway, about just being friends that guys cannot handle? That has always seemed so weird to me. I know what it’s like to be on the other side of that — outburst and all — and I just got over it. I lost a friend in the process, but it made me realize the selfishness of not appreciating wonderful people in your life. Everyone can’t be a lover. When I found myself stuck between fighting feelings and wondering why he kept coming and going, in came the wise Jervae with a message so clear that I woke up and smelled about 40 cups of soul java at once:
“This is how they regulate their emotions. Like looking for dopamine hits, surfing from channel to channel.”
Ooooh. No. NO.
Didn’t like that one bit.
I get it — I’m built like a giant teddy bear with boobs. I scream “mothering type”. When I’m not rockin’ out to Prince songs, gracing the Internet with saucy pictures of myself in lingerie, or writing filthy fantasies on…accounting social media, I putter around with coffee in loungewear. I encourage the youth on TikTok to be themselves. I birdwatch, create crappy digital art, and bake goodies. I’ll be the first one at the love-in with cookies and herbal tea. I want to hug children, pet cats, and sing softly to parakeets. If not for my poorness and PCOS, I would probably have about six kids. Mother-type, wife-type, Pisces Moon softie…
But aye, there’s the ol’ rub — people like to depend on that loving, mothering nature I possess. Because other women have been cruel to them, have used them, or dropped them. “Better” women. I guess, kind of like when that lady in the EnVogue video smacks ol’ dude and walks away. In my lamer pick-me (ish) days, I vowed never to be that woman. I’m not saying go around using men and dropping them like trash for no reason, or create the next generation of bitter podcast alpha-whatsits….but some men really are emotional vampires due to past mistreatment. Mothering complexes. Crappy exes. Impressionable statements from barbershop BS. Hell, I know I’ve got my own pile of misgivings.
Dopamine Damnation: Use Her, Lose Her
Dopamine. Like…er…to feel good? How do I make him feel good? In the regulation of emotions, it wasn’t like we were having deep conversations. Maybe sharing videos in DMs. Maybe short commentary. Endless likes on suggestive photos. I guess it mattered because of our so-called past. I didn’t appreciate being used as a temporary go-to, because I dared to think I meant more to him. Dopamine — a hit of reward-based feeling. Get a hit, get your fill, and split. Nice.
Getting to the point, once a person calls themselves understanding my persona and character, it can be a comforting drug. Familiarity. When “better” don’t want you, lonely old dreamer Veronica will be at the lighthouse door with coffee and blankets. She will be waiting, dressed in something earthy and frumpy, softly telling you to come in from the storm. Right? No tooting of horns here. I don’t feel good about being somebody’s bottom-tier emotional regulator. When they’re done, they change the channel? That’s just like me watching a whole Golden Girls marathon on a Sunday morning, and turning promptly at noon when Mike & Molly comes on to move on to another program I like. (No shade to that show, but I have never been into it.)
The thing is, I have friends who come and go. I can understand being single with options, but not in these specific terms of changing channels like I’m a part of his saved list. I have friends who technically aren’t in my life, and don’t buzz around me “like that”. I care for them dearly. I don’t feel used by them. Life happens and a lot of them don’t use social media as much. I have long-distance friends who have my entire heart. As soon as teleportation is a whole thing, I will absolutely be beaming up to link up. I don’t mind what we are, because I don’t feel like I’m being made fun of or set on a dusty shelf until next time.
Because of the long conversations, the sensitive photos, and the information I have given “Puffin Cat”, the exchange and intel are much different. I was not only hurt, but I felt like a fool. That’s what I was reduced to? That’s what I meant to him? He didn’t deserve me.
I didn’t bring it up to him. I wasn’t going to start drama and get into some DM thing. I’m tired of making big things and raising my already high blood pressure. I’m tired of wasting fast typing hands on people who really don’t deserve the vocabulary or the dedication. I blocked him across the board. I’m super thankful for my chair, but his subscription to my channel has been discontinued. Regulate your emotions with a therapist! Work it out through art or something. Write in a journal. I would expect this kind of nonsense from a kid in their 20s, not some mature dude in his mid-to-late 30s. We are the same age, friend.
In terms of accountability between the sexes (and those who do not gender identify), here it is: If I’m owning up to what I do, now’s the time for you to do the same. No need to report to me about it. That trick is done. Learn to value people in your life. Stop collecting folks to make up for something you lack. Watch what you say, stop laying things on so thick.
I say to myself — stop having so much faith in people. Stop being so nice, so warm. I like to seem cool and approachable, but all that “you’re different than the rest” crap often blew up in my face. I was being tested and would eventually fail. I’m not a perfect little healer — I’m a messy maiden with fuzzy locs and anxiety. I can be warm and friendly, but also a hot-ass disaster. I have my own set of baggage. I’m not trying to put it on anyone else and would hope others wouldn’t try and stick it by my door.
But alas, here we are.
I’ll Be Moving On…
When I took a step back, it reminded me of my dad in his 30s. My dad is an amazing person, but he had a lot to work through after losing my mother. He had to do it again after losing another longtime girlfriend. When he tried to connect with other women between that, it ended up being some kind of Rolodex thing. He wasn’t a runaround Sal, but when he ended up marrying one of them, I think he woke up. It was a terrible year that wrung him dry. It created a rift in our relationship that didn’t really get resolved until my 20s.
Coming to terms with himself, getting healthy, and eventually beating the early stages of cancer shifted everything. He eventually found somebody who made him happy. I’m happy to see him with his lady right now. When he took time to figure out his life and what makes him happy, there were no dopamine fix hunts. The channel changing stopped. He was looking for someone to match his energy. Somebody to be happy with. He felt a little cursed because the special women in his life either died or fell ill. He’s been by his current lady for a while and has seen her through some hard times. He’s been there for her as she has been for us.
I can’t expect that from Puffin Cat. My dad’s journey was his own. It was sacred and deep. It’s not my job to look for it in Mr. PC. I have no place to enforce it, and I hope that he finds what he needs in life to get there. I’m not going to be a part of that experience. I’m not sitting here looking for somebody to tell me I deserve better. I know I do. I can hear my other ex telling me that because of my age, I need to wake up and realize that Prince Charming isn’t coming. I stopped looking for him ages ago. I’m either getting the love of my life or not. Life has to continue in the meantime.
I would like to be with someone who values my friendship, my loving personality, and what I have to offer as a compliment to who they are. I’m not looking to complete anyone. I’m not amazing enough to heal the wounds of exes, mamas, friends who friend-zoned you, or dates that dissolved. I am but one imperfect city slicker living in a small Tennessee town who works a humble 20 hours a week evaluating ads. I’m not a metaphysical healer. Hell, I’m still working on my own spirituality. I don’t need empty validation and essences of my past mucking up the self-esteem I’m still working on. I can love with all my heart, and I intend to give my all to the right person.
I don’t appreciate the fact that any ex of mine sees me as nothing more than some kind of pushover access point to feel good. For all that trouble, each one owes me fifty bucks in my CashApp for every emotional sin. It’s easier, I think, to just leave me the hell alone. You don’t want anything!
What I have…whatever it is…is reserved for the people who care about me.
Nostalgia is reserved for my childhood and teen memories.
