I have been a bad blogger the last couple months. Truth is, I haven't had much to write. As I stated in my last post, things with The Writer have been difficult lately. Because of that, my life has not been as exciting as one would hope. And... we are through. At risk of sounding like a callus bitch, I'm not one bit sad to see him go. That's not because The Writer is a bad person or he screwed me over in some grandiose way. But more that I regret spending the first three months of my last year in my Twenties, trying to make it work. I feel that my time with him was wasted time. All of that energy and time I invested could have proved to be more worthwhile put into other places. The concerts, parties, hiking trips and activities I missed out on with my friends. The poker nights at Sister's that I didn't go to. The nights I could have been experiencing LIFE and have something to write about in this blog. All the nights my poor ailing dog spent alone because The Writer refused to come to my apartment. I shudder. Why?
I can say that for me, it was over when I realized The Writer wasn't bringing much of anything into my life. I staunchly believe the best part of a relationship is immersing yourself in one another's passions (while keeping individuality, of course.) It started out that way. I brought him to concerts of bands he'd never heard of and introduced him to the creativity of vegetarian cooking. He brought me along to industry events with his writing and let me be the first to read some of his drafts. Eventually though, he decided he didn't like doing "my things" and also started making less of an effort to share his with me. Our relationship literally came down to me putting off my desires and responsibilities to watch him work. A little too late, I came to the conclusion that he added little more than the physical presence of another human being.
It has been a good while since I have felt connected or bonded to him. I picked up on this right away. My first thought about this was "Uh-oh." I thought for sure, he had just worn out his welcome and my interest was waning. Then, through my misguided attempts of amateur self-therapy, I got to thinking that maybe that's what healthy love is supposed to feel like. Maybe the fact that he wasn't on my mind all day, every day was actually a good thing. Sitting around obsessing and willing the phone to ring certainly isn't healthy. So when I'm relieved to not hear the phone ringing, that's healthy right?
I now know these feeling that I had were a sense of growing up and maturing. For the very first time in my life, love is not a priority. I simply do not have the time or the will to deal with anything or anyone getting in the way of meeting my goals. I feel smart and proud of myself for finally getting what everyone has fucking tried to tell me all along. So in every sense of the word, I am relieved. I cannot even express the amount of weight that I feel has been lifted off me. Reading back on all of my previous, whining posts, I see that giving so much of myself in the last Twenty Nice years, hasn't gotten me very far. I am looking forward to being selfish for a while. I hope that one day, a handsome and bearded gentleman who is passionate about his passions and supportive of mine, will come my way. Until then, I am a bitch with a mission and need a clear path, free of obstacles. Thankfully, The Writer is one demon I don't need an exorcism to be free from.
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