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Having Made My Bed...

Like a lot of posts hiding in my archives, this one will never have seen the front page of the site. It will have languished as a draft until I release it into the murky depths of the archives. That way, it's part of the overall story, but without being subject to quite as much public scrutiny.

I know I made the call. I know I know I decided it was time to move on, but it still hurts like hell. I expected that, even after the three years of waiting for him to warm up again, and the many, many months of trying to accept that he wouldn't (couldn't) and that’s just who he was and he was right in the first place. But there's lingering hurt from all the waiting and all the wanting and all the nudges and touches that were never reciprocated. There's pain about all the failed efforts we both made to care more about the other one's passions. Pain, pain, pain, sadness, pain.

The pain that’s keeping me awake tonight comes from his total lack of reaction to the Big Talk. To be more accurate, it was more of a big, weepy breakdown of mine that was met with an impassive handful of words from him. There was a quick hug with a fairly cool "it'll be OK" the next morning, but that’s been it. I hope he's talking to someone, because he certainly isn't letting me know how he feels about it.

But that’s just been part of the problem all along. that’s why I’ve felt so lonely. He doesn't like to show his feelings with confidences or with physical affection, and I don't like to mask my feelings with food or books.

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