I went to work Monday with a spring in my step, knowing I only had to get through a few days before I was on vacation and jetting off to my island getaway. I mentally started planning my days off; shopping for travel stuff, how I would enjoy my quiet time on the flight, what I would be the first thing I would do when I arrived and if I would have daily spa treatments and cocktails or if I would go for walks too. I was feeling better already.
On Tuesday afternoon I was called into a meeting where my manager handed me a letter.
It was a notice that there was a disciplinary meeting the following morning at 9am to discuss my “poor work performance.” I knew there were a few things I should have done faster than I had over the last few months, but I had been pulled in so many directions and had so many urgent deadlines I had to let something slide.
I had now caught up on these tasks and felt the meeting was a formality and I would be able to defend myself.
In the meeting the next day I was faced with not only what I expected, but also a laundry list of allegations about my poor attitude and unwillingness to help particular colleagues, as well as overhead instances of disrespect for our illustrious leader (The Narcissistic Misogynist – see last post).
They had actively sought out bad feedback from a few people (who I know to be sneaky brown-nosers and should have stayed away from) and I was humiliated when I was asked to explain myself in the meeting.
The meeting did not go well. I held my emotions together for the first half hour, but after that I could contain them no longer. I was exploding with frustration and the unfairness of it all, which poured out through the tears I could not hold back.
I asked if they bothered to collect any positive feedback. Of course not. There was tonnes of that, which outweighed the bad a thousand fold, but it did not serve their purpose.
The emotional fallout was devastating. If I had the financial resources I would stood on a desk in the middle of the office, told them all to go fuck themselves and left forever.
But I don’t and I’ve just paid for a non-refundable holiday that I badly need.
So I sucked it up and was a good girl for the rest of the week. Obedient and quiet, smiled at everyone through gritted teeth and vowed never to trust these assholes ever again.
Do you ever feel trapped in a life you’ve made for yourself that you don’t now how to get out of?
I made it through the week. I confided in a few close friends but all I really wanted was The Toolman. I knew if he had been there he would have been blindly, unwaveringly loyal to me and comforted me. All I wanted was for him to hold me and make me feel safe and loved. I wanted him to cuddle me as I cried and to tell me I was wonderful and beautiful and that those pricks I work with didn’t deserve to have me around.
Which is what he would have done. Provided it was a Saturday morning and he had an opening in his schedule.
To say I am feeling rejected and unwanted in this world is an understatement. I know my emotional state of the last few months is not good. But there is nobody rushing to my side to support me. Once again, I realise all I have is me.
But who am I? Am I really a bitter, ageing divorcee who is unpleasant to be around, difficult to work with and unworthy of romantic love? How the fuck did that happen?
In a weak moment I looked at some pictures of The Toolman on my phone. I had avoided that during the last few months because I knew it would make me cry, but as I nostalgically looked at them, I saw the love in his eyes, our smiling faces as we took stupid couple selfies. He had loved me. And I hadn’t noticed.
Am I so brash that I trample people’s feelings underneath my feet without even realising?
I feel like The Toolman loved me and showed me in little ways but I didn’t see it. I was too busy looking at the things I didn’t have. And I didn’t allow myself to feel the love I had for him, out of fear.
My life experiences had proved to me I am unlovable and I didn’t think he would love me either. I didn’t believe him when he showed me, and told me, he loved me.
So he got hurt and so did I. I don’t usually have regrets, but this might be one.
I hadn’t heard from The Boy Next Door and that was fine. He had his own shit to work out and I sure as hell wasn’t feeling very sexual. Violent? Yes. Sexual? Not so much. Unless he had offered to be my literal whipping boy, I didn’t care.
I gave myself a rest day on Saturday. I got supplies from the grocery store and settled in to binge on movies. Suddenly, out of the distant past, a message from The Mystery Man.
What the very fuck?
The Mystery Man snap-chatted me to ask how I was, and what my plans were for the weekend. Eventually he got around to telling me he would like to see me.
“After all this time? I’ve had a whole relationship since I heard from you last!” I laughed at him.
He told me he had travelled extensively in the last year and spent some time back in Europe with his family. Another little boy lost. Who can’t quite forget me, as I had him. Whatever his name is.
I read back over the blog post about him to remind myself, and wondered if maybe I could do with getting high and having another ridiculous time with him. At least he made me cum a few times, unlike The Boy Next Door. The temptation was real.
Eventually I told The Mystery Man I had plans that night (I didn’t, unless you count horror movies and chocolate) but maybe another time. He told me he hoped so and would be in touch. Whatevs.
When discussing relationships, a friend recently told me “they always come back.”
That had been true for me on so many occasions. But the only person I wanted to come back was The Toolman.
It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t going to happen. But part of me hoped it would.