You are just another thing I've yet to fathom

This is one of those 'bleech' moments.

GV8 texted me to see how I was doing. Which is cool because I see no reason not to be friends, so I'm glad that he was comfortable enough to do so.

I text back with news my friend's suicide, and we start talking about emotions, how hard a time I have letting go, how I've only truly let go the tight control I have on my emotions twice (first, when Rick broke up with me, the other during sex with Riot of Tattoos, which continues to be the best sex I've ever had, because he was so rough he completely pushed me over the edge) in the last six years or so.

He basically told me I need to grow my own emotions.

Several people have, in the last two weeks, inferred that I am some sort of robot. I'm getting mildly tired of it.

Interesting to note, was when I did not respond to one of his texts right away, sent sent a "Well, gee, I guess I'll try later, when you are not so busy," text, which is very, very out of character for him. I looked at that and determined that he is more affected by our split than I expected (which I expected him to be completely unaffected by it, honestly).

So, out of nowhere, he starts talking about why we aren't seeing each other anymore.

This, this is something I don't need to discuss. Basically, what is going to happen is that I'm going to fixate on it in my head and blame myself for not being more aware and socially adept enough to notice that I did something to bother him.

The relationship we had is over. We never committed. I don't need to know why we slid apart, I just know that we did. It happens.

But he starts texting me about why he decided we would not work out and I had just finished a crying spree about Bradley's death (I basically walked in the front door of the house and lost it, nearly out of the blue. I'm glad it happened, because I needed to cry, but I pulled myself together before I could truly reach the height of the emotional release that I needed because there were things to do, errands to run, people to help.) and then he started telling me how I, in my view, basically failed him. Failed to observe him. Failed to understand what was important to him and what wold bother him. Failed to be the best I could be for him.

That's how I see it.

Because if I was more aware of how I come across, more aware of other people's needs, more aware of individual quirks, body language, and the subtle clues that word choice gives, I would have noticed that something was wrong.

And I did notice. But I was not aware enough, apparently, or experienced enough, to determine what it was. And I was not so sure he was aware that something was off, so I did not ask him.

And I should have.

I failed. I failed to live up to my own expectations of myself, I failed to be aware of him as a partner.

And, sure, one could say that he failed to communicate to me that something was wrong, that I was doing something that made him uncomfortable.

But I was aware that something was wrong, and I did not act on it. I hoped it would iron itself out, so instead of addressing it directly, I let it slide under.

And I know so much better than that.

I'll put the text messages up here later, when I have more time. Basically, it reads that I was not respecting him. Not in the typical way, either. Apparently, it was not in person that I displeased him, but my actions when he was not around.

I do not know what those actions are yet. We are going to talk about this later this evening, on the phone, because he's busy now and exchanging the amount of information we were, on the topic we were, through text, was annoying and not good.

But, apparently, I did something while he was not that reflected poorly on him.

Which wouldn't matter, if we hadn't been starting to think of a (open) committed relationship. But since things started shifting that way, he took my behavior to be a poor reflection on him.

I still don't know what I did.

I suspect, though I am probably wrong, it was my one-night stand with Mr. Brush-off. Or maybe he found this journal and did not like the way I wrote about him.

...I really don't know. I can't imagine anything else. I just hope that, whatever it is, it does not make me feel terrible about myself, about being the person I am. I think I'm a good person (doesn't everyone?), I think I am considerate of others. I try to always be polite, try to respect other people and their opinions, no matter how foreign to mine they are. I'm there for my family and friends the instant I am needed. I'm rarely late. I have a decent (though certainly not great) job, and I'm pursuing my education and the future I desire. My wardrobe is decent, my body continues to be a work in progress, but there is significantly obvious progress being made.

What could I be doing wrong?

Was it the "sugar daddy" jokes? Hell, he tried to take me clothes shopping and I ended up only letting him buy me two things because I just couldn't reconcile with myself the idea of a man, no matter how rich, buying me so much. I've done nothing to earn it. Sex? Ha, I'd be doing that anyway. Why pay me for doing something I'm quite content doing for free?

Was it the references to his sordid past?

I'll know in the next hour or two.

I just wish it didn't make me feel so bad and doubtful. I know that everything I've listed here will not be it because I was able to think of it. That's the way it works. It's always something I haven't considered, something so left field that doesn't even enter into my vision.

I was okay with it being over. A week later, and I was hardly thinking about it, rarely moping.

And now we're talking about it, something he brought up without stimulation from my end.

Which could mean one of two things:

1. He wants me to know what I did wrong, just to communicate, just to justify to himself what happened.

2. He wants to get back together, in some capacity, and this week of absence is to make me aware of how much I may want him. Then we'll talk, I'll hear what I did wrong, and then I'll be aware of it and adjust my behavior accordingly (assuming it's something I'm willing to adjust, which it should be). And then we'll continue doing whatever, but with no discussion of a future.

Which is okay.

Not the most flattering, but I need to be single anyhow. He was having too much impact on me, and this week has allowed me to see how much. I think I'm going to enforce a "once every two weeks" rule with future guys, just so I do not allow myself to get so time- and mentally-wrapped up in any of them. I need to focus on me.

So we'll see what happens.

Maybe this is a, "Good-bye, I no longer want to be friends" conversation.

Who knows?

I'm sure that, afterwards, I'll be up here again, furiously typing, expelling from my mind all the confusion and emotion I'm experiencing in order to understand it all.

This keyboard... any keyboard... it's really the key to me. I'd be lost without this, this words drain from me like tocins. It lifts me, makes me lighter, reminds me of who I am.

Albert Camus had a great quote on that. If only I could remember where I left the book that contained it.

Good to be out of the rain...

"Oh, I do have some news for you."

I'm lying on my side on C's futon, phone resting against my ear. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"Bradley killed himself."

The name doesn't register. I flip through locations in my head, of his various social groups, and I cannot remember any Bradleys at the bar or coffee shops.

"Bradley? Bradley who?"

"Bradley. My little brother."

A quick intake of breath as my stomach drops, numbness starts growing and my eyes start to fill. Even thought it's a stupid, stupid question, I have to ask, "Did he succeed?" hoping against hope that I misheard his words, that due to static or a temporarily dropped connection that he actually said, "Bradley tried to kill himself."

He lets out a ragged breath that echoes over the phone line, "Oooh yeah, he succeeded."

"What happened?" I can't imagine that the bright young man I knew would kill himself. My brain is flooded with time spent, with conversations and laughter. I'm suddenly struck with the hope that I kept the little plush Scotsman he bought me while on vacation in Scotland. He was my favorite of my ex-boyfriend's three brothers, the one I had most looked forward to calling my brother-in-law, the one I most wanted to see grow up, to see him find the woman he would one day call his wife, knowing how amazing she would have to be, knowing the friendship we would share.

I listened as Rick told me the events leading up to Bradley's suicide. Of how he joined the army, was sent to Kuwait, then eventually Iraq, where he was stationed at one of the worst places to be, and how, a week in, he put a bullet in his brain that didn't kill his body, only his mind. Rick spoke of how his little brother's squad was able to keep the body alive so it could be moved to a hospital in Germany, and how he and his mother flew out to be there when they pulled Bradley off life support.

He explained that's why he hadn't returned my calls, that the last month had been overwhelming and he called few people back.

He mentioned that, under instruction of his sargent, Bradley wrote an "In Event of Death" letter a few weeks before he died, and what an amazing thing that had been for all of them, reading it.

He spoke of how difficult it has been for him, how little things have been setting him off. Giving him the sniffles, he says. In the years we were together, I only saw him cry once, when his mother and I surprised him by flying her out here for his 30th birthday, having him walk up behind him at his birthday dinner. They've had a strained relationship for years, but he still loves her.

It's hard to imagine Rick upset, hard to imagine him grieving. He was always so strong, so in control, so steady.

It's hard to imagine Bradley getting to the point where he could not stand to be where he was, and could not see any point in the future ahead of him.

As we talk, I find my usual strength in shoving away the emotion. I will acknowledge this later, I tell myself. This sense of incredible loss, I can do nothing. I will not cry, I will not allow myself to think on this too strongly because there is nothing I can do besides grieve.

And I will. Eventually.