The cat came back the very next day,
yes the cat came back,
we thought he was a goner
but the cat came back.
Well fuck.
T’was not a cat. That would have been alright, or really weird since I haven’t owned a cat since 2009.
Although I did have a cat that left me for 3 weeks and came home, all beat up, right about when I gave up thinking I’d ever see him again.
Why does my life have to be one giant metaphor?
Probably because I make it that way.
I see all the parallels, the history that repeats, hear every crackle and skip of the record as it spins round and round one more time.
Then one little thing will be different and I will think I have broken through some gateway to the other side, just to spin around once more.
A 35 date rule would be better/safer. Not realistic though.
My ex came back. Not the very next day.
To be totally honest, when I was younger, his less than majestic exit would have been one of those big turning points and events that I would have committed to memory. But I don’t know. Chalk it up to the fact that if I wanted to I could scroll back through messages and put dates to things. But I don’t wanna. My patience cup is empty or too full. I can’t remember how it works.
Over it.
It’s been less than 2 months and more than 2 weeks.
I didn’t want him back. He needed to hit rock bottom and I was the cushion he kept crashing into on his way down and or pulling me under with him. I forgot for a while, that my natural state of being is to float.
I was so relieved when I heard he had finally gone far, far away after a horrible bender, during which he lost his damned mind. Forgot who I was and hurled horrible accusations through my phone. I was scared he was going to show up at the house. And now, as he returns, so does the fear. That sharp, acidic flux in my stomach like a phantom punch. Fight or flight. There will be no freeze and my feet are planted here.
Irrational behavior begets rational fears on my part.
I have been through EXACTLY this before. Bad break ups, exes finding out where I moved to and showing up on my doorstep in the rain, wind, snow, ungodly early or late, never an announced afternoon pop by. Always finding me groggy and unawares. The end result always the same, making me change the locks one more time.
It isn’t a romantic gesture like in the movies.
Boys who don’t understand the word No.
He went away to get help. Then decided 2 weeks in that a 2 day bender was a better idea. Ended up passed out on a front lawn. Came to cussing and fighting and biting the hands the feed him. This is nothing new. He tossed gasoline at matches on the bridge he had to me.
Way to skid along rock bottom.
Now he is coming back here to nothing. Which was the name of the cat that came back by the way.
Aaaaaand I’m back to not sleeping the night through, listening for scratches at my back door. I know where the baseball bat is (Swing away Merrill, swing away*).
The fire poker is off the hook and lives once again by my bed. Phone must be charged and in arm’s reach at all times. I’m back on high alert.
In the interest of not being home, I went on a date last night. With a guy who has been gently asking me out for a year.
Told him about the 3 date pact I have with Panda. No boys knowing where we live until after the 3rd date. He said I was smart not to let him pick me up before we had met. I chuckled because of my current orange alert regarding the last one that made it past the 3 date rule.
He said he understood but I don’t think he knows how dangerous it is to be a girl.
How could they?
Once we are out the door we are fair game. Like gazelles on the plains, safer in groups but barely.
Safer at home but not when your past threatens to kick down the door to your present.
I have been through this before, I know the precautions. Spent yesterday fortifying the door with the longest screws I could find.
I know what I have to do.
I’d rather not have to do it.
(* M Night Shyamalan, Signs)
