Life goes on. A simple phrase, yet one of the most important three word phrases in the English language (I love you and go fuck yourself are, by far, more important in my view). It’s a source of hope after very bad things befall any one of us – a thing to cling to when there seems to be nothing else within reach. But that climb out of whatever nastiness you find yourself in can be a bitch and a half. And once that’s over, once the credits roll on that part of your life and you’re ready to begin anew, what happens when a main character from that story-arc returns and tries to find their way into a sequel?
Ain’t life grand, in a fucked up sort of way?
Recently, as in the past few days, I received a message from someone I do not like. At all. It’s really a hate kind of un-like. The kind with bloody, fiery, pain-filled images that fly through the mind’s eye when even the mention of their name occurs. Yea, it’s the perfect fractured fairy tale. Ain’t I just the fucking luckiest? I get all the best unbridled hate, don’t I?
Short version is I was blamed for something so not my fault. And as a result, a (seemingly) endless stream of attempts was made by Fucktard (I give the best pet names, I know) to bring me down, down, down. I hate admitting they eventually worked – for a time. See, there came a point where I started to believe the bullshit Fucktard was shoveling. Remember that whole Richard Gere/gerbil story? So do I. By the way, whoever came up with that shit needs to be taken out back and handed a shovel. Just gross. Moving on now…
Then one day I woke up and realized that I wasn’t being dragged down because what was being repeated ad nauseum was true; it was simply that the mean, cruel, untrue words were thrown on an endless cycle. Repeat something enough and you begin to go along for the ride, no matter how strange or out there it might be. Think religion. Yup, going straight to the burning place for that one. Good thing I'm an atheist.
Anyway, once I finally was able to pull myself away from the situation long enough to see the untruths I had been barraged by for years, I allowed myself to be good and angry. Scary pissed. And I condemned Fucktard to the point he cried into his cheerios (actually they were fries; the joys of McDonald’s catered humiliation). It felt good. The kind of good you feel after a nice fuck. Yes, the meanness was cum-worthy. I’m evil. It’s my thing.
Once I reached that point where I was able to make Fucktard fall harder than he had ever made me (go vengeance!) I was free to move forward with my happy little life. And I did. There were plenty of other things to do besides feel at fault for something I had no reason to feel at fault.
Then just last week, one the one year anniversary of the night angels cried, Fucktard contacted me for the first time in months. But this time, there was no cruelty to his message. In fact, he wanted to make amends. I listened, of course, because it’s what I do. It’s a rule of mine: always hear them out, even if you’re just going to walk away once they’re done. After all, once in a blue moon, I can be convinced by an argument made by a self-centered, former inner-circle friend. Not often, but in a world where fake penises can be made from ivory and dead men can raise from the grave without the urge to feed on brains, anything is possible.
As I listened, my memory was flooded with simple, easy and happy times we shared. We were at one point in time very good friends who had been torn apart by one’s backstabbing hobby. No, not mine; I only front stab. No fair if they don’t see it coming. But I digress…
Yes, there were good time back then, but it was the bad ones that pushed furthest forward in my mind. While I didn’t feel that good old anger burning a whole in the pit of my stomach, I didn’t feel the polar opposite either. I felt… nothing. Turns out, with all the moving on stuff going on, I’d hit don’t give a shit. Not only was I over the whole nasty ordeal, I no longer had any feeling about it, or him, at all.
Empty me can be scarier than emotion-filled me and Fucktard understood this. But on this day, it wasn’t true. Weird, eh? I thought so, but didn’t question it. I simply told him to lose my number and hung up. Simple enough, right?
Sometimes it is possible to go back to the way things were after a falling out, even those really bad, nasty, painful ones. Just ask Elf Lord. After years of not speaking, he took that step and apologized. And I believed he meant it. And what do you know? I was right to trust him and take him at his word. And seeing as how he was there for me on the anniversary of the night angels cried, I am very happy to have done so.
Then there’s a case like “friend” who has not and probably never will attempt to mend fences. And if he did… I don’t know what I would think, though I can say honestly I would not want to accept any sort of apology from him. And I doubt it’s something that time will change. What I would say and do if he, along with various others, tired contacting me will most likely remain a mystery, and that is a mystery I am perfectly happy never having answered. And yes, I felt the same about Fucktard, too; if he had not called, I would have shed no tears over the whole situation.
Sometimes, no matter how close two people were in the past, there is no way to reconnect in the present especially when so much hate separates the two points in time. There was a time that I would’ve done anything for Fucktard but after what he put me through, the only words I had for him were go fuck yourself. But now, after that glorious day at McDonald’s, I have nothing inside for him. He’s simply dead to me