Anxiety? Insomnia? or Denial?

I hate getting older. With age comes mammograms, insomnia, anxiety attacks and I think maybe loneliness. Or maybe the loneliness, the anxiety and the insomnia are part of the hang over from my last relationship?

I haven't been able to sleep. I have so many things on my mind. Ok. I'll be honest,  I have one thing on my mind, Michigan. It's like I'm waiting around for him to call me, want me, text me, remember me...and why? He hasn't in MONTHS. You'd think by now I'd be over him. Over waiting. Over hoping. But clearly, I'm not. And I really don't quite understand why I'm so attached. The fucker lives 10,000 miles away. In the year that we were...oh I don't know what you would call it....together?...involved?...talking?...acquaintances?....whatever, I have seen him twice. ONLY twice. So why is it so fucking hard to let go of him?  My first thought is that maybe I just don't know how to end relationships. While I do know that there is some truth to that last statement given the whole Fuckface debacle, I did, in my defense, have two relationship between Fuckface and Michigan. I was able to let go of those guys just fine. So what's it with Michigan that makes me feel like I can't breath every time I confront myself about cutting all ties? It's not like I see him in everywhere I go because he was everywhere I'd been. I don't have to worry about running into him at the grocery store or at the bar. I don't have to avoid certain restaurants, movie theaters, stores, bars or golf courses because they incite sentimental memories. It's not like my family, The Wolf Pack or my kids have met him, love him, miss him and now ask about him. In fact, my mother recently told me that she always forgot about Michigan. She said she'd never met him and even doubted if he existed. Can you believe it?!? That fucking cunt actually had the nerve to half-heartdly joke that I "made him up". So what is it? Is it a matter of habit? Did I underestimate just how emotionally retarded I am? What gives? So the other night I made myself sit down and think about it. I now know what it is.

Michigan made me feel safe. He made me feel protected. He made me feel like he would always be there to take care of me. Like I could finally rest my weary head on someone's shoulder. In all my life, literally as far back as my memory can take me, I have NEVER felt safe or protected. Not even as a child but that's a story for another day. For as long as I can remember, I have always had to be strong, self protect and develop an incredibly hard outer shell. It's exhausting living that way. Never letting your guard down. Never fully resting. Keeping everyone at arms length. Building walls that are taller, thicker and stronger. At 37 it has left me tired - emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually. I've never depended on anyone. And I think because I lack the ability to trust, because I'm always questioning people's motives, I think it's left me with a broken 'picker'. I think it's why I always pick the wrong guy. The kind of guy that, even if I birth their first born, they are never there for me...or their kids. I've always had to be the mother and the father. I've had to be the 'man' in the relationship. The one who faced responsibility and took care of everything. Who left emotions at the door so I could better make decisions for the good of my family. The one who sacrificed. Every. Single. Man. I have been with has been not only undependable but they have also been spineless. Men ruled by their emotions. Helpless sacks of shits with penises. Michigan was different. He gave me a sense of peace. A sense of security. I thought that for once my future was looking up. I thought I hit the lotto. That my ship had finally came in. I've always wanted a man who was like my dad. Michigan was the closet thing to my dad that I've ever come across. And that's the problem. I never knew what it was like to feel secure, protected or safe. Now that I've had a taste of it, I'm addicted. So how do I move on? How do I live without it?

I know Michigan isn't the one for me. My life was not meant to be with him. As much as he is like my dad the truth is, my dad would never have treated my mother the way Michigan has treated me. I can replay all the sweet things he said but there is no denying that he is not good for me at all. As of lately he has been flirting with me. Asking me if we're over. He has regrets and hopes that our chances haven't ran out. Keeps telling me how much he cares. How much he misses me. How much it hurts him to not be with me. In fact just tonight, he told me something about how he thinks we will grow old together. Yet in all of this he has failed to step up and either a) commit to working it out with me or b) walk away and leave me the fuck alone. I've confronted him. I've told him the ugly truth and I haven't held back. I've told him he is slowly ripping my heart out. But he hasn't stopped. So now I'm at a loss. A loss of sleep, appetite, clarity, peace and happiness. Tonight I am struggling with the need to confront him with how much his recent decision to go on a last minute trip to Vegas when he wouldn't go on the trip we planned has hurt me.  I take his apathy + bailing out on our trip + his constant recent expressions of affection, in spite of him knowing it's killing me + going to Vegas and all I want to do is tell him that his recent choices have made him toxic. That it is time I walk away. That I can't handle him chasing me when I know he isn't ready, or fuck, even wanting to catch me. That he needs to leave me alone. But is that the right answer? Am I being overly emotional? Or am I just merely clinging on to hope looking for a way to not have to do the one thing I know I need to do but can't?

Peace, Love & Baseball,

P.S. I've never believed the excuse he gave me for not going to KC with me. So I waited a while and decided tonight I would ask him about his assistant. If she was ok after her fall that left her dancing with prospect of surgery. He repeatedly asked me about what I was talking about. That he didn't know anything about her falling. Then about after a minute, he suddenly remembered that she did fall and hurt her ankle but decided against surgery because she didn't want to deal with it. I don't know about you but it sounds like I was right. That the whole fucking story smells like one big fat steaming pile of horse shit.

"I Have Cats."

It's always the same. I'm at the bar, drinking a beer with the Wolf Pack, laughing, talking about extraordinarily inappropriate shit, when some douche bag just HAS to come up and start talking to me. I get it. I'm a relatively attractive chick with really big jugs. I also understand that when a dude does come across a relatively attractive chick with really big jugs who also happens to be talking about beer (REAL. FUCKING. BEER.- none of that bullshit Blue Moon, Stella Artois, Shiner Bock shit...but real fucking craft beer), baseball, blow jobs, squirting and the other joys of sex...that most dudes understand that they have pretty much stumbled upon the ever so elusive "Holy Grail" of chicks...the equivalent of a Caspian Tiger, down at the local bar. I smell their fear. I can see the apprehension, the excitement, the utter disbelief that they actually found a cute chick with big jugs who likes beer, baseball and sex in their eyes. They've all heard chicks like me existed but for fuck's sake they didn't actually ever believe the urban legend. When this happens, I do my very best to avoid eye contact no matter how distracting or loud or sometimes just down right retarded they act to get my attention. I don't give in. I stay focused, focused on making sure they know I want them to leave me the fuck alone. Most dudes pick up on the "go fuck yourself" vibe. Some don't. Sometimes, they try to engage someone else in my group...sometimes, just sometimes, they actually have the balls to step up to this little loud, foul mouthed, big titty bitch. When they do, it usually goes down like this:

Douche Bag: "Hi, what's your name?"
BBC: *completely straight faced* "I have cats."
DB: *look of sheer confusion* "Er...uh...so...um...do you come here often...??"
BBC: *without breaking eye contact* "I have cats. I dress them up....wanna see pics???"
DB: *dazed, confused*

And what'ya know, before I turn back around with my phone in hand ready to show them pictures of my itty bitty kitties in costume, the douche bag has left...no where to be found.

This happened again tonight. My mother was part to blame for indulging the cheese dick who had locked in on my tits like a missile on it's target. Had she just kept her trap shut and let me shame him when he said that he not only didn't have time to watch baseball but that he was also a Doucheback fan, everything would have been fine. But she couldn't. After an hour of drunkingly babbling on and on about how he was a reformed bad boy who didn't like baseball he finally had the balls to ask me what it would take to get my number. Since telling him I had cats didn't work, I decided to tell him that he needed to challenge the R.A. Dickey douche bag look-a-like in the Dodger hat at the end of the bar in a duel to the death. If he won, I'd gladly give him my digits. I don't know if was my request to kill a man for wearing a Dodgers hat or my half English, half Spanish 30 minute rant on how much I hated the fucking Dodgers that eventually scared him away but whatever it was, it finally seemed to work.

Why can't men just leave me the fuck alone?!? *Sigh* Well, at least my dad got a good laugh at my expense.

Peace, Love & Baseball,