You Are Here/ You Were Here/ Welcome Back!

My best friend is no longer single.

I am still single.

My therapist thinks I'm doing the right thing.

I have just called Mannykins and explained to him the replacement therapy that I'm undertaking in order to keep from texting or calling the Chipmunk whenever I feel the sudden urge. When I explain it, I explain, "I realize what I'm doing when I'm about to do it, but then it becomes this obsession. 'I can't do it. I know I shouldn't. But, I can do it. I will do it. It doesn't really matter. I miss him. I hate myself.' And it creates more anxiety. That anxiety causes more obsessive thoughts about it and, soon enough, I am derailed and given into the frustration of self-loathing." I tell Manny that I'll be texting and calling him whenever I think of the Chipmunk. Manny tells me it's OK. He knows where I'm coming from.

In case I forget, Manny says, "I'm a bit of a texter myself." I try not to noticably scoff at his gross understatement.

Therapy is essentially me verbalizing to a professional everything that I already know. My therapist says to me, "When you're talking, you come to such clarity of mind. You are more self-perceptive than most people. You're so sensitive to things that you've got at least six senses. But I've never met anyone with such a lack of follow-through."

I concur, "My lack of resolve is amazing. I am amazed by my own inability to do."

Apparently, I'm beset on all sides by fear. I am the opposite of a risk-taker. I am such the opposite of a risk-taker that I perceive risks where there are none.

I also second-guess everything. Especially, the right things that I do. I am wont to second-guess the right choice. It's like a disorder. For ten minutes of therapy last evening, I considered getting another bicycle, a newer one or one that reminds me of my old bike. The bike I had when I was thirteen.

When I get to work today, my best friend "is in a relationship" according to Facebook. Immediately, I "like" it. I actively like it. I like it, as an action. What used to be a six hour work day turns into a nine hour work day by 12:30 p.m. My friend is in from out of town for a couple of days and we have a date to catch up and be Chatty Cathy's with one another. All I can think about is how I have made an appointment with my dog to walk him when I get home from work. I keep reminding myself that, because of the whole lack-of-resolve thing that I'm trying to conquer, I have no choice but to do it. Already my mind is racing considering the way the night is going to play itself out. If I think about it for another ten minutes--which will really be another seven hours--then I will work myself into an emotional frenzy and, by the time I get home, I'll be exhausted, physically exhausted, by it all.

Last night, the Chipmunk texted me that he felt like it was a "real break-up this time."

I wrote back, "It is, sweetheart."

I wrote back, "I know what I need and you don't have it to give me."

He texted the response, "It feels like it's the end of a fully-developed, real relationship."

What he's saying is that what we've had is anything but real. What he's saying is that what we've had has lived its course and, even though it wasn't real, it was fully-developed. What he's saying is that it's over.

I wrote back, "Goodbye."

I wrote back, "Please don't text me anymore."

He didn't. He didn't respond by text and he didn't respond any other way.

What he did do was claim ownership of the break-up from a relationship that didn't count. A relationship that wasn't. It was anything but real. All of this that I held out for was for naught, just like I'd foretold. Just like I'd expressed insecurity about months ago, weeks ago, and days ago.

What he's saying is that I don't really matter. And what I'm really doing is replacement therapy so that maybe in three months, maybe by the end of summer, maybe by the time I go see the Pixies in Austin, or maybe by the time I go see the Pens in Albuquerque, maybe by then I'll be over this thing that didn't really exist in the first place.

Essentially, I'm reliving my life. I'm reliving four years ago or whatever when The Boy With the Thorn in His Side dumped me even though we weren't in a real relationship after I told him that what we did have wasn't cutting it for me. Essentially, The Chipmunk is The Boy With the Torn in His Side. Except his beard is brown, not red. And except he rides bicycle and doesn't drive a Honda Civic. The last time this happened, I was beautiful but I was a monster. This time this happens, I'm going to do the right thing and I am going to wonder whether or not I regret it for four months or something the like until I realize that I don't know what I'm even going in circles about because, in effect, it's been a fascination of my own mind. Some dumb fantasy that I created. At least that's what he's saying.