Obituary to a Situationship: Reader, I blocked him

What are you worthy of?

There’s things we don’t like to admit, even to ourselves in the shower when the world is finally silent and the nakedness of our soul aches with stolen hotel soap. My realisation hit me in a notification. The light flickered up on my phone and the dopamine hit was electric. And then despair. It wasn’t him. Again. Fuck, I thought, spitting conditioner out of my mouth. This man is making me miserable.

I get it. Maybe I need to settle, at 27. Maybe I need to accept men get bored of what is easily accessible, maybe I need to be okay with being the other, other, other, other, other woman. Maybe I’m just not modern enough. Empowered enough. Open minded enough. Maybe I need to chill out, be okay with not being wanted, remembered, cared for. Maybe it’s okay that all I will ever be is someone to keep around for the rare occasion I’m the best option for a drink with on a Sunday afternoon.

But nah. Nah actually.

Because I don’t want that. Because that’s not who I am. I don’t think that’s the best I can hope for. I’m also not stupid enough to think that if only I lose ten pounds, lower my boundaries, or tolerate below my needs, maybe he’ll like me. Because when a man has options, and sees you as an option, that’s not going to change.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking sad. Crushed. My hand full on shook as I went to block him, finally do what I’d never had the courage to do before. All the memories of how he had treated me long, long ago came flooding back. The conversations and secrets we had shared. The intensity, the intimacy, the trust. The beautiful words, the desire just to be around me, close to me, beside me. All gone.

But they’d been gone for a while, and they weren’t coming back. I wasn’t shiny anymore. He was reluctant to see me, and I was increasingly less keen to see him. Each cancellation or disappointment was a bit less disappointing. I’d come to expect bottom priority, minimal effort, total apathy. I’d come to acknowledge that’s what I was. For all the love, kindness and praise I heaped on him, I was just another woman in contacts. Maybe there were 20 of me. 50. 100. It didn’t matter, really. In a way it was better, because he wouldn’t notice I’d slipped away, moved on, let go.

And finally, I was okay with that.

The idea of losing that intensity, that passion, was horrible. But I had already lost it. I had already lost him. And begging for crumbs from a man who borderline disliked me felt…pathetic. Beneath me.

So I finally did it. Like an addict in withdrawal, I knew it was total abstinence or nothing, and losing the warmth, devotion and care I felt would only happen if I got rid of him completely. Holding the toothbrush in my mouth, my eyes hot with tears, I deleted his number, blocked him everywhere, and let go.

You can, too.

What are you worthy of?