On the path to my current Zen-like state of loving myself and enjoying life, certain tough decisions are made to help ensure that I stay centered.
One of which is ending what I call “dead end” relationships with a few people. A year ago, they were numerous. I was so desperate and sad and confused about my direction in life that I’d let in anyone who paid a lick of attention to me.
Even if it meant hurting myself emotionally and setting myself up for pre-determined failure.
I did so because I had so little respect for myself.
As previously mentioned in this blog, I could’ve imploded Saturday at the site of a parade of people who’ve gone out of their way to hurt me.
One of which has been a presence in my life for more than a decade.
A decade-plus of me secretly hoping he’d figure out we were perfect for each other and he’d see me as more than an erotic fantasy. That he’d see me as more than a one-off after a concert and that fate keeps throwing us together.
It never happened. It isn’t going to happen. I don’t think he ever valued my level of intelligence or my street savvy. Or the inner beauty. Or much of anything about me besides pushing and pulling me emotionally.
I can’t spend my life waiting for someone to figure out I’m awesome. I already know it.
When I deleted him (both metaphorically and literally), it was met with an email last night.
He knew why I’d taken the course of action and agreed it was for the best. He asked me not to contact him ever again and I have zero problem respecting that since I want the same.
I don’t want him to ever contact me again. He was never really my friend, when I look back.
I need this sort of thing out of my life.
I do not regret my decision or what it means (his loss).