So, right, busy. Today was the first of three presentations I'm doing. I just finished last week another project for an external client. I had some family bullshit in the midst of it all. So I'm getting ready for the presentation, and I get a text message on my phone. Generally speaking, my text messages are from Google's calendar service.
This time, it was from Facebook's messaging service. Again, those are generally messages from the ACLU or something -- not from an actual person. Except this time it was.
See, there was this time where I kind of lost my shit. I've alluded to this in earlier diaries in another persona, but let's just summarize thusly: 1) bad break-up; 2) bad graduate school; 3) bad drugs (prescribed and otherwise); 4) excessive drinking; 5) not well-thought-through move to a new city; 6) bad one-night-stand that lasted for about 10 months.
I wasn't a nice person through all of this. I acted like I was 17, only with a really fucking awesome fake ID and drug connection. I worked in a restaurant and this one dude, I'll call him Carlos, had a bit of a crush on me. I really wasn't into dudes, though, so I just laughed him off. Teased him a little, maybe led him on, but no more than anybody else in the restaurant sexual harassment powder keg of a kitchen.
We always stole alcohol from the bar. We'd write it off as "mispours," but really we just missed pouring it into the glass of someone who actually gave a fuck about much of anything. So there I was, drinking with the bar manager, and a couple of servers, and this one dude Carlos from the kitchen. I was drinking tequila, and I'd been chain smoking, and I took a couple of hits off the joint that was going around, and Carlos, who was a dude and short and who didn't speak English all that well, started looking pretty damn good.
I got up to go to the bathroom and he followed me. I pulled him into the kitchen and made out with him, and then everything's a blur, and then he's back at my single-wide. One night stand, right?
Except he didn't leave. This was, like, in May or something, and he stuck around. He helped me with the bills of my crappy house for a while, and he was able to talk to a lot of my neighbors for me (they seemed nice, but I didn't understand more than about every third phrase). I smiled a lot.
So the point comes where I'm sick of the driving drunk, 90 miles an hour through dark twisty roads, not really caring what happens to me or anyone else. I'm sick of the drugs, I'm sick of the people, especially that one bar manager who got to be general manager through some kind of shady deal with the prick who was regional manager.
I read this thing one time, when you're unhappy or whatnot, go back to the last place you knew who you were.
So I made plans to move back home, then find my own place in area, get a job, figure out how to live like a grown-up.
I said to Carlos, "I'm moving back home. You can come or not come. I don't really care what you do."
He decided to move with me. It was, like, six hours or so, so not forever away, but far enough that there was no more drug connection, no more Monday nights at Rio Bravo with pitchers of Dos Equis and shots of tequila. No more crazy boss, no more single-wide with no heat or air conditioning, and no more fundie landlord who wasn't so crazy about me shacking up with a dude who just didn't go home. I'm sure there were rumors. Did I give a fuck? Of course not. I was leaving town.
We lived with my mom and a brother or two or three for about two weeks. We found a duplex to live in. I found a job. He found a job. Restaurant skills travel well.
Then he quit his job. He didn't like it, so he stopped going. He got jealous of the friends I was making. He went through my shit and read my emails. I didn't know he read English that well, but apparently he did. He started freaking out about me hanging out with girls. He freaked out when I hung out with guys. He accused me of having a drinking problem. He started tracking every move I made, even when he finally found another job and a couple of friends who spoke Spanish.
I found a part-time teaching job to supplement the restaurant job, and I made more friends, and every morning, my students would ask if I'd kicked him to the curb yet. I treated him badly, and he cried. My mom came to visit and sat in a chair in my living room and mediated our relationship for us. Privately, she told me she never expected the relationship to last.
I finally told him to leave in January. He moved the six hours back to where we'd come from.
I didn't talk to him again.
For a while, he called my mom about once a month.
We all thought it was weird, but she'd talk to him and make sure he was okay.
Then I met someone and decided to make it official. When my mom told him that, he didn't call again.
It's been almost 6 years.
Today, I got a message from him. "Hey, miserere, it's Carlos."
I got a friend request.
I still feel guilty that I didn't just end it after that first night. I feel guilt that I drug it out until he thought we were going to be together forever. He thought we were going to have the fucking American dream, everything he smuggled himself across the border for. It wasn't ever going to happen -- I don't like dudes that much.
I freaked out a little and then I went and made my presentation. I stuttered a little, but at least I wasn't working drunk, the way I used to.
I talked to my partner, who said, hey, why not friend him and then you can unfriend him if he's obnoxious. I think, though, it's just not worth it to reopen that chapter in my life. Sure, I've got a couple of exes on my friends list, but they mind their own business and I mind mine. They probably wouldn't notice if I unfriended them. I bet Carlos would. He's that kind of a dude.
I don't want to reopen that chapter in my life. It's a lot of stuff I'm not proud of, and I'd just rather not. I'm not a shitty person, right?
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