I bruise easily

I don’t know if it’s a quality of skin or flesh, but I bruise easily.

I rarely remember how I got them. I have just had a post-shower count-up and right now I’m sporting 22 bruises, most of them on my legs, and only one of which I remember getting (back of left hand, door handle in bathroom).

After the first night with The Pirate, I was covered in bruises. He grabs and pushes and pinches and restrains – it’s all playful and the right side of too hard, but still definitely too hard for my peachy flesh.

I remember going in to work the week after and a colleague commenting: “Ooh, look at the bruises on your arms! It looks just like someone has pinned you down…” It speaks volumes about his innocence that he even overlayed his fingers into the pattern left by The Pirate, and didn’t twig that the bruises were indeed from a good pinning down session.

So I suppose it makes perfect sense that my ego bruises easily as well. Have just got off the phone from The Pirate. Another call where I didn’t get my ‘turn’, where he offloaded and ranted and railed at the world and then disappeared to deal with a printer crisis without even a cursory “how are you?”. I joke with my friend that that’s all the next man will need to do to get me into bed. Just ask me how my day was. He doesn’t even have to listen to the answer…

I don’t know who is more selfish – The Pirate for consistently forgetting that I am a human being, and a sensitive female one at that, or me for expecting him to have anything left for me when he is so, so busy. He’s working to a deadline at the minute, an extremely important one that he is woefully unprepared for. This Friday is D-Day. At about 5pm on Friday, he will be free of it.

Hands up who thinks he’ll transform into a doting boyfriend then? Anyone? Sigh…

I suppose I should just be grateful he took the call. Which is a measure of how fucked up this is. I am grateful that the person I am sleeping with deigns to take my calls.

When I write it all down, it is crystal clear that, at best, we are just not temperamentally suited. I am too high maintenance, he is too self-centred, we both need someone who is the yin to our yang. At worst, he is a selfish using bastard. I see all of this, and yet I am incapable of moving on from him.

I had a moment last night, on the phone to him. He is facing problems of such magnitude that, were they mine, I would have just given up. Waved a white flag, crawled into bed and slept my way through my house being repossessed. But he doesn’t give up. He fights, and he works harder, and he drags extra energy up from fuck knows where and he keeps on going. It is very, very impressive. So he was telling me about how he plans to turn the situation around, and on one level I was listening, but on a deeper one I was Alabama from True Romance: ‘You’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool.’

And right then, he got my heart. Which is really bad news. Because I have built this wall around me. It lets stuff out, but not in, like Goretex or something. I can criticise The Pirate for not caring, but I don’t make it easy. I fully accept that dating me must be very confusing – I freely give my support and attention, I shower him with gifts, I am physically demonstrative, but I give nothing of myself away. The Pirate doesn’t really know me. And with him it’s the opposite – he gives everything away except support, attention, gifts and physical gestures. (Gosh. IS he the yin to my yang after all?)

Anyway. I should not have given my heart to this reckless, feckless man. Because now it’s outside my wall. It’s passed through and it’s out there, all slippery and vulnerable and bruised and bleeding, in the hands of a man who doesn’t even know he holds it. Doesn’t have the first clue. And I don’t know how to get it back. I didn’t mean to give my heart to someone who doesn’t want it. It should have gone to someone who would cherish it. How has this happened?







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