*in the post below, the name Jerkface has been used to substitute the identities of four different individuals.
So I have this problem. Every time that I deal with romance on this blog, all of my exes think I'm writing about them. Which is weeeird because a) I have a very detailed disclaimer dealing with this issue and b) I have written very little about romance on this blog and even put CysticLady to the task of covering romance during her guest posts (also because she is a romance-maniac right now). I got this email the other day that accused me of being all angry at one of my exes, which is weird, because, you know, I've had bigger fish to fry these last six months, you know? Not once sitting down in the ICU trying to figure out how to get from one end of the bed to the other without my oxygen dropping to 70, did I think, "Oh I am so angry at that man!", nor when being checked for hypoxia and struggling to pick out the commonalities between an apple and an orange did I say, "Now wait, let me tell you about [Jerkface]." And yet, oy vay, I get accused of man-anger when all have is lung-anger since August 11th.
And I have this other problem. A lot of my exes who are not particularly in my life anymore are writing to me and saying they are praying for me. Fine, pray away. I like praying. I do it every day. But it makes me wonder, if we cannot be there to support people in the real world, is it appropriate to try to affect them in the spiritual world? Perhaps, but I'm not sure. I also think this conundrum speaks to a great problem I have always wondered about with CF, which is the pressure that I have always felt to stay in contact with people only because they are curious about whether or not I am still alive. I know that sounds crass, but it's true. Perhaps other people have experienced this passing thought. For me, this means that I invited [Jerkface] to make peace with me before my surgery and he basically said, "nah, but I'm prayin' for ya," which is, you know, juuuuuust like making peace. ?
And then the other problem, the ultimate ex-boyfriend problem - that exes never believe that their exes can possibly be happy without them. I don't think that [Jerkface] can possibly be happy without me, mostly because he used to tell me that all the time. [Jerkface], in turn, cannot possibly believe that I have been fabulously happy, besides this whole my-lungs-are-dieing thing, mostly because I used to tell him that all the time. What fools we both are, as I am most definitely happier now than when I was all involved with [Jerkface]. Still, it takes a godly concentration to hold my fingers back from the computer where he writes, "I hope you're happy," and I want to write, "I'm fucking happy, I hope you're fucking happy too, jerkface!" If anything, these last six months have shown me that romantic love is not the highest thing on my priority list at all.
Watching things fall out of my life as I got sicker, and hoping for them to drop back in once I get well, I realize that romance is lower on my priority list than I ever expected.