phone throwing

When you play this movie in your head, the contrast is off. Adjust the bunny ears. Static. Those horizontal interference lines moving down the screen to settle to the off contrast but that’s the best you’ll ever get. Standing on the street corner. Slightly drizzling. 2 AM. Four-inch shiny black calf boots. Jeans. The lucky fuck me shirt. Dangling purse. Under the noire streetlamp, holding and wasted steadying with my fingertips. One foot inclines outward, relieving the weight on that leg. Across the street from his apartment. A three story dilapidated flaky quintessential city
row house. Hazy heavy air. The light on the third floor is on. It’s the front apartment. Too drunk to realize that he lives in the back apartment, lights off. You call his home number. The sleepy, mumbled, fake, “hello?” your breathy response, “hello” and then “click.” And he turned off the ringer.

An innumerable count of calls, repeatedly. Confusing, pursed lips, wrinkled forehead. Turns to anger. The phone flies, breaks, but is still functional. You called Philip so many more times. You walk two miles in the 4-inch heels, ruined and you couldn’t figure out why your calves hurt so much in the morning. At home, sitting on the floor legs akimbo, sobbing. So hurt, rejected, sad, lonely. An old coworker called you the next morning to ask why you called her repeatedly the night before.

That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.

… and then a month later, you were talking to him again.

After his birthday you didn’t hear from him for two weeks. You kept calling. He said he was depressed. He’s a liar though. Probably out of the “open relationship.”

Trying to learn with your therapist: how to maintain self-esteem. How to live. Pretty silly when a month ago you were sunbathing on the roof with a liter of vodka and redbull, reading. Stumbled downstairs. Blacked out when you were supposed to go dancing with Luxx, your svelte sex-dripping-down-the-hallway friend. Twisted your ankle trying to put on platform shoes. Laughing hysterically.

You have a date at Lucky Bar. You are stood up. Two weeks later, You’re walking home from work, waiting for the light to change, reading a book while commuting. He’s standing across the street. You hold the book up so your face is partially covered. He greets you enthusiastically and asks why you haven’t called. Gives you a genuine hug. Asks why you haven’t called?

That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.

To establish healthy boundaries and demonstrate the NON-codependent behavior, smack him silly. This sets the stage for an effective relationship, please turn to page 20.

For the codependent response, please continue.

You remind him he stood you up and you make plans for the following week, these were
discarded as well. You still have not learned that plans with Philip are soft until they are hard. You were planning on going to New York City for a mini-vacation the week after Christmas with him. He didn’t call. He didn’t write you an email, nothing. That was the second time you decided to never talk to him again.

But you found out later, or at least were told later, that his mom sent herself into the hospital because she wanted him to pay attention to her. Apparently, it worked.

You really didn’t talk to him for a while after that botched trip to New York. But he called again three months later. To actually put a good college try into not speaking to him continue…

His best friend died, overdosed. Sitting shiva, he called you, wasted, crying. Apologized for treating you so horribly. Midnight on the Long Island sound, it was chilly on the porch smoking a cigarette. You didn’t recognize the phone number on the caller ID. It was the third time you erased his phone number from your phone. He said he really wanted to be friends. He was sitting on a stoop in the back of the house in Baltimore. With reservations, you said it was okay. Your mind was screaming, “No it’s not! How are you going to tell your friends that you’re friends with him again. This is insanity. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

This time you told yourself you had more realistic expectations. That this friendship would go on for a bit and then he would try to deepen the relationship. You were safe as long as you didn’t fuck him. How does one not have sex with the guy that listens and is so in tune that repeatedly you cum together? Insane. Nothing temporary about it.

You were painting a few months after Philip’s friend died, standing on a ladder in the new restaurant. Covering up a tacky paint job with plain red. Speckled red on your face, he came in, sat on a bench and told you how much he loved you. He had come back from Berlin. Wanted to try monogamy. He was drunk, and you were insane.

In the sense that you were repeating past mistakes, it was insanity.
To break this pattern of insanity, go to a second step meeting (page 42), otherwise please read this section repeatedly until it hurts enough, and then go to the second step meeting.