Romanticism Sucks

I guess I did what would be considered an incredibly stupid thing. I like to think of myself as a realist - fighting the term cynic at this point - when it comes to love-type stuff. But I suppose when you agree to post-pone a move you had planned to wait for a man you barely know to come back from a month plus vacation in order to be able to get to know him, that's fairly romantic. And incredibly stupid.

I'm down 8 pounds. Which is likely in part to the cyst and definitely in part to my complete lack of appetite. The last conversation the Turk and I had was a complete and utter disaster. I had just gotten back from the second doctors appointment, finding out she had ruptured the cyst and having just popped my second day of birth control (which I hate because they make me nuts), when he pinged me. I told him I wasn't doing well, so naturally he called to Skype and see the complete disaster I was try to to make things better, but not knowing one another and the separation of cultures, created just about the worst conversation I've ever had with someone. We definitely both pushed each other away. And I hadn't heard from him since, also in part probably to my Skype going wonk.

Once Skype broke, I realized everything that could have gone wrong in this already entirely ridiculous situation has. But a man fighting that hard for you affections, declaring on the second day he would make you fall in love with him, has an incredible pull that lasts well past when logic screams that it should. It makes you not eat. Or it's just that I'm in an anxious limbo. I can move on; I've done it many times before, but my heart is fighting the logic in my head and I'm just stuck: Not knowing if he's still just abroad, or here and doing the aloof man non break up break up thing. Because yes, I made it known that we weren't in an exclusive relationship, but clearly we were doing SOMETHING. It is your job to tell me if something has become nothing to you. That's how that works. Meanwhile, I'm just over here kicking myself for my curious, optimistic stupidity.

He wished me a happy birthday Tuesday via email. (I think he may have called first but I was at my birthday dinner and missed it.) It was the first I'd heard from him in two weeks, since the disastrous discourse. I asked if he was home yet - and later added if he was the one that called to try again - with no response and I sit in the middle going: "Well, he could just be ignoring me and I should move on or he is dealing with his family stuff in Turkey with no internet and what an asshole I would be for up and leaving and saying 'fuck you." This feels like a concrete box. I'm Austin Powers stuck between the walls. And I can't won't eat.

I'm down 8.5 pounds. Romanticism fucking sucks. I'm just going to go pick up a hoard of cats and tell them all about how incredibly stupid their 'momma' is.