I started my day off with a NyQuil hangover. I slept almost ten hours last night. After falling asleep on my homework for an hour I decided to brave Sunday afternoon little Mexico traffic and venture out to Starbucks.
(I hate Starbucks. Mostly on principle. But also because I love blended mochas and theirs for some reason taste like a powder mix. Mostly the problem is probably more that I got really spoiled on Dutch Bros. But whatever. The rinky-dink town in which I currently reside has three Starbucks. And NOTHING the fuck ELSE. What college town only has Starbucks? That's just mean.)
This also forced me to copy some music I needed ready for my voice lesson tomorrow and otherwise I wouldn't have done it. So, definitely a wise decision.
Except the NyQuil hangover made my delicious iced white mocha taste like it was sour. So, that sucked. Because I could tell it was really delicious. Before the sour kicked in. So I got an Arizona iced tea thing and a turkey sammich from Raley's.
I also had a cup of "decaf" vanilla rooibos tea with cream in it later.
End result: I have had just enough caffeine that I can't sleep quite yet, but not enough to make me actually be able to focus on reading the 50 pages I still have to notate for class tomorrow afternoon. I'm pretty much saying "fuck it, I'm going to sleep," but without the actually being able to sleep part.
I think another reason I can't sleep is that I'm thinking. Of course. Patty's comment on my last post made me start pondering on Bambi and everything pertaining to that whole mess.
I've pretty much come to the conclusion that we are each other's Kryptonite. He was my first love. I was his. We're like magnets for each other. We're like fire and gasoline. Completely attracted to each other, completely combustible.
At least, we used to be.
I really don't know anymore. I think the last year has changed us both a lot.
He called me Friday afternoon and woke me from a very deep and troubled sleep. I was groggy and don't remember much of what he said, except that he was okay and at his mom's house. I've never heard him sound so... broken, I guess.
I've heard Bambi be sad. I've made Bambi sad. So sad he wanted to die. So sad he cut himself, took too many pills, refused to go home to his apartment when I wasn't there. I've hurt Bambi so much that he talked to mental health and admitted himself to the hospital.
I've hurt Bambi so much that he should have given up, just like I should have given up so many times. But he never did. He kept fighting. Kept fighting for me. Kept fighting with me.
I don't know what she had to have to done to finally break him, but it must have been terrible. (Part of me still thinks he's faking just because he's trying to fuck with me. I really just don't know yet.)
The Bambi situation is complicated and confusing. Usually when I write about it it's because I'm trying to figure something out. Frequently I'm realizing something as or after I write. But this is the heart of the matter.
If he could be sober and responsible and love me for the person I am today as opposed to the scared kid I was four years ago, I would talk to Bambi again. I would probably consider being close with him again. If there was a way to repair all the trust both of us have broken between each other, I'd do it. I am fully aware that he can be dangerous and unpredictable; so can I, to some degree. I would just need to see that he was able to control himself and not be physically violent.
The thing is, I compare everyone to him. I hate that I do it and I don't want to. But I do. No one loves me like he did. I mean, no one treats me as badly as he did. But no one treats me as well or is willing to know me as well as he did, either. And I think he may have found one of the few women on the planet who could treat him worse than I did.
I think a lot of the times I've written about him on this blog I've been upset with him in one way or another and that definitely makes things sound pretty one-sided. I'm not saying he didn't treat me like shit because he did. He really, really did. I'm saying I don't think I've made it very plain how badly I treated him. That in no way justifies the things he did to me. But the things he did to me don't justify what I did to him, either. And nothing justifies the cycle.
I think in another life Bambi and I are the couple from The Notebook.
But in this life we just could never get it right.