The Ex-Factor…

I often wonder about what triggers someone to think of someone else so strongly, they have to reach out to them.

I’m not talking about a mother calling a daughter for an afternoon chat, or a friend confirming plans for later in the week. I’m not even talking about people that remember that long lost study buddy from 8th grade. That is normal. In today’s society, it is damn near expected.

I am questioning what triggers an ex to reach out and contact someone they were once in a relationship with.

Was it a song that you heard? Did you overhear someone make a sarcastic or bitchy comment, and that sparked a memory? Did you find that fucking sweatshirt I told you I left at your house, but you argued it wasn’t there? I loved that sweatshirt. Asshole.

Anyways…

It started last night. Conveniently, right after I posted how I was so inspired I would probably write all night. I knew…KNEW…shit was going too smoothly. The music was right. The ideas were right. I was warm. My coffee was holding up good. It was such a great night for writing.

And then, a message appeared in the lower corner of my browser screen.

By the way, fuck you, Facebook, for this new little pop up you give when someone sends you a message. I will see that on my time. Stop adding random shit. Jesus.

As I was saying…

I got a message from a name I did not recognize. Because I am pretty anal about little notification bubbles in my face, I opened the message to clear the notification, then closed it and went on with my business. A few moments later, another message.

This time the person used the name “he” used. Not a special name, just no one else ever calls me by my first name. EVER. Except him.

Total heart stopping moment.

I’ve always disliked my first name. As a child, I ignored it when it was called out by teachers in school. I waited until they finally called out my middle name. But when he said it, I felt like a Queen. He said it like it was supposed to be pronounced. He didn’t ignore the little accent mark that everyone else did. And he refused to call me anything else.

“A woman should always go by their proper name,” he would say. (Go ahead and throw up, I just did a little bit in my mouth.)

Quick Backstory:

Girl meets older guy. Yay. Girl and older guy really get along, best friends type shit. Girl and older guy start an actual romantic relationship. Guy’s car gets totaled, needs to go back to his home state. Girl (because she is super fucking nice, yay her) takes days off work to drive him to home state, then back, then back to home state again. Girl is stupid. Girl and guy go out one night with guy’s friends in home state, to the casino. Girl has NO CLUE where anything is in this shitty ass town, and everything is on mountains. So, girl is totally at the whim of guy and his friends. Girl is having fun, gets super drunk (because guy said have fun, don’t worry, just have fun) and then sees guy and some other girl getting off the elevator. KISSING. Guy then proceeds to tell girl that he has fallen in love with other girl and girl was no longer of use to him (except to get him back to the current state he lives in, of course). Girl punches guy AND other girl in face. Girl gets kicked out of casino. Girl is all alone and ends up having to sleep in her car until the next morning when she goes to the goddamned gas station, gets a goddamned map, and goes the fuck home.

End backstory.

I don’t really do dramatic breakups. I never have. I am not saying that I haven’t had a few bad and dramatic breakups, but they were never because I was causing the drama. I don’t do all of that. When I break up, I close up shop in my heart and exit the other person’s life as quietly as I can.

That person will never know how hurt I am, will hopefully never see me cry over any hurt I may be in, and will NEVER EVER hear me beg or ask to try again. I did that shit once, for 10 long years off and on. Never again.

So last night, when this person shows back up out of the blue, it caught me off guard.

I did not answer the message. I quickly went to the profile and blocked it. A few moments later, another message from a different account.

Same person.

Only this time, the ex informs me that he will be at my home in 5 minutes. Well, isn’t this grand. Without my consent, I have just been teleported into a bad Lifetime movie.

I decide to message back and ask for him to not come to my home. I don’t threaten to call the cops or anything like that. I really do not like to get police involved in shit. It can go from 0-100 pretty fucking quickly. But, I ask him as nicely as I possibly can.

No answer.

I wait. I wait and I watch out my window.

No car…until there is. Fucking headlights coming into my driveway. Fun.

I grab my baseball bat and head outside.

I’m not scared of this man. He never did anything to make me scared of him. But I do consider just out of the blue messaging your ex, then informing her that you will be at her home uninvited very soon, then actually showing up…a suggestion that he may be a few rocks shy of a whole quarry.

I stand in my driveway, shaking. Not out of fear (maybe just a little, because I don’t know what the fuck is about to happen), but I’m cold. And I am mad. I don’t do this. I don’t do this to anyone, I stay out of lives once things are finished and I totally expect the same thing.

I’m also very pissed (somewhere deep in the back of my head) at Facebook because a while back they took off the function that makes you unsearchable to people. I think that is the stupidest thing in the world. I mean, you could go through and limit the visibility of every single Facebook post you made in the past, and THEN limit what people that aren’t your friends see. But who the fuck has the time to scroll through posts from 3 years ago to make sure not every fucking body can see them? Not this bitch. And I shouldn’t have to.

I stand in my driveway with my baseball bat, and I have a quick stare down with this man that I haven’t seen since the night I punched him in the face, in a casino, in a shitty town, on a mountain. I thought about having Sampson sitting out there beside me, you know, to toughen up my aesthetic…but I would never put him in the way of something that could get a little crazy.

He turns off his car, and very slowly, steps outside. I wait. He steps a little closer to me. I take a step back. He comes closer and I stop him with the tip of my baseball bat. I dare him to move. He doesn’t.

He says my name and it makes me sick to my stomach. I speak calmly. This is how I know I am in the “I will kill you” zone. The calm and even tone of my very long and clinical words. This is how he knows the same thing. It makes him angry. He tries to grab the bat out of my hand. I snatch it away, and he moves around me.

He, in all of his audacity, is trying to go to my door.

Not this evening, sir.

I stand in front of his car and start tapping the tip of the baseball bat on his windshield. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He turns around, and he stops.

Good.

Now, maybe I am making my point a little clearer.

He asks me to stop what I am doing. I ask him to get back in his car. He tells me he was in town for the week. He asks me if we can just talk. I inform him that I said everything I needed to say on my way back to the great state of North Carolina when I left him in his shitty ass town. He asks me again. I swing my bat.

But I stop just short of hitting the windshield. I am a very nice person. Plus, I don’t like bills in the mail for damage.

I let him know that if he ever contacts me again, ever shows up to my house again…I won’t stop at beating the windshield in of his car.

He’s mad. I can see it in the way he balls his hands into fists. I’m waiting for the crazy. But it doesn’t come.

He does call me a bitch, though.

A stupid bitch to be exact.

That’s fine.

I have been called worse by better people.

He gets in his car and turns it on. For a moment, I think he is going to plow forward and maybe run me over. But he doesn’t.

He backs his car up and drives back the way he came.

I won’t promise that I didn’t throw my bat at his car and hit his windshield.

I won’t promise that it didn’t feel fucking fantastic.

Thinking about it today, it could have gone so much worse.

But the thing that really bothers me is the fact that I never thought to ask him what the fuck made him contact me again after all this time.

I guess I’ll never know.

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