Bleed

I’ve been avoiding writing out of fear of what I might write.

Stargazer is GONE.

What happened, you ask?

I DON’T KNOW.

One minute we were bowling, and the next minute he’s cancelling dates and GHOSTING me.

I sent a text message to see if we could talk.

It was read but I got no response.

What’s a girl to do except pick herself up, dust herself off, and try again?

In the last six months I have dated two men who ghosted me.

Both of them I CONSIDERED to be gentlemen and genuinely nice guys and I never expected them to ghost me.

I’m starting to wonder if I am a good judge of character, given the surprising turn of events.

I’m not gonna lie.

This one HURTS.

Despite my resolution to get back up and continue on the path I’ve chosen for myself, I find myself lingering in this sad place, mourning the possibility of affection that seemed so near a few weeks ago but now has turned to indifference.

To make matters worse, everyone keeps asking about Stargazer, wanting to know how things are going so I get to repeat myself over and over again telling people he ghosted me.

Hopefully this post will put all those inquiries to rest.

I’ve been GHOSTED.

Again.

Ghost

The new guy is gone.

For those of you who were happy to see me with someone, who sent kind messages of support, thank you.

It’s been a nice two months.

But it has come to an end.

I wish I could give an explanation as to why.

Maybe we were not suitable for each other.

Perhaps someone else entered the picture.

I could hazard a guess but the bottom line is the same.

The new guy is gone.

The last I heard from him, he was struggling with the fallout from the Garlic Festival.

He is a Gilroy native, a former festival organizer, and an attendee, so I can understand his suffering.

And given that his near miss was also my near miss, I can relate to some of the survivor guilt I know he is feeling.

The good news, if there’s any to be gleaned from this, is that this has nothing to do with me.

For once in my life, I can look at a situation and recognize that it’s all about him or the shooting, or another woman, or something else.

But it’s not about me.

I’m not gonna lie.

Being ghosted hurts.

I am trying to remind myself, especially during these last few weeks when I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water with all the waves of loss rolling over me, that ghosting says more about the ghoster than the ghostee.

And if he’s comfortable with a legacy of indifference then so am I.