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It’s been a weird summer Part II

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    It’s been a weird summer Part II

    I’ve mentioned the Chilean which I lived with for 6 years, who had been molested by her grandfather and uncle when a wee child, who had a severe depression, bulimia, and tried to commit suicide several times as a cause of the molestations.

    After we broke up, I felt drained. Somehow I managed to get her to eat properly, and get her to seek professional help. It took 6 years, and it completely drained me. I walked around with a constant huge lump in my stomach for years during that relationship. I could be awakened in the midst of night by her sobbing next to me in bed. I’d take her in my arms, ask her what it was, and she couldn’t say.

    I could get a phone-call at work, she’d be crying, saying that she felt very weird, and when I said I’d be right over, she would demand that I did not come, but could not say why she didn’t want me there. Naturally; I’d come anyway and she would feel better.

    And sometimes I’d get the worst kind of calls, when she said that she was sorry and couldn’t handle it anymore, when she had swallowed every sleeping pill (which she hid from me) in the house together with half a bottle of Vodka. Them times was like I was watching myself in a movie, like it wasn’t for real, yet when it can’t get more real than that. It’s a strange feeling. The ambulance ride, I’ve never felt so aware of my presence in this world, that I was existing, with chest aching and feelings all over the place, yet the feeling that I was not for real, that my whole being was nothing but someone’s sad dream.

    It drained me, and I walked a zombie walk for quite a time after we went separate ways. I haven’t seen her since, and I’m not sure I want to. I’ve seen her folks, though. When I met that girl, she hadn’t been in touch with them very often. She had lived a pretty wild life with lots of drugs. When I met her she had recently (a year before) stopped doing them and tried to get back on track in life. Once we hooked up, we started to visit her parents regularly and they saw me as the definite future son in law. They knew about her depression. Not that she had been molested, they didn’t know that, she hadn’t told any of her relatives, but it was very noticeable that she was in a state of inner pain as she would have these total mood swings. One day she would tell me how much I meant to her, ask me for a promise never to leave her, the next day she would get mighty upset over something I found dismissible, tell me that I should pack my things and leave, then during the after-quake she would get very sad and feel bad about what she had said to me, and it would go round in circles like that. I think I’ve been “thrown out” of that place twice a month during six years in average.
    The shit you put up with for love, ey!?
    I’ve only met her parents afterwards. When her mother saw me, she started to cry.

    When we broke up, I kept the apartment while she moved out. After some time, a mate who lived across the road and who knew all the details and could tell that I wasn’t in my best state, one evening he proposed that I move in with him for a while. Instead of us sitting on our own we would keep one another company. We could push one another to get out of the house and exercise, etc. That’s what he proposed.
    I put out my place for rental on the Internet, and it only took a couple of hours before I got several calls. Before I knew it, I’d moved out of my place, rented it to a couple from northern Sweden for a year, and I moved in with that mate.

    There were no intelligent conversations. There was no fu**ing way you’d get him to go with you to the local gym, there was no smart things coming out of it. The moment I moved in he started to act like I’d come to his fu**ing infant toga-party. And he’d do gay jokes constantly. Grin like that freakish horror-movie boy puppet, giggle like a wonderland Alice-rabbit on speed, pop his head into the room I was sleeping in and in a high pitch pretend-voice say shite like:
    - I’m coming to bang you now.
    I know that he’s a heterosexual.
    I’m not homophobic.
    For some reason he simply was amused to do that shite. I wasn’t upset, I wasn’t amused, just found it odd in a Roald Dahl kind of way.

    Months pass by, during which he’s started to play that Nerd of Nerdcraft crapfu**
    He’d get up in the morning, not even put his clothes on, be sat there with his fu**ing nerdery GobblinMidgetElf with 10 Mana and a Cryoton Broadsword, or whatever the fu** it was he’d created, and do….
    Fu** all!

    One day, he spent the entire fu**ing day be stood on a pixeled shore and have his GobblinMidgetElf fish. He’d point his mouse to the same very spot in the pixeled sea, click some icon like he’d be having an epileptic forefinger, get a fish, and toss it back into the water. Apparently some monk in another part of that nerdworld had given him a task. How nice.
    A whole fu**ing day! Fishing on the computer with a GobblinMidgetElf.
    I asked him to go out fish with me at the Svartedalen Lakes. A fantastic area right outside Gothenburg. Real fishing. To get out, spend some time in the beauty there. See the sky. But no, he wanted to fish in Nerdland.

    I would ask him plenty of times if he wanted to join me and my mates.
    I asked him if he wanted to join me and my family for Christmas, but no. He was sat with Nerdland on Christmas day, Christmas eve, and all the way to bloody Serbian New Year, and as far as I know he’s still sat there Nerding his brain-cells.

    He’d get dressed at about lunch, eat some weird shite, like boil some pasta, toss yoghurt all over it, down it like one of those characters in films who haven’t eaten for a fortnight, then continue his quest for “glory” in Nerdland. That’s what he’d eat, that or sandwiches. Not proper ones. Double wonder-bread with honey smeared in-between, black olives and then basically anything else he happened to find in his fridged vault of anti-food.

    A real mess, was his kitchen. I’d always eat out. If I used something of his, it’d be a fork, a knife, and I’d wash it. He was a fu**ing, lazy bum. He was fu**ing molesting his kitchen-wear the way he behaved. There would be a huge pile of dishes for weeks. He used the same plate, without washing it, for his sandwiches for weeks at a stretch.

    One day his PC breaks down. No fu**ing World of Nerdland anymore. He gets stressed up. Starts to fish if he can tag along to wherever I was heading, but I’ve given up long ago and don’t invite him. Not that I’m upset with him. We still get along without any problems. But he won’t ask straight out, I don’t fu**ing care. Simple as that.

    So, one day he shows his real face. After 7 years of I inviting him home, introducing him to my friends, inviting him over to my family for one Christmas (he’s without parents and does not talk at all with his sister), after 7 bloody years of treating him with nothing but respect, he pops his head into “my” room and says in a bitchy voice:
    - Isn’t it your turn to do the dishes!?
    - Excuse me, I reply
    - Well, they’ve been in that sink for weeks, and isn’t it about time you do them?
    - Eh, are you joking?
    - No, I’m not fu**ing joking
    - But, I haven’t used any of it
    - What! At least 70% of that has been used by you
    - Are you fu**ing kidding me! Couldn’t you have estimated it to 73 fu**ing percent?
    - Fu**ing just ask me if I can help you do the dishes, and I’ll do it, but don’t treat me as your fu**ing bitch, you bitch, I say
    - The fu**ing nerve, I say

    Then I leave, go sit at a local pub, come back a few hours later, find him sat at the kitchen table, and the minute I enter he stutters a:
    - I think it’s better if you move out
    - OK - I say - when?
    - Monday, he replies
    This was on a Saturday. He gave me two fu**ing days to move out.

    7 years of friendship down the drain, over some bloody plates and forks and glasses.
    An All In, he did, with crap cards and shite all on the flop, turn and river.

    I moved out on Sunday, and when I picked up the last things I could tell he felt bad about the whole thing, but didn’t have the bloody balls to cough up with an excuse. I couple of months later I’m visiting that local were my apartment’s at, he enters, comes up behind me, says:
    - Oh, here’s the prodigal son, in an over-friendly voice
    I give him a glance and continue the chat I was in the midst in.

    Sod false friends like that!

    It’s been a weird summer Part II

    You're well shot of that idiot, Z.


      It’s been a weird summer Part II

      What a prick (him, not you).