Crying
You cried a lot during our two years together. Girls are like that: they cry a lot. I feel bad about basically every time you cried. Going over every instance (not that I could remember each time) is probably really masochistic and a very bad idea. On the whole, I am sorry I did not do better on anniversaries and holidays and things. Sometimes I tried and it did not work. Other times, I did not try and it was obvious. Before I slip into stupidly recounting various times I made you cry, let’s get mine out of the way.
The first was when I was writing Roberta’s eulogy. I didn’t cry when she died and I didn’t cry when I read it at the funeral, but writing it really got to me. We were sitting next to each other and I just started crying really hard. It sucked and I still wish Roberta were alive.
The second time was when we did that utterly ill-advised 40-hour Adderall binge shortly after we had broken up. At the tail end, you wanted to go over everything that had gone wrong. But first, you wanted to smoke weed and meditate a bit, so I went outside and called Lucas. I knew what was coming and I knew how bad it was gonna hurt. I prayed and prayed that Lucas would answer, and for once, prayer worked. We spoke for like three hours as I chain-smoked and paced outside. He knew what was coming, and he gave me his time and support like we were high schoolers again. It was great. Pity it couldn’t have been under better circumstances; thank God it was a nice night out.
I walked up to our apartment as slow as I could, like that could change a thing. You unleashed and I felt like a monster. I remember saying, “I just thought that if I worked harder—” and my voice cracking. I sat there trying to swallow back sobs and failing and you started crying too. I got up to leave, but for bizarre girl reasons you asked me to stay. I told you I should go, that you didn’t really want me to stay, clearly. You shut me up and told me to stay. I asked for five minutes to smoke and you relented. I went outside, choked down a cigarette and went back upstairs.
Is this a Death Cab for Cutie song?
We filled up on sleeping pills upon my return and went to bed. In the morning, I took more uppers and went to work in the same clothes I’d left the office in on Friday, and reeking from the four packs of cigarettes I’d smoked since. Before stepping in late, I called around trying to find you some Valium or OxyContin or whatever. I was so worried you were going to have a nervous breakdown. Thank God John pulled through on that one. I felt so bad I went back to the apartment that night with some food. You were asleep, so I laid down next to you and did the same. We woke up together around nine or ten, ate what I’d brought, and went back to bed. I don’t think we had sex, but I could be wrong.
Those are the two times I cried with you. And you know what? I’m actually not going to cave and go over the times you did, at least not now.
Reactions
R: “Oh my God, that feels so good, but I can’t believe you’re willing to do that.”
M: “Oh, that’s nice. Gosh, I’ve been missing out on that this whole time?”
K: Total refusal.
W: She never said much, but she really liked having her asshole eaten. However, she’s the only girl to refuse to kiss me after the fact. Pity.
B: Utter contemptible silence. Furiously passive resignation.
L: Absolute refusal for one academic year, then ecstatic delight.
H: I really can’t remember what she said the first time. Isn’t that weird?
J: Silence tinged with curiosity, eventual acceptance.
You: “I hate it when you do that.” Within a year, “Eat my butt. Eat it for me. Tell me how good it is.”
***
“Crying” and “Reactions” are excerpts from Richard Power’s new memoir, Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.
Richard Power is the author of Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert, available from Terror House Press.
