Low-Commitment Casual Almost-But-Not-Really-Girlfriend Hell

ughhhh

Anthony was noncommittal one particular week, about seeing me over the weekend. Not even in a mean way. But I had texted him on Wednesday morning, the day after the writers’ group, saying how great it had been to see him again, and asked him if we could get together on Saturday evening. We usually saw each other one weekend night per week, so it didn’t feel out of the ordinary to me.

He responded quickly, ignoring that particular part of the message: It was lovely to see you last night, I hope you have a great day at work today.

Of course this was all it took to send me into a panic spiral. I didn’t see a way that I could ask him again about Saturday without coming across as incredibly clingy, was the thing, and I also didn’t see how he could have just not noticed the message where I asked him about Saturday, which made me think that he had ignored it on purpose, which made me think that obviously he just didn’t want to see me this weekend.

I was depressed all day at work Wednesday. Near tears, in fact.

I caved that night, and called Anthony. I had to. I was, genuinely, having trouble functioning by the time the evening came around. It was the same sweaty, teeth-gritting, every-second-an-eternity feeling that I had gotten so used to, being with Eric. That was the one good thing, I had to admit, about depression compared with anxiety. Being familiar with both by this point, I could see the pros and cons. Depression was a deadening, empty feeling. You really could feel at times like your soul was decaying, and that was certainly unpleasant. But at least you didn’t feel like you were still fighting for your life. There was some comfort in it just being over.

I sounded a bit pathetic on that phone call, I’m sure. I was trying so hard to sound cool, and not overly concerned, but of course I obviously was concerned, because I had just called him.

Anthony was kind to me. He always was. Whatever his faults were, I’d never doubted his goodness, deep down. He clearly hadn’t meant to cause me any anxiety.

“I want to see you this weekend. Of course I do. It’s just that I’ve only gotten back from London a few days ago, and I’m a bit behind on work, and I’ve got other friends to catch up with… well, you know how it is, when you’ve been away for a little bit.”

“Yes.” I chose to ignore the fact that he had, more or less, just referred to me as a friend.

“But as soon as I know what the rest of my week looks like, I will let you know. I very much want to see you. You know that I love spending time with you.”

“Yes, okay.” Again—ouch!

A slight pause from him. “You know,” he said after a moment, his tone more cautious than usual, “I suppose that now might be a good time to talk about—well. Where we see this going.”

“Oh?” I actually—like an idiot—allowed myself to feel some measure of hope here. Sitting there on my blue bedspread, in that cold little studio. Half-moon mirror shining above my bed.

“Yes. I mean, you know—well, I think you know—I’m really not looking for a, let’s say, conventional relationship. Not a long-term relationship.”

“Of course.” I found my voice quickly; I always did. Far be it from me to ever leave a man hanging, caught in an uncomfortable web of his own making. “No, I… I feel the same. I mean. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here in Madrid for. I really can’t make any long-term plans.”

And all of this was even true. Of course it was. I’ve always taken rejection so gracefully.