Member-only story
Life is hard for me.
November 15, 2020
Jesse’s back. After we were together in early October, I didn’t expect to hear from him again. I really did not. I’ve emailed him a couple times. “Thinking of you. Hope you are well.” My standard.
I broke through the phone block once, left him a similar voicemail. I told him I knew he was depressed, and I knew what that felt like and he could talk to me anytime. I told him I wasn’t angry, just sad the friendship had ended. He responded to one of the emails with, “I’m doing OK.” He was lying.
Of course he knows I forgive him; I hold no grudges. We’ve known each other for so long. We’ve texted, talked on the phone. And then we had sex, finally, after more than a year. And it wasn’t good. He was rough. I had marks over my breasts and arms and chest. I sent him a picture; told him it could never happen again. I think he was embarrassed. He didn’t intend to hurt me. He was very drunk. He is an alcoholic.
When we were together, he wanted to be held, he wanted to be close. He wanted to be kissed, he wanted me to run my fingers through his hair, hold my palm against his face. He wanted tenderness. So, the rough was so unexpected, so out of character. I knew he was being rough, but I didn’t think he’d bruised me. I was surprised when the purple appeared where his thumbs had pushed into my flesh. It can’t happen again.
