When Crush Boy left for his band’s tour, we didn’t stay in touch. So, when I texted him the night after I was attacked, it was the first time in weeks. I asked, “Are you awake?” He responded that he was about to pass out, and then I told him that I was trying to stay awake for the police to show up, due to the fact that I “basically just got jumped.” I waited a little bit longer for the police to show, then got too tired and gave up.
The next morning, I check my phone: nothing. No texts back. Waited a day, sent him a “hey” on Facebook chat: nothing. I waited a couple of days to text him that I was bummed he didn’t respond when I told him I’d been assaulted. Still: nothing. And that feeling SUCKED, for a few days. I just wanted him to acknowledge it; I wasn’t asking him to play a major role in my process of recovery, which is what I think he was afraid of, which is why he didn’t respond. But still, nothing at all? Not even a “What happened?”? Pretty shitty, but that’s just my opinion. It signaled an end for me; I realized that I can’t really deal with a totally noncommittal relationship with someone I have feelings for.
SO, fast-forward to last weekend. My friend Leah and I were at a show and saw a guy we know, who also happens to know CB, and we made plans to hang out after the show. I had absolutely no expectations to discuss Crush Boy in any way, and was successful in avoiding the subject all night. Well…at least until we got tacos. TACOS changed everything.
I don’t remember how, but someone brought up Crush Boy in our conversation, which led me to say that I hadn’t been talking to him because I was bummed about his non-response to the news of my attack. First, our mutual acquaintance tried to posit that maybe CB’s phone was dead, which I pointed out couldn’t be true for multiple reasons. Then he launched into this aggressive argument about how he never even knew that CB and I were really a thing at all, and since we weren’t physically in the same city, why would he be thinking of me when he’s on tour anyway? He told me I was flat-out WRONG to expect anything of CB while he was wrapped up in his little tour universe.
At this point, Leah, a badass who is always down to stick up for me, got pissed. She told this dude that my attack was no small deal, as she was the first one to see me with blood dripping down my scalp and all, and that she thought CB played a shitty move by ignoring this. “I could have easily been curb-stomped into submission. It could have been a deadly situation, and I was lucky he was stopped. Maybe I could have died,” I explained. This guy then launched into a freaking tirade:
“Well, you didn’t die. I mean, I’m sorry that happened to you, but now you’re just victimizing yourself. You should know what you’re getting into by moving into that neighborhood.” He said that over and over again, that “victimizing” line.
I attempted to explain that I wasn’t trying to play a victim card; I was just talking about something that made me feel bad in a relationship. I told him that my time with CB was an experiment in my young, little life to see if I could be involved with someone I had legitimate feelings for in a totally noncommittal way, because he’s in a band that tours half the year. Now I’m realizing that I can’t do it if the person I care about doesn’t care for me.
Ooh, did this guy POUNCE on the fact I said “experiment.”
“Oh, so he’s just an experiment to you? Oh, I bet he’d be so happy to hear that!” Let me point out that this guy was sober, when the rest of us weren’t. This kind of asshole rhetoric is something I’d expect from someone so drunk that they turn mean. “First you’re victimizing yourself over this whole situation, and now you’re telling me he’s just an experiment to you? I don’t need this, I’m leaving.” He got up from the table and started to go, but I realized my jacket was in his car. Leah and I walked outside to get it.
There was a group of creepy drunk men on the corner who were trying to holler at Leah and me—you know, “Heeey ladies, where are you going? What are you doing later?”
This dude we’d been talking to shouts at them, “You can HAVE THEM.”
That’s when Leah and I just turned on our heels in utter shock and gave him a huge, double “fuck you.” It was awesome; I wish I could do that a million more times. After I grabbed my jacket out of his car, he dramatically sped away. If his mission was to make me feel like shit, he really gave it a remarkable effort, but did not succeed. Instead, he proved himself to be the world’s biggest asshole. Congratulations, dude, you won! ♦