So This is What it's Come To

**PLEASE NOTE: This is the fourth installment of the "Rocky Mountain High" series. In case you hadn't picked up on it yet, these entires are geared more towards being diary entries than anything else, so read at your own risk. If I don't write, I might blow a gasket and not make it back to LA. And we don't want that to happen now, do we? DO WE?!**

I was having such a lovely night. My family and I were partaking in Independence Day, laughing at the cheesy music and remarking on the relatively-advanced effects. We were munching on pork chops and baked potato, enjoying the breeze...

...and then he called.

I haven't spoken to the coke-addicted ex since he ditched me Thursday. He left me a message yesterday, expressing a desire to discuss some off-color comments I had made about his illness and recovery that had hurt his feelings. I called back, thanking him for the call and inviting him to call ME back. Tonight, the phone rang.

Rewind: When we were driving home from the airport, I inquired about what he was doing these days to be healthy and depression-free. I mentioned, perhaps not as gently as I should have, that sometimes one's chemicals are changed by diet and lifestyle, and this might help his medication take hold. Maybe he could change his life.

I guess that was self-righteous of me. I don't know what it's like to be him. I don't know what it's like to want to kill myself, or to punch someone in the face while I'm having sex with them (except by accident), or have doctor after doctor fail you and make you feel like a fucking nutcase. I don't know. I don't understand. I never will.

This didn't stop him from trying to explain. He called me and began this condescending explanation of his illness, and when I said "Thank you for reaching out to me and explaining this to me instead of letting it fester," I thought that would be enough. He wasn't satisfied by that and kept imploring me to UNDERSTAND. "I just want you to understand. I don't want you to thank me for explaining. I want you to understand." It dawned on me that this begging stemmed from the fact that he had been downing vodka perriers all night long and thought he comprehended what the fuck he was rambling about.

Well, I got hot under the collar. He couldn't tell me what he wanted the end result of this conversation to be. He mumbled something about wanting to strip this problem down to it's barest form and for the lines of communication to open. That did it. I went on a rampage.

I asked him how he thought that his meds would take effect if he kept drinking and doing coke. I told him that I know his family is full of addicts and sickies, and that he was living too hard to even start to get better. I also mentioned it was not okay with me that he left me to rot because his liquor was more important. He didn't give a shit about my safety, and didn't give a shit about me, so that made him an addict AND a prick.

"I know! Why else do you think I go to therapy and a psychiatrist? What, do you think I'm a fucking retard?!" he said.

"I'm beginning to wonder," I said. And he hung up.

The Mighty G figures (via phone) that he is so loaded he'll never be able to find my house and slash my parent's tires or throw a molotov cocktail through my window (knock on wood). I also predict that we will never speak again, and my last words to him will be an implication that I think he is mentally deficient.

I'm not sorry I said any of that. I am not sorry that I gave him a hard time. Maybe I should have some remorse, but I don't. I would give up lots of things in this life if it meant he could function in this world.

But that's not the way it works.

Guess this is one for the history books, my darlings. And I didn't even get to see the end of my movie. What a fucking night.

g

(Editor's note: This was not, in fact, the last conversation we were destined to have. He has been texting me, first accusing me of being "cold so that it's easier to write [him] off." The second message said "fuck you. you never loved me"

He didn't even put a period at the end of the sentence. I guess that means we really are through.

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