Balls. Balls. Balls. Fuck.

So I have put the proverbial tennis ball in someone else’s court – and now I want it back. I can hear my male friends saying ‘Isn’t that a woman for you – always after someone’s balls.’
But this time it isn’t my husband’s balls I am after. I am not much of a ball breaker anyways. I am pretty clear about my needs and often he knows before I need to nag or whine where he has dropped the ‘ball’.

Anyways, I’m getting off topic.

So I mentioned earlier that I had screwed up with a friend. She said that we needed time. So I sent her an email reiterating how I was sorry and knew I had dropped the ‘ball’. I then took the ball and put it in her court… and told her I would let her get in touch with me in her time – when she was ready.

And since then I have no slept. Since this is my own blog I am selfishly going to say this couldn’t have blown up in my face at a worse time… This is not to say that it isn’t my own fault. If I didn’t eff up there would be nothing to blow up. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t sleep with her love interest, or stab her in the back. It was just a long list of little things I could have and should have seen that I left on her doorstep. I misread some of her needs. (i.e. She is very organized. I am a good cook. I love when friends ask me to cook – so being a retard I assumed she like to help people organize. She never complained before so I assumed this was some little thing she enjoyed being good at. I never bothered to check in and make sure that she didn’t actually hate organizing things despite being good at it. She ended up feeling that each time we hung out I was putting her to work. I felt like each time we hung out I needed to find something to show her how much I acknowledged her abilities in this area. We don’t see eachother often – and when we do it’s for big chunks of time. So I am not saying I had her for tea once a week and made her fold my laundry instead. Although, I believe she did help me fold laundry one time. Fuck. I digress…. I’m retarded.)

This confrontation of sorts, when she told me how she felt, came on the one year anniversary of my last miscarriage. She couldn’t have possibly known that mind you. I don’t even know that James quite remembers the actual ‘days’. So between the ‘grief’ shit I am working through – I am not sleeping because I wish I hadn’t told her I wouldn’t bother her. I want to bother her, and I want to hear that she forgives me and doesn’t want me ‘not to call’.

I am fucked.

Life always comes down to who has the balls.

And I don’t have the balls to go back on my word and tell her I don’t want to wait. Yet I don’t have to stomach to wait potentially days, weeks, months or years to find out if this person even feels I am worth forgiving and moving forward with.