Confessions of a Friday night

This has been weighing so heavily on my heart for the past several days . . . I saw the drummer last Friday night.

Through a post on Facebook from a mutual friend of ours I knew where the drummer would be playing that night.  I knew that morning that I would be sitting there that night.  I drove downtown.  I walked into the restaurant.  I took my seat at the crowded bar.  I can say that I went in there just to hear the music, but that would be a lie.  I went in there on Friday night to wait.

He saw me walk in.  He saw where I was sitting.  I just waited . . . waiting for their break between sets.  I hadn’t spoken to him since June.  I thought I had him out of my system.  I thought I was alright, that I could handle a casual exchange of small talk.

When they took their break after their first set the drummer walked over to me and I KNEW that I was where I shouldn’t be.  What am I talking about?  I knew that the moment I got out of my car that night and walked up the sidewalk to the restaurant.  As he and I stood there talking about absolutely nothing all I could think about was running away from him as fast and as far as I could.

So why did I go there to begin with?

I missed him.  We had become pretty good friends before I realized that his friendship was a VERY bad influence on me.  I missed the way we could talk.  I missed the way we laughed with each other.  I missed the way we argued.  I missed the ease with which we could share each others company.  I missed watching him do what he loves best . . . make music.

I missed the drummer.

It has taken me days to be able to admit that to myself.

Part of me feels guilty for admitting that I missed him.  He was a terrible influence on me.  We were only friends because I first approached him with inappropriate intentions.  But at the same time if he were to call me right now and say, “Let’s go get lunch like we used to do, Carrie,” I would be there in a heartbeat.  It’s scary to know that about myself.

I could go back to that friendship and know that absolutely nothing would be different.  He would still disrespect my faith.  He would still treat me like crap.  He would still belittle the things that are important to me.  He would still expect me to be the faithful groupie with her seat in the audience when he plays.  He would still only want to be friends when it was convenient for him.  I could go back right now because I miss him very much.  I won’t go back because I know nothing would have changed.

How many times can a girl go to God and beg to be pulled from the same situation and then keep going back over and over before He gives up on her or she finally comes to her senses?

I told my best friend yesterday about having seen the drummer on Friday night.  I told him that I wish I had never met the drummer, because he became like an addiction to me.  I can’t shake him.  Just when I think I’m clean and have him out of my system the urge to see or talk to him just one more time hits.  But just a taste is never enough.  A person can go to rehab for drug addiction.  A person can’t go to rehab to get clean of feelings for someone.

I’m angry at myself.  I’m angry for letting myself down.  I’m angry for giving in to the temptation that I had ignored for months.  I’m angry for putting myself into such a position that days later it still has my head messed up.

I am also so very angry at the drummer.  I’m angry at him for not caring where I was or why I hadn’t spoken to him for months.  I’m angry at him for proving that I was a disposable friend to him.  I’m angry at him for not caring about me the same way I cared (still care?) about him.

I wish I had never met him.  I wish I had never gone to watch my friend play bass with his band that night last October and been taken in by the guy who backed him on the drum kit.

How much different would this past year have been had I not met the drummer that night almost a year ago?  But that is a moot question.  I did meet him.  I wrapped my world around him.  And just when I think I’ve got it all untangled . . . another bar, another Friday night.

I am weak.  For the past year the drummer has been my weakness.

Am I strong enough to overcome him?

Until next time . . .


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