My First Taste Of Vulnerability

It was 2 am, my bedroom pitch black. I glanced at my phone. Black screen. Silence. I glanced again. Still a black screen. Still silence. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I picked up the phone, turned on the screen — the sudden stab of light making my vision blurry — and checked my texts. Still no response.

Fuck me, I thought and let out a sigh. Then, in a sudden and unrestrained fit, hurled the bitching phone at the wall — “Fuck you, wall! That’s what you get for existing.”

Embarrassed by my outburst, I chucked my head on my pillow, closed my eyes, and surrendered to the silence, letting it engulf me. And then I sobbed. I sobbed in the face of a cold and indifferent world.

***

I was always a stubborn kid. I ignored everyone’s advice, even when I knew they were right deep down. It wasn’t until I fucked up because of my stubbornness that I finally changed my ways.

Well, the peak of my stubbornness was at the ripe age of 17, just a few weeks after my ex dumped me. I was walking home from school with the boys, and we chatted about how I could get her back.

“You know, my ex didn’t respond to my text the other day,” I said, “I think I should send her another one. Ever heard of the good reminder text?”

“I think what you need to do is be straight up with her and then leave her alone, my guy,” answered a friend.

Then chimed in another friend, “You should stop chasing after her. It’s desperate. Leave her alone for a while and see if she puts any effort into getting you back.”

Soon, the rest of the gang started spewing identical platitudes: “Leave her alone. Let her come back at her own pace. Stop being needy. You’re overanalyzing everything. If she still wants you, she’ll tell you or at least hint at it without you trying to force, cajole, or manipulate her into talking to you.”

These were probably the most important pieces of advice my friends ever gave me. Yet I didn’t take them seriously at all. I simply smirked and started consoling them.

“It’ll be okay, guys,” I reassured them. I bought these sick courses that teach how to get your ex back the right way (whatever the fuck that means). This shit can’t go wrong. I even got an expert to help me out personally. I’ve spent over 500$ on everything.”

My friends were blown away. “So you’re telling me you’ve spent how much on this?” asked one. “500$,” I repeated with a smile. “Bro, you’ve got a problem. This is sick; it’s an addiction. ” I answered, “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing, “ and brushed off the concern.

I was beyond confident that my ex-back plan would work, after all. And I made sure I explained it to the boys in excruciating detail. At some points, I even whipped out a handy-dandy notebook and started drawing the concepts I’d implement.

The reverse psychology tactics from Chris Canwell, for example. The texting templates from Michael Fiore and Brad Browning. The love/apology letters from WMXA. The jealousy tactics from Chris Seiter. Or even the advanced relational skills of Clay Andrews.

My ex-back toolbox was a sight to behold. And the more I explained how every tool inside it worked, the more I filled my friends with awe. Or… that’s at least that’s what I thought. In reality, they were just shocked at how unhinged I was and how obsessed I became with getting my ex back.

I thought I got this in the bag; they thought, “My god will this blow up the fucker’s face.”

Eight months later, frustrated, fed up, and upset with the world, I didn’t know what to do anymore. Who would’ve guessed: my attempts at getting back with my ex — hell, even my attempts at merely reconnecting with them — blew up in my face. I’ve used every trick, technique, and tactic in my sexy, shiny toolbox yet still failed, and spectacularly so.

I thought about moving on for a second, but I’ve decided to try one last thing before proceeding with it — something foreign to me, something that would eventually change everything: I decided to risk being honest about how I felt.

So I’ve picked up my phone and sent my ex one last text. In it, I told her that I still loved her, wanted her back, and that if she ever felt the same way, she should reach out so we could try again.

And then I waited…

I waited until the gold of day turned into the blackness of night, until I hurled my bitching phone at that damn wall, until I threw my head on my pillow in despair, until I surrendered to the silence, until I started to sob.

Yet, through my tears and pain, a faint smile appeared.

I finally did it, I thought. After hiding behind games, gimmicks, and fake personas for months, I finally found the courage to be honest and just express my true self. And holy fuck was it refreshing.

And what do you know, even my ex positively responded the following day. She even reached out a couple of weeks later and was somewhat receptive. Holy shit! This never happened before.

But despite my yearning for reconciliation, something didn’t feel right. And then it dawned on me: I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Plus, dating started to feel like an exciting and worthwhile prospect. So after some consideration, I decided to ignore my ex’s texts and moved on instead.

It was this decision that closed the chapter of the little puss-boy clawing for his ex’s validation like a crack addict claws for another hit and opened the one about the heartbroken fuckboy.

I was still years away from maturity, inner peace, or any ounce of strong character, but with the decision to be vulnerable, came my first taste of these things. And as painful and uncomfortable as it was, it was also beautiful and life-changing. And no one could take it away from me.

Consider being more vulnerable with your ex yourself. Maybe it changes everything. Fuck around and find out.