A Good Man Is Hard to Let Go

Good men aren’t just good, Billie Hill writes, they’re priceless.

A good man is hard to find, to be sure. Hold him tight.

Good men, kind men, compassionate men are out there, and they are desirable no matter what anyone says. They are so desirable that when you meet a man who opens doors for you, pays the tab, comes to your aid no matter the cost, and seems to relish every moment with you, when he decides he no longer wants to be with you … your world may seem to crumble.

I’ve been in the ‘bad boy’ relationships. I’ve not bothered to get to know men because they didn’t bother to get to know me. I’ve tried Internet dating, blind dates, and the grocery store. In general, I’ve not shared intimate details. I’ve not shared my favorite colors or the fact that I guiltily adore romantic comedies. I’ve not shared that I enjoy chatting with children, adore Fred Rogers, lust for a signature perfume, or that I would KILL for Dita Von Teese’s or Christina Hendricks’ wardrobe. If I don’t have a nightcap or a sleep aid, I have elaborate dreamlike nightmares that wake me up—gasping for no reason—staring into the closet, up at the ceiling, through the bathroom door, or suddenly I wake up at the front door, wondering where I can hide.

With him, I could share some of those things.

♦◊♦

I learned that I stop breathing in my sleep nightly. I learned I clean my glasses nearly constantly, and that if I’m not careful, he flinches in his sleep if I touch him. With him, I also learned what selflessness really is.

What man would purchase four brand new tires for you, replace a battery, replace spark plugs, replace a radiator, supply your dog with food when you’ve run out (and adore that dog at the same time), pick you up in the middle of a road trip and leave work to do so, go to the grocery store (for more than half a day), and buy food at your request so he doesn’t eat oven-baked frozen pizza or McDonald’s every day (and instead gets a home-cooked meal).

This one did…and I never asked him for any of those things. In fact, I told him I didn’t want those things. But, I took them. That was probably a mistake.

We spent a glorious four months together. We shared interests, politics, the sex was awesome, and we had a few arguments here and there (but who doesn’t have those?). We laughed a lot, and learned each other’s tickle spots (which is hard to find on me). The idea, at 37, of being in a long-term relationship no longer seemed bleak. Come on, I adore a man in his 30s who has never been married, doesn’t have kids, loves my dog while I adore his, and seems to actually give a shit? Wow.

♦◊♦

The only other man I had cared about this much committed suicide. I beat myself up. I was sure it was my fault. I had given him an ultimatum. He was ill and refused to take care of himself—a diabetic who is in the hospital six times per year should not be in a bar nightly or be eating fast food nearly daily. My lecturing didn’t help. The ultimatum was that if he didn’t see a doctor on a regular basis, I could never see him again. This man that I loved more than anything cut his wrists shortly after, in the bathtub, with a lady razor. Dead. Dead. Dead. I entered into this new endeavor with tremors: a glimmer of a relationship of any sort with some hefty luggage.

Baggage is never a good thing, but neither are preconceived notions of what a ‘good man’ is.

The closer I got to him, the more I cared about him, the more I felt I was awful. Again, I felt there was no way I deserved a man like him. This man, whose family had enough issues to cover every spectrum, was patient, kind, and humorous despite being the emotional rock for his clan. He was patient with me. He never asked me to change in any way. I smoke, I drink, I’m mercurial…it can be rather taxing. And he never asked me to change a thing.

I constantly worried that there was no way in hell I was good enough for this man, and I proved it. My obsessions and manic-depressive disorder caught up with me.

♦◊♦

We had made plans to go to an event, and I had spoke with a blast from the past. Before I knew it, I was drunk.

I showered, dressed, put the dog in her harness, and drove to his house. Needless to say, he was not pleased. He texted me, all but begging me to leave his house after I had passed out crying and he left for the event. Pleading with him to lecture me or yell at me would not do; he was gone. I knew, at that moment, I had ruined it.

He said he would call me in a few days after he cooled off. We talked, and he relayed his experiences with his mother, of which I already was fully aware. After it all, he and his dog (my only other companions, aside from my own dog) left.

I’ve done my best to keep my distance, it’s not been that long. Tonight, my dog has a sleep-over night with his. I’ve missed her for the few hours that she’s been gone, and I could barely make eye contact with him today. I can’t see him and our dogs together…not yet. With these dogs, it’s like being a divorced couple with children—and it’s painful.

♦◊♦

Despite my dysfunctions, I know there’s nothing wrong with me. I know after that I am as worthy as anyone of a ‘good guy.’ I just have to be patient enough and disciplined enough to find him and let him find me…despite my glaring flaws.

A good man is hard to find, a good man is hard to keep, and a good man is even harder to let go. I’ve had to do it twice.

Men that care like they do, and did, are not only good…they’re priceless. Find them. Keep them.

—Photo crimsong19/Flickr