My friend Dennis called yesterday to tell me all about his first foray into the roping world. He went to the annual free easter roping at one of the more local arenas. Being free and all, it was crowded, but it was a good place for a rookie to make his start—he wouldn’t put anyone else out their entry fees if he missed.

And he did miss, but I think he went far towards conquering the butterflies. Roping competitively is very different than roping in the practice pen. It was good for him.

He rode Rowdy, the one Cowboy kind of keeps around for other people to ride. And he rode up with Cowboy and Chris.

I chided Dennis when he told me—I’ve been there through all of his learning (hell, I introduced him to his coach, and asked him to teach my friend to rope) and I would have loved to be there at his first competition.

Dennis carefully didn’t say anything, at which point it hit me hard.

I am not welcome at ropings any more.

I am not part of that family, even though I had a big hand in putting it together.

They (he) don’t want me there.

I’ve been excluded from my own life.

Dennis was in an awkward place. He wouldn’t have minded me going, but since he was there on the charity of the one who does mind, he couldn’t very well ask me.

This breaks my heart all over again.

I think I’ve given up on hope, and to hell with faith. There’s no point, and both are just evil ways to artificially keep myself afloat, or at least to take my mind off the fact that I’m drowning.

It was supposed to get easier, but it hasn’t, not one bit.

He said he wanted to slow down, but he’s come to a full stop without even bothering to tell me. He won’t return my phone calls. I’m starting to doubt that he ever did love me, which makes everything I’ve believed in for the last three years a fake and a lie.