The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seemed filled
with the intent to be lost
that their loss is no disaster
This is the first time I’ve written as a single person in about a year. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what I even want to write about. I just know that I need to do it. It needs to happen. So I can heal. Understand myself better. Grow.
The past few months have been tumultuous to say the least. Among all the fighting that happened every couple of days, there were the holidays, day to day living, work, and breaking up with [him]. It’s been pretty official for about a week or more now. He got the last of his stuff (aside from the couch) today. It was super emotional and I felt horrible. He was crying and begging and really had hope that if he talked to me, I’d cave and give him that one last chance that he said would prove him a real man after all. I didn’t cave. In fact, it just concreted everything I had felt. I only wished he had made this life changing decision, to be a different man, when we were still together. But now the hurt has dissipated to indifference. And we all know, that’s the true opposite of love right? Once I became indifferent and emotion no longer blurred my vision, or wet my pillow, there was no turning back. The love that I had for him was gone. Completely buried in the graveyard of other lost relationships. Never to be resurrected with words. That was the hardest part: seeing the hope in his eyes getting dimmer and dimmer. He said even his mom was heartbroken. That almost got me. But like a wary consumer, I kept my distance far and my guard up, from this wing-tip shoed salesman. Obviously, my heart (and wallet) had been robbed before and I wasn’t about to fall for the hustle again. Fool me once, shame on you… I had been shamed about 250 times. At least. And that may be a conservative estimate.
While talking to [the other one] tonight, I mentioned I wasn’t even sure why I had gotten into a relationship. Was it just to prove that I had what it took to be in a committed one without running at the first sign of permanency? Possibly. Considering my last really significant relationship was one of scandal and adultery, and the last one before [him] was a man with a girlfriend. Did I even have faith that commitment, fidelity still existed? I had to find out. And my little experiment ended up costing me more than a triple-fold piece of cardboard, some baking powder, and vinegar. No, there were casualties in my experiment. People died. My hypothesis was only accurate in relation to the outside world. Inside the house, in the bedroom, in my relationship, I failed completely.
I know I shouldn’t feel like a failure considering I really did everything I could, or knew how, to love him with everything within me. Unfortunately, the amount of love I had for him just wasn’t great enough to fill the void that he needed. He was damaged goods. Damaged beyond an outlet store. He needed to go back to the manufacturer to get refurbished. Unfortunately, he mistakenly thought I was that manufacturer… that I could fix him. He was broken long before I got o him. And now he’s beyond repair. Ready for demolition. I did that. I don’t say that proudly. I say that with a hunch in my shoulders; the weight of this man’s lost pride and wounded ego bearing down on my shoulders. It hurts. Knowing I wouldn’t give it “just one more chance”… knowing he really WOULD have done absolutely anything to make me happy. It was very hard letting him go, knowing all of these things.
I worried about the kids, his and mine; wondered how they would feel. [He] wasn’t here to play with them anymore. Their male role model was gone. The man who disciplined, loved, played, and cooked for them. He wasn’t coming back home tonight… or ever. I worried about his kids. His mom. His sister. His dad. His cousins. But all of those people, had I stayed, were going to feel the residual effects of a bad relationship eventually. It just shows up in less obvious ways. They start out as hairline fractures in their stable lives, and end up canyons that divide what they thought they knew from what is now their reality.
I think what I just realized tonight is that the most disappointing part of this relationship is knowing that I can’t trust anything that he says anymore. It takes so much for me to be truly comfortable with someone… and when I finally start to get to that point, he just argues and threatens to leave… and I fight back and tell him to go. Then we make up and it’s back to “normal” again. And there’s always this little piece of hope or happiness or whatever it may be… that will never come back. He promises things that never happen for more than a day or two. Then we hit rewind and go right back to the beginning. As if nothing were ever said. Starting from the very first fight, when I was so incredibly happy. Couldn’t believe I had found someone who had everything I could ever want (in a person anyway). Then the big blow… he’s screwing other people (yeah, people). Ok fine. That’s my karma obviously. And that shit fucking hurt. It hurt like fuck. Probably because I really thought I had my guy back… after all these years. I finally had him again… and it was perfect. So I thought. And shit yeah, I totally let him talk me back into being with him. I wanted him. HIM. I wanted to be with him and I was afraid that if I didn’t take him back, I would lose out on what could be the love of my life. And hell yeah, there were fights. Brutal fights. Conflicts that I’ve never experienced in my life. Almost to the point of physical pain… almost. But the love in between was so great. When we’re happy, we’re ecstatic. And as we all know, what goes up…
When I decided I wanted our relationship to go deeper, I gave him a key to the house. He was staying over every night anyway. And I was 98% sure he wasn’t seeing anyone else. So he slowly moved all of his stuff over. And he put in for the address change. And we got a joint bank account. And I considered marrying him. And I let my guard down. I also got super comfortable and stopped having sex as often. Once, maybe twice, per week. I tried being more affectionate and started telling him EVERYTHING. Shit that most people would never, ever know (or care to) about me. But we’re just not on the same level sex-wise. We never have been, or will be. I will never be that girl who just wants to fuck on a moment’s notice. And he’s the guy who wants sex anytime, anywhere. As we all know, this is NOT the first time this has come up. It will be the death of me. He promised me he would never leave me because I didn’t give him ass. That it was fucking stupid to lose someone like me, who loves him (through good/bad, unemployment and work drama, broke and not, etc), his kids, his family, over something so trivial as sex. And besides, he says, sex once/twice per week is actually great for two working people with kids. We’re tired… that’s life. So I thought. Fast forward about a thousand fights (and only 9 months) later… and here we are, not even arguing about lack of sex anymore. We just don’t even talk about it now. He just mopes around the house because it’s been a week. And is on edge. And tells me he’s happy. No, miserable. No, happy… he doesn’t know. And I know that deep down to his core, he needs sex to make himself feel needed… wanted… important… like a person. This goes way beyond him just wanting… needing sex. This goes to the very core of his soul. He needs sex. He is a sexual being. And I’m not. And god dammit this isn’t the first time this has happened. Sigh.
So here we are; in separate rooms because he doesn’t care anymore. He goes to bed early because he doesn’t care about how I’m feeling (his words) anymore. Early is 7 pm lately. And a couple fights ago, we resolved to split, on good terms, in January if things continue like this. Neither of us think we will make it ‘til then. Funny how he wanted to marry me a few months ago… and now he goes to bed early to avoid feeling rejected by me. We can’t even see ourselves together a little over than a month from now. Ain’t love grand.