the end.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

I've never been a fan of endings.
And it doesn't matter what kind they are: expected, anticipated or even made by me, they always leave some kind of scar behind.
I've cut off bad people and felt the guilt of doing so (am I the only jerk who does that?!).
I've stayed up late and cried over leaving jobs and schools that I had no interest being in.
And even today, I sit here knowing that I'm in such a better place not being with him anymore-- that it was literally destroying me as a person, that I'm seeing someone so insanely nice, that my life is so much better for it-- but it still hurts me for some crazy, flawed reason.

All of the different phases of the end just rip me open over and over again.
I've sat here blocking and unblocking his number. Writing and rewriting angry text messages. Almost hitting the send button and then stopping, the fury in my chest disintegrating as my brain overrides it.

I want to scream at him. For once, I want to not be the nice, high-road taking, accommodating one.
Let him know that I know everything: the cheating, the lying.
That he didn't love me, just loved me carrying him.
To tell him that he never took responsibility for anything.
To tell him how much of an asshole he is for cutting off Teddy-- a dog that did nothing but love him. Just like a did.
To tell him that for the better part of 12 years I spent half of my time rationalizing his lack of love for me and the other half apologizing to others for his behavior.
That the person I'm seeing has given me more affection than he ever did in our 12 years together.
So much that I physically didn't know how to handle someone wanting to be like that with me.
That I'm still learning how to handle it along with all of the other ways this new guy is sweet and caring and not at all what I've been used to the past decade or so. And, god, isn't that sad?
To tell him that he never measured up.
Was never good enough.
And that, perhaps, all along I knew it.

That he's out getting VIP tickets to concerts while I'm wondering if I can afford groceries next month because he refuses to accept responsibility for anything that he did with me.
That I know he's a liar and a garbage human being and that I hope his new girlfriend doesn't take 12 years to realize that he's a selfish asshole.
That every time I see his friends post about him or saw him #bestfriends I flash back to that moment in the apartment when he said that he wanted to cut all of those "losers" off and I said, "work on it," like the nice, supportive jerk that I am.
That I can destroy him on so many fronts by telling everyone the truth about him, what he's done, and who he really is (and am tempted, after all he's put me through, to hurt him back as hard as I can), but that I'd rather be poor, walk away, block his number and never talk to him for as long as I live because he's just so fucking toxic.

I mourn the person he used to be: my best friend, my confidante, someone I thought hung the moon in the sky, the once-epitome of everything important to me.
For all of the false future plans I had-- that he let me have while he was cheating on me, while he dangled a ring in front of me like some kind of dog.
For the people we used to be when we were at our best.
(And I feel pangs of guilt as I wonder if I had a hand in creating the horrible, heartless creature he is today.)

And maybe that's why endings suck, each one carving out a piece of me: because we'll never be those people we were back then ever again.
We'll never be the kids in love ever again. Never split Five Guys fries and watch a movie at the end of his bed. Never make trips to Fairway in our pajamas for ice cream. None of it.

But those were the good times.
Only the good times come to our mind at the end.
Not the times when I wish he would stop talking because, God, I didn't fucking care about the same small-time drama going on at work and his lack of uninfluenced opinion about it. When I begged him to carry his weight in the relationship. When we stopped having things to talk about.  When he stopped kissing me or supporting me or even thinking of me. When I basically turned into Vanessa from Juno when he told me that he wanted to be a DJ.

And my mind doesn't immediately flash back to the the shell of a person, the angry, anti-social, resentful girlfriend I became.
The one who didn't laugh. Who hated everything and had fury living in her chest. Who did everything simply because it all needed to get done. Who would lie on the couch depressed until he came home and I forced myself to be happy again-- for his sake and support, of course, never for my own benefit. Who carried my own weight and his. Who never put myself first, ever. Whose expectations were so low that her catch phrase toward everything-- even when he told me that he didn't love me-- was "it's fine."
If I had gone any deeper down that road what would I have become?
For all of that and then some, I am thankful that it ended.
I'm thankful that I get up everyday and not hate my life (despite how little it has actually changed: I still live and work in the same place, still have all of the same responsibilities if not more. Says a lot, doesn't it?).
I'm thankful that there is no longer a fog cast over my future, but instead this open world of possibility. That I'm excited about things and people again.

Thankful that I can feel lovable and wanted again. And that I can want someone again, too. That I can giggle and feel electricity run through my veins with just one look after years of not feeling a thing. That I get to discover someone new, and in turn remember all the things that make me who I am. That I don't have to spend mental energy wondering if I'm enough; I can be unapologetically myself, flaws and all. I don't have to fit myself into a box any longer: not the girlfriend box, not the fiance box, none of it, and I can just be.

That I can want to be and do better in all parts of my life. That I want to learn about new things and hang with new people and discover new parts about life that I never would have before.
That I am starting to perceive things as challenges versus struggles (a concept that had disappeared for me for quite sometime). That I have the ability to overcome. That the plates around me are starting to spin again and not topple over.

And don't get me wrong, it isn't a perfect process; I still fail and falter and make poor choices. I still get those unbearable pangs of loneliness, still find myself cancelling plans to lie on the couch when things get to be a little too much to take, still think and overthink and overthink some more when things get a little too good. And there are days when I whip out my pack of cigarettes and berate myself for being so freaking stupid again...

It's a process.
But at the end of all of this, slowly but surely, I'm finding my way.
Not back to who I was, but to-- I'd like to believe--something better.
How terribly cliche (and terribly exciting): perhaps it's a new beginning.

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