Breaking up is one of those uncomfortable experiences that has become extremely familiar to me. Frustration. Loss. Renewal. Reawakening. When I was twelve a break up meant I hate you, but now it means symbolically divorcing myself from someone I still care about. . . someone who I can no longer function with, someone who no longer makes me happy.
There are times when I wonder why I hung on for so long. Was I that addicted to hope? Did love cloud my judgment? Did I subconsciously hate myself and feared being alone?
The longer that I am single, the more I realize how underestimated I was in my last relationship. I wasn't devalued in an insulting or degrading way, at least not in the last few years, but standards were low, incredibly low, and I'm still baffled as to why he thought our situation was okay, or how he whole heartedly believed that a young woman like myself would simply accept and settle.
I'm still expected to buckle at the knees when I receive attention, empty promises, or flowery expressions of love, and it infuriates me. This is where he thinks I'm going to play the goof. Then he thinks I'm going to go back to playing the savior. Instead, I'm playing the asshole.
It's ironic how one woman can put up with so much pain, betrayal, and bullshit, and still come out as the bad guy. Unfortunate for him, I no longer care.