It's been a week and a few days now.
Since I went from having a boyfriend to HAD a boyfriend.
I can't even call him my ex. I've had one of those before, and I only liked using the word “ex” because it meant that we had something significant, something that was ENOUGH to use such a mainstream word such as “ex”. And having it be real, that was the opposite of what they wanted. They wanted to wish it all away.
But I can't call him my ex now. Or yesterday.
And probably not tomorrow.
Because “ex” is too much like “X” and that's too much like my old math tests where my answers were marked out with a big fat X and I would leave the room feeling...well like how I normally felt in a math class. Stupid. Resentful. That I never saw my mistakes coming and only understood them AFTER the test.
Him being my ex is also too much like “X marks the spot”, because in this case it clearly lies across my chest. Because my heart is broken. But when we were together it lay comfortably across my future, because I could not have both him and the future I wanted, not to the fullness that my heart is willing to fight for.
And the days have become easier, did I mention that?
Well, they have.
I still don't like leaving my house.
And my phone is horribly painful for me to be around.
Because his name never pops up anymore, like it did constantly...before.
Before when he was mine.
And please excuse me for being horribly emotional, but I'm allowed to be, so whatever.
Tonight I feel not good enough.
Tomorrow I will be glad that my life is moving on.
But tonight, I hate that the alcohol, and the drugs, and the bum life was more important than me.
That when I came to get my stuff he decided to go help his friend out with something and then had no way to make it back.
A mile down the road to his house.
When he knew that I had driven 2 hours to see him. And to get my stuff.
In the end he asked me to just come down the road and see him.
And I didn't. Because I had spent so much of our relationship choosing him over me.
And he spent so much of our relationship choosing himself over me.
That for once, someone had to choose me, because I was worth it. And who better than to make that choice, than me?
So I didn't go.
And of course he got pissed.
But I had my say for once, and that was great.
And I chose myself, and that felt great.
And I've finally stopped crying myself to sleep at night, and that feels super great.
It's been two weeks since I saw him last. Hugged him last. Did everything last.
One week since we broke up.
I'm looking forward to when I can't count how long it's been.
Since I went from having a boyfriend to HAD a boyfriend.
I can't even call him my ex. I've had one of those before, and I only liked using the word “ex” because it meant that we had something significant, something that was ENOUGH to use such a mainstream word such as “ex”. And having it be real, that was the opposite of what they wanted. They wanted to wish it all away.
But I can't call him my ex now. Or yesterday.
And probably not tomorrow.
Because “ex” is too much like “X” and that's too much like my old math tests where my answers were marked out with a big fat X and I would leave the room feeling...well like how I normally felt in a math class. Stupid. Resentful. That I never saw my mistakes coming and only understood them AFTER the test.
Him being my ex is also too much like “X marks the spot”, because in this case it clearly lies across my chest. Because my heart is broken. But when we were together it lay comfortably across my future, because I could not have both him and the future I wanted, not to the fullness that my heart is willing to fight for.
And the days have become easier, did I mention that?
Well, they have.
I still don't like leaving my house.
And my phone is horribly painful for me to be around.
Because his name never pops up anymore, like it did constantly...before.
Before when he was mine.
And please excuse me for being horribly emotional, but I'm allowed to be, so whatever.
Tonight I feel not good enough.
Tomorrow I will be glad that my life is moving on.
But tonight, I hate that the alcohol, and the drugs, and the bum life was more important than me.
That when I came to get my stuff he decided to go help his friend out with something and then had no way to make it back.
A mile down the road to his house.
When he knew that I had driven 2 hours to see him. And to get my stuff.
In the end he asked me to just come down the road and see him.
And I didn't. Because I had spent so much of our relationship choosing him over me.
And he spent so much of our relationship choosing himself over me.
That for once, someone had to choose me, because I was worth it. And who better than to make that choice, than me?
So I didn't go.
And of course he got pissed.
But I had my say for once, and that was great.
And I chose myself, and that felt great.
And I've finally stopped crying myself to sleep at night, and that feels super great.
It's been two weeks since I saw him last. Hugged him last. Did everything last.
One week since we broke up.
I'm looking forward to when I can't count how long it's been.
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