Well, that was the most short-lived relationship I’ve ever been in. Welcome to the world of adulthood, or something like that?
I’ve been– lost, since the official Handing Down of the Word took place. A little lost. Because it seems like I should be in some sort of emotional state in the aftermath, but I’m not. I’m just– well– I just *am.* No adjective. And according to Kant, being is not a predicate, so where does that leave me?
I’m not angry, not bitter. I’m not *thrilled*, either, obviously– I guess maybe a little sad, sad that I drove him away. Ironically enough, it was my fear that I wasn’t good enough for him that, in the end, made me not good enough for him. Self-fulfilling prophecies and all that shit. But I suppose that’s what happens; one person once upon a time tells you you don’t deserve to be in a relationship with anyone, you don’t deserve to be loved– you end up dating a string of guys who are nice enough but who have considerable flaws and who don’t treat you exceptionally well, and then you meet someone about whom you, oddly enough, have no reservations whatsoever, and king of kings, he likes you and you start dating. And the whole time, you keep telling yourself that this is too good to be true, that it’ll only be a matter of time before he sees what an undeserving, unlovable mess you are, and so a part of you starts preparing for that time to come and in the interim, sits in the corner filled with anticipation and dread.
As happy, as incredibly happy as we were, I still needed– so much– constant reassurance that we were okay, that I was still wanted and missed. But I was too proud and embarrassed to ask for it, so of course he didn’t give me any, so of course my worried little self took it to mean maybe we weren’t okay, then, and maybe I wasn’t still wanted after all. He picked up on the unspoken paranoia and, when it didn’t go away, felt the need to get out. Who could blame him? Everyone needs validation, sure, but in my case, the validation needed can be too demanding.
I’m so hesitant to even think about defending myself because if I’m justified, the implications are– something that would hurt even more than this break-up itself. But sometimes, I wonder if the lack of validation from him wouldn’t have affected me so much had I not gotten the exact same validation every single day from other people in my life, from friends, family, strangers. I was getting the words I wanted, needed to hear from every single person except the one from whom I wanted to hear them more than anyone else. But I hated the fact that I needed the validation so much– I hated acknowledging the existence of any insecurities of mine– that I kept silent. And maybe that was the fatal mistake. Then again, it’s just as probable– more so, in my mind– that if I *had* asked, that would have driven him nuts as well.
There’s really not much more to say. I’ve no intentions of devising a Great Plan! on how to "win him back," since he made it quite clear that he is firm about his decision, and I have been in a very strong laissez-faire/que-sera-sera mentality ever since having moved back to Las Vegas. I feel guilty that I’m not torn apart by this loss of him from my life, especially since I wanted so much for him to be around for a long, long time– though this placidness could just be a form of shell-shock and massive heartache could very well kick in some days from now. Truth, in the five hours leading up to when he called me to deliver The Talk, I couldn’t stop crying (intermittently) because I was so sure of what he was going to say– and then he called, and he said it, and my voice didn’t even waver once during *that* conversation. And strangely enough, it’s when I’m *not* obsessing over this, *not* analyzing everything he said and everything I said and the ways in which we said it all, that something in my chest starts to tighten and tremble.
But presently, it just seems to me that the ease (well, "ease"– when we were on the phone, I did try to make a case for him to just give us a chance, but by the end, I just sighed and shrugged my acquiescence) with which I’ve accepted this loss indicates that what I had with him must not have mattered very much to me, when I have never believed anything except the opposite. I didn’t get to see him very often, true, but when we were together, I cherished every second.
We had a good run. We had a *great* run. He made me breathtakingly happy and it’s safe to say that I brought a good amount of happiness into his life, too, for that short while– and what’s to be regretted about that? We should all always be so lucky, to be able to make someone else in this world that happy.
He wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last, and this– this, this a calamity it shall not be.
I guess I should go take down that voodoo worship altar of him in my bedroom closet, now.
(Kidding. I don’t have a bedroom closet. It’s in the coat closet downstairs.)