Crying is a weird pastime. It makes other humans feel awkward, screws my face all up to heck, gives me a headache, kinda makes me wanna throw up, and ruins my eye makeup.
Well, I guess I’ll control the one I can control.
Day 3 of no eye makeup.
You’ll recall all of those lovely things I said about my fella last post? Or maybe you won’t. I don’t presume to know your personal levels of reading comprehension and/or retention. In any event, I said a bunch of nice things about my fella. I meant them. They were true. He was great. We had a great time. We never fought. He said incredibly nice things about me to everyone who happened by. When I was gone, he said he missed me. When I was there, he said he appreciated me. I thought he was the cleverest, funniest, most generous, most beautiful, best man in the world.
Monday afternoon, he sent me a text – a fucking TEXT, mind you (not that I’m bitter) (Oh, I’m bitter. I’m bitter as fucking hell) – informing me that he had done some thinking the night before and he is not in love with me and I should go find someone who is and it shouldn’t be very hard because I’m so great and everyone thinks so and hopefully we can still be friends.
I’ll be the first to admit, I did not see that coming. You know who else didn’t see it coming?? MY ENTIRE BAR FULL OF PEOPLE. He text me right in the middle of my shift. I lost my mind. I was fairly slammed at the time, and had only even looked at my phone at all because I was waiting on a text from my boss. I saw just enough of what he had to say to know that he was breaking up with me. I made an admirable attempt to hold it together, but I can only do so much under the circumstances (“the circumstances” meaning being me).
My poor friend’s husband approached thinking he could just walk up and get a beer. No such luck today, Big Guy.
“Can I please have a hug,” I asked him. To his credit, he immediately obliged. Possibly because if he hugged me it would obscure the sight of my contorted, weepy face, but equally possible that it was a response of genuine concern.
“What happened?” he asked, awkwardly allowing me to bury my face in his t-shirt.
“He just broke up with me,” I sobbed.
He patted my back as you might pat the back of a baby who is suffering but may also have some communicable illness, so you want to be kind of careful about it, and told me that his wife was on her way and everything would be better when she got there and she would know what to say. Somewhere in my broken brain, I remember filing away that when I calmed down, I’d have to have a good laugh about how uncomfortable I’d made him.
And I went back to work, crying all the way.
Those of you who have seen me cry know that this is not a subtle endeavor. Therefore almost every drink I served sparked questions about why I was crying. I answered them, and was met with a chorus of “He’s an idiot”s from just about every person in the place, and particular shock from those regulars who had seen us in the bar together. Small comfort, but it was nice of them. I got a few hugs, and more than a few pity tips, I’m sure. At least I’ll be able to afford a pedicure on the weekend. One guy I had never met before announced, “He has someone else. When they do it this way, it’s always because there is someone else.” To which I internally responded, ‘WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU TO SAY A THING LIKE THAT TO A PERSON!?!?!?’ but externally I nodded and walked away.
So, here we are, three days hence, and I’m still sorting it out.
I think the thing is, I feel stupid. I think that’s the worst of it.
Is he this selfish? This cowardly? One would suppose I would notice such gaping character flaws.
I don’t get it. And really, I can’t bring myself to believe he is those things. I still kinda think he’s wonderful. But if he’s as wonderful as I think he is, I don’t know how to make sense of these actions. And so I just feel stupid.
Stupid is the worst. I feel like I should be immune to it by now, but I’m not. I hate it. I feel completely humiliated. And why? The details of the end of this story make it seem that maybe he is a bit of a jerk, which might make me feel better for a minute, but I’m not sure I can really believe it. Even if it were absolutely true, that has far-reaching implications. Why would I date a jerk? How did I not notice if he was a jerk? How am I still so easy to fool? I don’t know.
That’s the next level of awful about this. I’m going to do it again. Maybe the next guy will be awesome. Maybe we’ll get along great and he won’t be an idiot or an asshole and maybe he will actually be a bigger man than I am, but if he isn’t I WON’T KNOW UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE BECAUSE I’M AN IDIOT.
Why couldn’t he just talk to me? Why couldn’t we sit down and discuss it? Even if it was still necessary to call off the relationship, why couldn’t he let me keep some measure of pride? Why, after eight years of friendship and dating, couldn’t he muster the respect and affection necessary to offer me some level of support and closure? I’ve ended some relationships in my past, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever done it with so little consideration for the other person. I can deal with my boyfriend realizing he is not in love with me. It’s the fact that my friend didn’t seem to care about me at all that is devastating.
I am trying to process my feelings here without being overly dramatic. (I suspect I am failing…) I am trying to remind myself not to take it personally. He didn’t treat me that way because I deserved it, or probably even because he thought I deserved it. He acted that way because that’s how he needed to handle it for some reason. I am trying to find the wherewithal to respect the fact that I’m still able to give people the benefit of the doubt even after having been hurt so many times. I don’t want to feel ashamed of that. I want to feel proud of it. It’s just hard to feel proud while I feel so fucking stupid.
Does anybody know of a non-religious order of nuns I could join?