What an amazing three, four (I seem to have lost count) weeks it has been.
I don't have the internet as freely as I did before, so forgive my absence. I hope I didn't worry anyone.
Basically, I have found out that the love of my lifetime is a slimy snake who has been charmed by someone else. It was a concern I had throughout our relationship and the second I stopped worrying about it and just let him be, he was gone. Rather interesting that I accused him time and time again of wanting to be with someone else, anyone else, and he was always stubbornly refuting that claim. I became secure in myself and in his assurances, and then he was gone into another woman's bed.
Upon learning this information (a good two weeks after it happened, I might add) I left immediately. I began packing that day. I stayed with friends. I walked through my life like a trauma victim. I felt like a fool. I felt like a giant asshole. I felt like the world's biggest loser.
Two weeks later (on the first of the month, after I pulled my head out of the sand) I moved into my new apartment. It is in boystown. It is very close to where I used to live before I met him, before he dazzled me with his flashy heart and empty promises. I like to think that it is my way of taking myself to that time, to who I was before I met him, to a fork in the road that I made a promising, but ultimately erroneous turn.
We made three trips back and forth from my new apartment to his place. I couldn't believe I had so much stuff. I gave a lot of stuff to salvation army before moving in and there were still three car loads worth of crap. I still have a dresser there that I need to retrieve. On the third ride back, I saw him riding his bike away from his place. He had likely walked in to find that my piles of boxes were gone, and a scattered array of the things that were meant for the third trip cluttered his living room. He immediately got on his bike to find solace with his friends, I presume, as he was heading in their direction. I am glad we did not encounter each other.
Looking back, I see the signs, I see the old issues ripping open scar tissue, I see how I was. Again, I probably accused him so fiercely because I myself wanted something more, someone else, and one night I found it in someone else's bed. I didn't tell him about it until we broke up, because I knew it was wrong and I knew that what I really wanted, what I didn't want to sacrifice or lose was us. I have a terrible habit of destroying my relationships when I don't know what to do about them, and I also have an incessant need to be adored. This mixed with a night of heaving drinking led me to another man's bed. We did not have sex, but we were intimate with each other. And I wrote it off as a mistake I would never make again.
I feel the need to say this here because I don't want the scales to be improperly balanced. I don't want to make him the bad guy. We both fucked up. We both fucked each other up. Sometimes that is what love looks like.
As I begin the transition of living alone again, of finding things to do with my time, of looking myself in the mirror, I feel that things will work out somehow and I will be just fine. I will probably always wonder about him and miss him, but for now, I am just enjoying the feeling of being by myself and it feels pretty good.
