I knew all along that this ending was a likely probability. We’ve tried and failed so many times. I’m not sure I would say it wasn’t worth the try. I longed for the days when we were together and happy. Evidently you did, too.
So we tried. We got along great, which is something we could never say of our entire marriage. But something was missing. There was no spark. No passion. No fire. We were more like a couple of friends sharing a place, albeit friends sharing the same bed. But friends nonetheless.
We finally acknowledged the leviathan elephant in the room. We agreed we felt the same way. We also agreed that we would continue as roommates since, essentially, that’s what we already were. No big deal, right?
When we spoke I told you I wasn’t ready for you to date yet. I said that because in the past you’ve made yourself available to other men literally the second we were done. I know you and your need for attention, but despite the fact I didn’t necessarily want to be in a relationship with you I was also uncomfortable with the thought of you being with someone else. Is that selfish? Possibly. Is it out of my control? Entirely. It makes no sense to me that I feel thus even though I no longer harbor romantic feelings for you. But there we are. The heart is a confusing, twisted bitch. I also confessed that I knew this wasn’t exactly a fair request, but it seemed reasonable enough since I was willing to make the same concession.
The following weekend we had two outings. We took C to the zoo and the Out of the Darkness walk. During both events you had your head buried in your phone and your fingers furiously flying over your keyboard. You ignored our son most of both days while you stared at your digital ball and chain and texted back and forth with Lord only knows who.
I’m not stupid, although unreasonable minds may differ. I knew what was going on. I knew there was some dude at the other end of your conversation. I confronted you about it. I was hurt. I was irate. I was done.
You have always been, and will likely always be, a horrible liar. You didn’t see anything wrong with having “conversations”. You told me you liked to hear that you are beautiful (I highly doubt you were in an intense conversation with your BFF in which she was telling you how beautiful you are). You told me not to worry and that you’d never bring some man home. You told me it wasn’t fair for me to expect you not to move on. You never once explicitly denied you were talking to another dude. All of those things allude to you either seeing, or trying to see, someone. Couple that with your past behavior and I’m now convinced you’re doing, or trying to do, the one thing I told you I wasn’t prepared for.
I stopped talking to you. You didn’t seem to care that what you were doing was hurting me. Your lack of compassion for my feelings and your refusal to be honest ignited an inferno within me. It got to the point that being in the same room with you burned my nerves. I was short with my children. My patience evaporated. I was agitated, irate, red in the face, and ready to lash out. But I didn’t. I also didn’t like feeling the way I felt. I desperately wanted to honor our agreement to stay roommates, but I was consumed by my rage.
Unsure how to quench my fury, I turned to a neglected friend: alcohol. Not the best choice I’ve ever made; not by a longshot. But I figured, correctly, that being drunk beat being pissed off at the world 10 different ways to Sunday. After about four straight days of that, however, I realized that this wasn’t a sustainable lifestyle for me. I had no desire to drink every day. I had no desire to live in a constant state of rage that could only be abated by spirits. I had no desire for my children to see me using bottles as an escape route from my misery. I had no desire to keep pretending in front of the children that I couldn’t fucking stand you or your fraudulent ways.
So, for the sake of my mental health, I asked you to leave.
And you did. No longer do I have to face you after a stressful day at work. No longer do I have to fake a smile for our son’s sake when we’re in the same room. No longer do I have to seethe as you try to talk to me as if nothing is wrong. No longer am I reaching for bottled demons just to escape a cage of anger. Just…no longer.
Yes, I’m angry with you. I’m also, however, angry with myself. I’m angry because, for the fifth time, I tried to fit a square peg in a round hole (or is it the other way around?). I’m angry for believing you when you said you’d changed. Again. I’m angry I let my desire for that which is unattainable make a choice that was unhealthy for me.
No, I didn’t discuss my anger with you. I tried and you refused to hear – really hear – what I had to say. You rationalized your actions and dismissed my feelings. That, dear, is why I’m angry. That is why we’ll likely never truly be friends. That is why I asked you to leave.