So, if I may, I am going to bury this spastic post in the pile of weekend blog posts that nobody ever reads and hopefully it will get "marked as read" on Monday with all the other people clogging up your feeds with NaBloPoMo shiz. Because, yeah. I'm going to totally indulge in my mopey wallowy-ness for a minute. And it's going to be awkward.
I know it's kind of a bullshit logic, but I feel like I shouldn't be allowed to be sad, because this was my decision. I was the one that walked away. I was the one who decided I didn't want this any more.
You know what, though? It's kind of a lie. I did want it, still. But wanting and having are two different things, and all the wanting in the world doesn't change the fact that his heart was with someone else. Sticking around would have been some form of masochism, an emotional abuse that I inflicted upon myself while hoping and waiting for things to change. And they might not ever change.
So, really, while it was my choice, it wasn't much of a choice. I don't do the whole consolation-prize thing. I still have that vague hope that someday someone is going to want ME, and just me. (I know, how presumptuous of me.)(/sarcasm.)
On the whole, I feel okay. I've done this enough times, I am far from broken. Other than a lingering sadness, nothing really feels different. (To be fair, though, this whole thing has been weighing on me for quite a while, so I've had some time to adjust to the idea). It's one of those situations where you realize how much you've grown as a person and how much different things are when you're - omg - an adult, rather than that weird in-between of your early twenties where you are adamant about how you are no longer a teenager, but you still kind of think and act like one, because you don't know shit about life yet. So that's kind of nice. This whole being-an-adult thing comes with a nice helping of not hurting. Or maybe that's just me and the protective coat of numbness that I've been systematically building over the last however many years.
I'm still sad, though. Part of me aches for something that's not there, and I'm still closing the gap. Something will pop into my head and I have to refrain from reaching for my phone. Well, there must be someone else who would find this funny, I think to myself, but with a sigh, realize it's not the same, and just let the thought pass. And I miss being held. I miss having something to look forward to on the weekends.
And maybe it's not specific to him. I sometimes wonder if I'm just flat-out lonely. Probably, I was making this out in my head to be something it wasn't. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't what I thought it was. Maybe I was hoping it was something more than it was ever going to be. Maybe I've overthought things, again. Maybe I'm overthinking it again right now. Maybe it was just some bullshit pseudo-relationshippy thing that passed as something worthwhile. It kind of felt legitimate, for me, anyway, but I've been wrong before. I'm not going to think too hard about what was on the other side of that mirror. Whether he ever really felt anything for me at all. That's a dangerous territory to wander around in, though, so it's best if I don't. I'd rather not know.
So anyway, in summary: I'm sad. I'm kind of bummed. I'm lonely. I'm disappointed. But I'm okay.