I'm in a dark room as I type this, mulling over the right things to say, roughly five months after I decided to end this blog on my own terms. I ended this blog, the same way I ended all my other relationships--upon my discretion, whenever I stopped having fun. I was always the one who called the shots. The guy who always got what he wanted.
I have been planning to write for a long time now, but I had my reservations. What would I write? How could I put the pain to intelligible words, if I could put it to words at all? How could I simulate the heavy, empty feeling of losing someone that meant so much to me? Would I choke back tears as I talked about the anguish and hopelessness?
To answer the last question, I didn't choke back the tears--because there weren't any to begin with. What was left after a seemingly decent closure (a word I am trying to reconcile my thoughts with, because it's a contradiction in itself; what's to close when both parties are no longer open to the possibility of real reconciliation, which in essence means getting back together?) is a curious feeling, betrayal, some sort of anger.... in me, at least.
But I guess, in some way, that's how I always felt. Betrayal, whenever he wouldn't keep a promise he thought I forgot. Sadness, whenever something happened that confirmed my suspicions. Anger, when I saw myself in him--the worst part of me, that is.
All the good and optimistic promises of love... I might've lost it much earlier than he did. I possibly lost it the moment I flirted with another guy for the first time, and the second, then the third...followed by a series of men, the memory of whom is already a murky vision in my head. I was merely holding on way before he pulled the plug. Much earlier than when he said that he'd fallen out. Was I still in love when I read all the conversations he had had with other guys? Or was it pride that drove me through the roof?
In the small cozy restaurant where we talked, as I looked at him with a significant amount of loathing, I can't help but wonder in retrospect: was I still in love with him then? Because all I can remember was wanting to punch him in the face, get the entire fiasco done and over with, send him off to the fuck hole where he came from.
Love is the primary controlling factor in every relationship, right? If it is, then I would say with certainty: I did love him. It was an interesting mix of shame and romance, and we both couldn't handle it. Could we? Even if we tried a bit harder? I guess not.
They say a break-up is never mutual, and it always ends up with one person feeling like complete crap. I'm owning up to that role, to the satisfaction of all the others I've broken up with on my own terms. Here I am, finally the person who was abandoned, not the person who left.
This is what I've been reduced to. Alone in a dark apartment room. Trying to make sense of what happened days before I'm writing this. For the very few people who know, and have asked, I am simply at a loss for words. What will I say? How do I explain the downfall of a relationship I seemed so sure of? Do I cry and grieve in public, like in the movies? Do I reply to his messages, allow him to leech off my emotional residue?
There were many questions--there still are, actually. But for now, I'm going to satisfy myself with a definite answer to a question I've been trying to shove aside these past few days: are we over?