I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Tuesday? Maybe a week ago, or a random Sunday morning, as you curled up on the couch, with your laptop. Whatever the day, you made a conscious effort to remove me as a “friend” on Facebook…
This whole non FB friend thing isn't news. I wrote you to congratulate you; I wrote you as if it was the “normal” thing to do. It's not. I knew it. But I wrote anyway. You didn't reply, you read, but didn't reply. I think that's where the fuck you sentimentality began to cook
I wrote it and that's how I felt when I realized it. Even now, two years later there are still remnants I haven't cleared out from our time together. I miss what was there, what used to be… Not having it makes me sad. Sad in a way that I never thought would endure. Yet it has. “+1 Add Friend.” Hmpf!
I miss how I felt when I made you smile, especially when you were blue. I miss our jokes; our weirdness. I miss being in love with you. A friend recently told me that “Alex, you're in love with being in love…” On that point, I think my friend is right. I am in love with the notion of being in love. I even love the notion of the work that it takes to make something work when love isn't enough and becomes one more chore.
I knew that you would get married some day to some guy, I just didn't think it would be the next guy. I thought I'd have more time to not think about it… But that's the way it goes. We never know what's going to happen.
I've been “stuck.” I've tried. Hard. To find the next person, I said to myself “I can't wait to meet her, the next woman who will be my love, my reason for a dorky smile.” It all sounds so dumb; so shitty. I can't help but compare myself to others who have their life in order, their mate, their home their kids and what have you. Someone else, also a good chum, asked me: “Alex, but do you want all that stuff? The house? The kids? The shit?”
Sure, I sit here and I'm a confused mess. My head isn't screwed on right. Yeah, I'm a fucking mess. I can see that now. It's all so fucking fucked. I write this and I know precisely what brought me here, to these words I type on this shitty blog. Do I want your sympathy? Honestly? Yeah. I do. This was a post-breakup letter, but, really, it's a pity party of the most annoying variety. Calling it out doesn't make it any less so, either.
Where am I going with all of this? Oh yeah. Fuck you… Yes, fuck YOU!
Fuck you for saying that no one else would love me like you did. I thought that meant one thing; that no one would love me again. But that wasn't true. There have been others, but I chased them off, too. I'm stuck in my head; stuck as this asshole boy who won't move on and put his toys away. And that's how I feel; that's how it seems.
Will I find happiness? I don't feel like I will. I know deep down that's not true. I have a knack for having decent hair and charisma. I've been known to be charming as well. But right now I just feel sorry for my sad sack of sorry shit-bag. Sexy…
Back to you. When I heard the news from my cousin, I let the news bounce off me. I tried to anyway. It didn't. It hit me in the bones. You got engaged. I wanted to feel happy, I said I was. I think I truly felt indifferent, honestly. Don't get me wrong, I WANT to be happy for you, but, man… It's just not happening. And that's bullshit.
You didn't wrong me. You didn't do me wrong and, the truth is, you left me off better than you found me. Did I leave you the same? I don't know. I guess it doesn't matter, though. You'll be happy.
I saw your mom the other day, she looked great. She and I chatted for a bit. She looked at me with a sadness in her eyes… I think it's a bit of the same sadness I feel when I reflect on our time together. We parted ways, as strangers park might do.
I don't regret that time with you. At all and I never would. Why would I? I discovered some things I didn't know about myself and those things have made it a little harder to cope today. I discovered that even a shit head like me can be loved; that I can love again and trust.
I don't have to worry about whether or not you're okay. You're a big girl. You moved on when you were ready; you took care and you're off to another chapter. Good on you, kid. Good on you. I think I need to take this opportunity to really let go; to be okay and let it be. Really let it be.
You can't move on when you're on a treadmill and that's what I feel like I've been doing. I need to get off the treadmill and go out into the world.
No more shitty dating…
No. I'm done with that non-sense. But I'm not ready to date. I've proven that to myself of late, breaking a heart here or there. Not good, but not a surprise either… I've been kind of an asshole for a while, something I'm not ashamed to say, but it's getting… old. As am I. I am old. I'm old and shitty and pouting.
So, look. I know you're not going to read this. But when I say “fuck you” just know it's not a real honest-to-goodness “fuck you.” It's just, you know, fuck you for doing better; for being first and probably for being wiser.
I'm mad that I still miss “us.” But I do. I still do… Even after all this time I still feel it.
I'm going to sleep these feelings off and own them, truly own them and put them to rest. How? By doing this. By acknowledging my feelings, giving them the attention they deserve. By talking about them and letting them breathe. In time, I'll be over and done with this and I'll be truly ready to close this chapter.
Oh yeah, and, um, fuck you.
— Your ex