i know all sorts about the five stages of grieving the end of your own life that can/will/have been altered to fit grieving in all shapes and sizes. death and i, we've been introduced. death is a mean frak who doesn't care how old you are or who you leave behind.
with the benefit of a week's time behind me, i can see that i skipped right to hopeless depression. this is important, but neither of our lives are on the line. it truly felt like "i'm not in love" was about me, instead of about his inability to unlock his heart and let someone in. and as the pieces of my heart started drifting down to my toes last night, i was certain life
i know it's not about me.
i know that i love him. to me, if that's true, you meet fear and rage and angst with caring and compassion. somehow. protecting your own darn self in the process, sure, but receive even the bad stuff with an open heart and you encourage more conversation, not less. so i'm trying to do that. while also trying to figure out how i want the next chapter of my life to read. without regard for him. because in the end, all i really have is me. maybe i end up on his side of the atlantic for my reasons. maybe not.
still....
would it kill him to reread what he wrote and see what a hot mess he is right now? people search their whole lives for someone who is fun to hang out with, generous, like-minded about the big stuff, and takes you for who you are, foibles and all; and someone you just happen to not be able to keep your hand off. he's REALLY saying he recognizes that? and that knows he may be ruining his big chance to share his life with someone? with me. but that he just doesn't believe in us. enough.
Seriously?!?!?!?!
enter righteous indignation.
in the concise words of jaded 'off of love' roommate 4.0: "you two are disgustingly sweet together. he's an idiot."
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