I didn’t mean to hurt him I thought as I yanked some clothes out of the closet and started stuffing them into a duffel bag.
I held up a jacket and considered for a moment if it would take up too much room in my bag before tossing it into the ever increasing ‘leave behind’ pile.
He could do with it what he likes, I suppose… Give it to our daughter when she’s grown, give it to Goodwill… Burn it. He does like a roaring fire in the fireplace this time of year. See? Doing him a favour leaving some kindling behind.
I took a look around the room before plopping on the bed to rest for a moment. The argument and frenzy of tears and packing exhausted me. I mean… Fuck, man – that argument lasted five hours straight!
Fuck, I’m tired… and I’m a stupid whore of a fuck up. I should have known this relationship wouldn’t have lasted. I snorted audibly as I thought I’m surprised it lasted even this long.
I’m a fuck up. I know this. Perhaps it’s the detachment I feel when something goes even remotely awry in any of my intimate relationships. I’ve done it before. I detach, I turn into myself, and then after awhile I reach out to feel something again. Usually from someone or something else.
I’ve done it before. I’ve cheated. A brief moment of insanity; I tried to convince myself of this. Really, the insanity was from his side – he was the one who forgave me and took me back.
Truth is, I haven’t been happy for a long time. Truth is, this new man has not been brief. Truth is, last time I felt remorseful and drove myself to vomit over my own behaviour, but this time I’m not remorseful. Not entirely.
I’m an unfeeling bitch, to be sure, but there is a seed in me that wishes I hadn’t been so horrible as to have hurt him this way. The casualties I’m leaving behind – my daughter… and… Oh god, his mum is going to hate me.
Never mind, he’s going to hate me. Well, he already does I’m sure.
To be honest, I know it may not even be worth causing all this heartache. My new guy, well, who’s to say I won’t treat him the same way someday?
I’m still sitting on the bed, trying to be honest with myself as I sort through a pile of socks. If I listen to myself, if I’m honest with myself, I would know that I’m not cut out for long term relationships. I’m not cut out to be a wife or mother. I never really have been – and that is why I’m walking out that door.