“I know I said you could call whenever you needed me and I am sorry I slept through those six phone calls.  But when you call and you’re miserable and then you refuse to talk about it the next morning, I feel like it’s more of a control issue than anything else.  You choose when we talk, what we talk about, and for how long.  I’m done being controlled, done being manipulated.  You call when you need me but I am not allowed to do the same.  Since the breakup, you have not been there for me, but I have been so desperate for you to finally wake up that I allow myself to constantly be there for you.  And why were you in bed alone on Saturday morning?  Why wasn’t she there?  Because if a fight with her was one of the reasons you were so drunk and miserable on the voicemail messages at 4am that would take some Fucking Balls to call me.  But … I guess I can’t think of any other reason why you would refuse to discuss it just a few hours later.  You picked her.  Her.   Not me.  You picked her to listen to your depression, to your problems.  I’m sorry if she doesn’t understand but that’s not my problem — you picked her …  I wish you would have answered so we could’ve talked, but these days, you screen my calls …”

(and this is where I ran out of things to say on the voicemail … so I stumbled and frantically tried to think of a closing, hopefully interpreted as a dramatic pause)

”  … so I guess … I’m just done.”

 The hardest part of being done is that I don’t want him to be done.  I want him to think I am done, that I have moved on, and for him to not do the same.  How hypocritical.  Apparently, my doneness is an illusion.