When they broke up, we starting talking. Not often and not verbally but the communication channel was wider than it had been in quite a while. As he was the one to always initiate the contact, I even convinced myself that it was ok. I knew it wasn’t healthy, I knew it was wrong. I knew there was nothing that would remedy our relationship but it wasn’t about that. It was talking. What’s safer than an entire COUNTRY between us? I was weak. And maybe I liked the opportunity to talk about my life being on the right path because look how balanced and stable and happy I am! Fiddle dee dee! I am so totally over you and well-adjusted!

I had severe misgivings about their break-up. She broke up with him, meaning that he would still be with her if the choice were up to him. It hurt. The one stipulation regarding our talking was that I wanted him to tell me when they got back together. Breaks are rarely clean and if they were still having their 2am booty calls or back-and-fourth reunions, I wanted to know to keep my distance. A protective measure for my heart. I would always rather know the truth. Even when it hurts. He promised to let me know even though he didn’t see it happening; besides, without her, he was “happier than [he has] been in a long time.”

I liked the control, the power, liked always being the first to leave a conversation or to screen midnight texts. When we talked, I felt validated because I could talk to him and recognize his flaws. I felt reassured that it was a good thing –nay, a fucking WONDERFUL thing –that we weren’t together. He never met my needs. He was lacking. He needed a lot of work. LA DEE DAH I am OVER him.

At least that’s what I told myself.

Plus, he wasn’t with her; no harm, no foul.

I found out today that they got back together five days after their original break-up. She dumped him again just this past Sunday. It was all a lie.  He had been texting me comments, sometimes sweet sometimes suggestive, all throughout February. And had gone back to calling me Love. He called me on Sunday night, and when I didn’t answer, he called again on Monday night. He called on the same fucking day that she dumped him … and under false pretenses; really, he was just upset over their relationship.

I feel betrayed and I don’t have the right to. His love life is none of my business.  I guess, once again, I trusted his word because I thought he was the person I knew, not the person he has become. I hate how much it still hurts. I don’t remember the last time I cried over him, and I did today. (At work. Sweet.) The pain is supposed to be gone; I tell myself that I am healed, goddammit. How is there still pain in the reservoir? It should have been bled dry months and months ago for fuck’s sake.

Why do I still care? Why am I still surprised? Why, when I hear this, do I break out in a cold sweat and regain the perpetual nausea that cursed me for five months? He is not even that fucking great. How can he still do this to me? I wasn’t telling myself that it was something that it wasn’t, but I liked knowing that maybe his life, and getting over me, was a struggle, too.

I worry that it digs into my self-worth. That I interpret this situation to mean I am easily replaceable. I can’t find someone better than him but he so easily found someone better than me … and I don’t think I’m not strong enough to continue down this questionable line of thought, so … moving on …

Please, no comments on him being a bastard –that will only twist the knife, a reflection of my choices and stupidity. What was the phrase my great-aunt used to say? Fooled me once: shame on you; fooled me twice: shame on me. I get it, he sucks. But it still hurts.

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