Clever Title Here

I don't cry. I generally think it's a waste of energy. I especially don't cry over boys. I didn't even cry over my husband. Usually when a relationship ends, I sigh in relief.

No I didn't cry. He said he has a weakness for girls who cry. I didn't want him to think I was trying to manipulate him. So I held it back. Until the very end, when I hugged him goodbye, and he couldn't see it.

Instead of doing that I sat in my car, and tried to remember how to breathe. Then, I cried. And wondered where all this had gone so wrong.

When he stopped talking so much, I figured he was done. I figured he didn't want to deal with cutting us loose, so he was just letting it fade away. 

I thought I was doing us a favor, by putting on my big girl pants, and ending things. I wasn't nasty about it. I wasn't angry with him. I tried to be as pleasant as one can be in that sort of situation. I did what I thought had to be done. Then I made plans to go out and get sideways. It worked the night before. I was well on my way to round two.

I assumed he would wish me well and that would be that. I didn't know he would have so much to say on the subject. We went back and forth through text for hours. The whole exchanged confused the hell out of me. 

All of the sudden I was getting a whole lot of talk time. More than I'd had in the two weeks prior. I offered to come and talk it over, face to face, he said to leave him alone.

I tried. I sat in my room contemplating some unfinished paintings. 

And my head spun.    
Was all the back and forth because he wasn't trying to blow me off? Was he more invested than I gave him credit for?
Or was it simply throwing a fit for show? Because historically when people break up, someone has to be the bad guy. And if he expressed how hurt he was and that he never wanted that, he wouldn't feel like the bad guy?

I've said before, I rarely regret anything I do in life. I could have sat there for hours with my head spinning. I could have stayed away. But if he never spoke to me again, I would have wondered, what if.  What if I'd been brave, and gone and taken my lumps? What if I'd had the courage to go and try to deal with things like an adult? Thinking about what might have been different is harder than being told to fuck off to my face. So I went.

No one is the bad guy here. Not him. Not me. We didn't resolve anything last night. I'm giving him some space to think about whether it's worth trying to meet me half way.  And if he decides he can't, I'll just have to live with that. I won't be happy. We will be friends, in time. We get along to well not to be. And it's not like there was a major crisis or transgression. 

If you need me, I'll be holed up in my room. Working it out with a paint brush and trying to be the bad-ass who doesn't cry.