C broke up with me.
And I get it. I’m a lousy girlfriend. I really am. Or I have been for the last…oh, year. He waited a long time, and I don’t begrudge him getting on.
Mood swings. My sexual desire nearly evaporated. Menopause is a b i t c h. I kept him at arms length. Felt guilty for not desiring him, for hiding because seeing anyone was work. So it’s been pretty much a platonic kind of thing. This is all me. I am not nice. I am selfish. We’re better off this way. He can find someone better. I can do my alone thing that I’ve been doing with him. He’s probably been more lonely with me than not.
So says reason.
Then I cry because he’s a good man. And I am stupid. I count the many ways we were good – when we were good.
Anyway. I am sad. I am angry – more so at myself. It was hard for him to do. (But he said it was okay. But he said he would stay.)
Fuck.
Checking the break-up tally:
- I left him
- He left me
- We fell apart