A Breakup Tale in So Many Parts
Parts 17 & 18
Part 17: 21 days, 16 hours, 14 minutes since you left me...

I don't know what I did to make you hate me so much.
I don't know when you'll stop hating me so much.
And I don't know when I'll stop caring about it so much.
When you talked to my Mom the day after you left, you told her I was your best friend and you loved and cared about me. But that couldn't be true. People who are your friends don't treat you this way. I would never treat a friend the way you're treating me. I think you're an asshole. So I'm not going to go out of my way to be nice to you.
A letter arrives from the IRS yesterday. You didn't file for several years, before I began filing for you. They had sent warnings before and I had gathered all of your information together, presented to you and harped on you to take care of it. You didn't. So they sent this letter yesterday and it says that you owe them a shitload of money and they want it. Now I know that they can put yo uin jail and stuff if you don't pay or get in touch with them, so I emailed you to tell you to call me so I could tell you about this. And you did. And I did. Why did I do this?
Because I'm an asshole. Because I'm a simp. I should let you go to jail. I should have turned you in, I'd get a reward. I should just throw your stuff on the street and let you go to jail and leave you with the clothes on your back.
But I didn't. I gave you the info you needed on the phone and then asked you if there was anything else and of course there was. There were other issues and you started your passive aggressive bullshit and I just couldn't take it and I said "Goodbye" and hung up.
I still had one thing to say, though, I had to say it and I typed it out and sent it:
"I was trying to do you a favor with the IRS.
Next time, you can forget it.
You are hateful."
And you emailed back:
"I'll deposit the $ for the RCN bil.... (bla bla bla)
Thank you for alerting me about the IRS notice."
You are hateful. But I don't know what I did to make you hate me so much.
I know I got sick. I'm sorry I got sick. I'm sorry my father, cousin and great uncle decided to molest me, I'm sorry my father drank, I'm sorry I got hooked on alcohol and drugs, I'm sorry I have a history of depression, I'm sorry I had 13 surgeries, I'm sorry I had a hysterectomy, I'm sorry I'm screwed up five ways to Sunday.
Was that it? All that? Do we pick one or two issues or is a pinwheel sandwich of all of them sufficient?
Take a tortilla of shame, add a father making dirty love to his four year old, throw a beer and a bong in her hand when she's twelve, lay down a leaf of abusive relationships, sprinkle in Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Seroquel, Premarin, remove the uterus and you've got a Dysfunction Burrito. Make sure you eat it while rocking back and forth in a corner.
Is it because if I don't laugh, I'll die?

I know it was hard and I know you sacrificed a lot for me, but I didn't ask you to and I didn't expect you to and I was always grateful. For gravy’s sake, we didn't live in Cuckoo's Nest. It wasn't Bellevue. We weren't waiting for the dark days to pass and cracks of light to peek into our sad little lives.
I'm not Sylvia Plath.

I'd call myself pretty strong and happy. Sure, I'm cynical. And yeah, I shock some folks by laughing at subject matter that "shouldn't be laughed at"... but why not? You've got to let it go sometime, whatever way you can. Some people journal, some people get eternal therapy, some people kill themselves and I don't dig any of those options, so I choose to laugh and make others laugh; show people that we "damaged" ones are pretty resilient. Not all of us become junkies or whore or live in trailers on welfare, nor do we have to.

In fact, I think that, despite getting occasionally depressed and sometimes agoraphobic (which I no longer am, thanks to Topomax) and a rageaholic, is not too terrible considering what I've been through. I was in a wheelchair from chronic pain, I walked with a cane, for goodness gracious sakes. I had guys hit me. I had a boyfriend send me to the emergency room. I went to rehab three times. The first time I tried to kill myself, I was twelve. So, the hell with you if you think I wasn't better.
Better is not being dead, you mother lover.

I am more than better, I'm Captain Amazing Flippin’ Stupendous, Super Sexy, Fan Friggin’ Tastic.

Maybe that's why you hate me so much.



Part 18: 22 days, 21 hours, 54 minutes since you left me...

I don't know why you don't speak to me or look me in the eyes.
Wednesday, you came over to get your things.
It was the wrong Wednesday.
You aren't supposed to get your things until the 25th.
I was on the phone with someone important about work and in a towel when I heard a key in the door. It was double locked. I looked through the keyhole and saw your sour puss. I opened the door and said, "What are you doing here?"
You couldn't look at me as you replied, "I'm here to get my stuff".
"No," I said, "That's next Wednesday".
I saw the feet of one of your friends and a cart loaded with boxes to your left. You sighed, "You said Wednesday. I have friends coming to meet me".
I politely ended my phone call and turned to you. "No, you said 'The 21st or 22nd' and I said 'That doesn't work for me. Come that Wednesday'. Do you remember that?"
"Well, what time are you leaving today?"
"12:30."
"Can I come back then?"
"No," I said emphatically, "I don't have everything together".
You said, "I don't care if everything's together. I'll get it together".
"No. I don't want you and your friends pilfering through the house."
"Fffffffffffffine", you sighed, looking everywhere but at me.
Sigh Sigh Sigh Sigh Sighy McSigherson
I reiterated, "I want to make sure we're clear on this, because I have all of the emails that confirm that we agreed on the 25th."
"Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffine".
I never raised my voice. I was very calm.
"Thank you," I said, and closed the door.
You know what?
You're a wussy.
If it were me, I would've asked to come in, while you were there, and haul away the boxes that were already packed, because I was still paying half of the rent and it was still my apartment. I would demand it, because I had taken off a day of work and I had people helping me. I would be mature and calm about it, but I would be assertive and get it done.
You couldn't even look at me.
Such a big wussy.
Is it because you hate me or because you feel guilty?
Then today, you text messaged me to ask for my account number to deposit some money. Why on Earth can't you pick up the phone and ask me? Are you afraid I'll "shift emotionally". You are a jack rag.
I am dealing with a stranger. You are someone I don't know.
I am sick and exhausted. Every day, I get more tired, because it sucks the energy out of me each time I realize that maybe you were this person all along...