I saw my husband on Saturday. I went over to finish sorting through some of our stuff. Which was about as much fun as having my armpits waxed. Everything was fine until he snapped at me and I jokingly said, “Do you wanna fight about it?” To which he very seriously answered, “Yes, actually, I do.”
So, turns out, I’ve become the bad guy. He lied (many times)… he was involved with other women… he, on more than one occasion, had the “I don’t know if I want to be married anymore” talk… but, somehow, I’m now the bad guy. For not wanting to deal with his shit anymore. I’m the asshole for not wanting to give him another chance. Number 916, mind you.
I said, “This isn’t fair that you’re trying to make me feel guilty.” He said, with hands up, palms facing me, “Hey, if you feel guilty, that’s not my problem.” Me: “I don’t feel guilty. I have nothing to feel guilty about. Maybe you should try taking responsibility for your actions for once.”
There was more. The same old “I said I’m sorry! What more do you want from me?!” and the like. Eventually, we were both staring down at our shoes, at my car, at the one lonely box of marital remains sitting in the back seat, anywhere but at each other. And then, finally, the awkward goodbye. Which really wasn’t a goodbye at all, but more of an “okay” with a shrug and a turn to get in the car.
The worst thing of all is that, after leaving, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I mean, I can’t stop thinking about him most days, but this was worse… somehow. I live with my fair share of doubt, but this was like an incessant buzzing in my brain.
Hours later, I found myself approaching his apartment door. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I’m sure it was something totally clever and eloquent. Probably not. My level of doubt was at an all time high and I’m pretty certain I was going to say, “Okay, let’s try this. Again.” What an asshole. (Me. Not him. Well, him, too.)
I circled the building, walked back to my car, walked back to the apartment, and back to the car again. I’m fairly certain the couple on their patio were about to go all neighborhood watch on me, and I finally left for good.
I don’t know why I went. I don’t know why I walked away. I think it’d be really easy to give him another chance, fall back into that same ole safe routine. (You know, the same one that got us here in the first place?) But I just know I’m not strong enough to leave again when it all blows up in my face. And, let’s face it, it will. And if I believe that, then why, WHY, would I go back?