P. left me.
Actually, he called off the wedding July 21. He decided to not pursue counseling or reconciliating on August 2 -- he had this conversation with me, after jerking me around for two weeks with the "can we/can't we" crap, during a phone call in the middle of the workday, no less. I'm saddled with the house (and cancelling the wedding stuff, AND sending back all the wedding shower gifts that for some stupid fucking reason he insisted on opening and using), and he's following my dream of moving to New York City. Of course. The city he asked me to give up for him six years ago. He fucking hated that city. And now he gets to trot about it happily with his friends while I sit here and stew.
So I've been Home Depoting the shit out of the house, trying to work through my anger. I should be glad that we didn't end up getting married, but I'm not. I can't put my finger on when exactly things started going wrong, but I'm assuming that everyone he has talked to would say that it was indubitably something I did.
But this is how I would break it down. Six years ago, I met a clever, fun, passionate person. Six months ago, that person had turned into someone who was dull, serious and judgemental. Six years ago, my boyfriend thought I was the coolest woman he'd ever met, and he loved how independent I was. Six months ago, my fiancé was frustrated at my inability to live according to the character of June Cleaver, the cookbooks of Betty Crocker, and the faultless women with bubbly personalities found in the pages of Cosmopolitan Magazine. And instead of independence, he began to prefer me in chains.
Even if we had nothing planned, I wasn't supposed to leave the apartment. After work, I had to be there right away (despite being salaried... it is not unusual for me to need to stay at work until six or so, but I'd start getting phone calls from him at 5:20) unless I wanted 20 questions about where I'd been and unless I wanted the whole night screwed up due to a late meal. Then I had to make dinner. Then I had to stay. He'd watch videos, play computer games, talk to friends, etc... and I sat there, watching bad television or dicking around online. I tried to find hobbies. I immersed myself in house hunting and wedding planning/etiquette. I started this blog, which I found I didn't have much time for. I tried to plan outings with P. and other members of my family. I played video games with P., in an effort to maintain interests together. I learned new recipes.
It didn't work. I started hiding things from him, just for the desperate need to have something of my own for once. To have something private. I didn't hide big things at first. But then I started eating a lot less -- in a neurotic way -- and before I knew it, I'd lost 25 pounds in less than two months. P. remained unaware; he never once mentioned my figure. He was still pretty much as affectionate as usual, but that had never been very much... because I was his first kiss, first girlfriend, first anything, I was encumbered with the rather ambitious task of trying to teach him how to act around a woman. I had been the one to approach him at first (oh, and how I wish I hadn't...), and he'd been clueless. But after a few years (yes, years) of coaching, I was really happy with what he was able to give. He'd hold my hand. Occasionally put his arm around me at a restaurant or on the couch. He surprised me a couple of times by showing affection to me in front of others. Given all those great things he learned for me, to keep me happy, one would still think that a girl's fiancé would notice if she lost 25 pounds out of nowhere. He later said that he didn't notice because he saw me every day... but it was 25 pounds. It isn't like I went from being morbidly obese to slightly-less morbidly obese; I went from curvy to Kate Moss in six weeks. How can someone be that disconnected?
Then, I binge-shopped. I compulsively bought clothes, sometimes every day, during my lunch hour. I'd hide receipts and clothes.
I started drinking too much.
And after several years together, he had become tuned in to slight changes in my mood, though at the time of our break-up, I was trying to teach him what to do with those changes -- e.g., once I wasn't feeling well during a visit with his extended relatives, and I wanted him to take care of the social implications in a way that I wouldn't be embarrassed... to be more specific, we were at his relative's place two hours away, and his parents wanted to take a short trip to see P.'s cousin's new house; they asked us to come along, but I had just started feeling really ill. Instead of leaving me to fend for myself and mumble something to P.'s mother (who is the type to repeat really loudly, "OH, YOU'RE SICK? AUNT PAT, Q DIDN'T LIKE YOUR GRAPE LEAVES!"), would it have been so hard for P. to throw himself under the bus and say, "Actually, we're both still pretty full from dinner -- I think we might just relax here for a while and watch the game. But take pictures!"
But he couldn't do those things for me. Yes, maybe I was expecting him to read my mind, but Jesus, he could've done something. He couldn't take the lead -- I had to do everything. I was the one who cooked, who got guilted into cleaning, who managed our social calendar, who made phone calls and wrote emails to pizza guys/landlords/salespeople/customer service centers because he hated talking to people, who found things on sale, who initiated sex, who kept up with beauty and fashion so he would find me appealing (meanwhile... he'd gained at least 40 pounds, was losing his hair, and didn't seem to give a shit), etc., etc. It was exhausting. And mortifying. I did all that shit for nothing.
Then he had the nerve to say that he couldn't count on me for the day-to-day things. Like cleaning, I guess. But, for example, we'd made a deal -- I cook and he does the dishes. There was not one evening since we made that deal where the dishes were done after we ate. And, actually, I can't remember any time when the dishes were done the day after a particular meal, either. One example of me trying to manage the majority of the relationship on my own.
I was smothered. I felt like he was trying to change me. I felt unappreciated. I felt unattractive.
After months of going through all of that fucking shit without anyone to talk to about it, I shut down. I didn't do it to be vengeful. P. felt couldn't count on me to sweep the bathroom. I couldn't count on him to appreciate me... or hell, even love me -- since I'm the first girl who ever showed interest, I think he just went along with it because I was there and I liked him. Who's to say he ever loved me? But despite everything he did or didn't do, despite how long I tried to put up with it and work through it, despite how hard it was on me, because of my actions, I'm the automatic asshole.
He immediately went and blabbed to his entire circle of family and friends that I was emotionally distant or whatever, and I bet anything he got buckets of support and love and "you're doing the right thing." I wonder if anyone even considered my side of the story. They definitely didn't ask.
I doubt if it crossed their minds. They might have felt like family to me, but I guess they never really were. A line is drawn between two people you love when one person is your flesh and blood, and the other person is the whore who broke his precious heart.
Yet, after all this and how much I fucking hate him for letting me take all the blame for everything in the relationship while everyone else soothes him and tells him how perfect and angelic he is... I miss him, I miss what we had, I miss pursuing our plans for the future, and I would do just about anything to get it back.
Trouble is, he wants nothing to do with me, he can't wait to get the house stuff settled up, and he can't wait to get as far away as possible from me so that I can be completely cut out of his life. He's already moved on, and I'm left with all this shit to deal with. I'd be infuriated, but I'm so fucking pathetically heartbroken over losing him that I don't have the energy for much else.