Three weeks ago today I was crying unconsolably. I couldn’t accept or even fathom the idea of my five year relationship being over with a man whom I’d pictured forever with. I loved him with every brittle bone in my body. Every unreliable fiber of my being. All I wanted was him – I could’ve been happy with a ring pop and a promise to love me for better or for worse, and that honestly would have meant everything.
Today, as I sit here three weeks wiser, I don’t think he was ready for that, or maybe he didn’t feel the same way about me. A few nights ago I was hospitalized. It was the night before I was supposed to see him to exchange the last bit of our stuff – he, the money I’d lent him for school and some of the belongings I’d left behind in our apartment; me, some stuff I’d taken from the apartment (that I’d paid for but didn’t actually want), like the toaster he used every morning and some stuff we’d gotten on trips that I thought he didn’t care about.
The thought of seeing him for the penultimate time (before we end our apartment lease) killed me. I don’t know how all of this time has passed. I literally feel like a zombie just going through the motions, unable to process happiness and incapable of fully feeling sad. It’s like it’s not real. Don’t ask me how I’ve gone to class or even turned in assignments. My professors probably think I’m brain-dead with the quality of work I’ve been doing.
I feel like I’ve lost my best friend and the man I thought I knew and loved for the better part of my adult life. But the night I went into the hospital was a doozy. I had gotten so worked up, I had a panic attack that wouldn’t stop. My symptoms were so uncontrolled my parents wanted to take me to the hospital and I told them it wasn’t that bad, I could get better on my own, I just needed some time to calm down.
Fast-forward five hours of simultaneous diarrhea and vomiting and shaking and chills, and there was no negotiating. I was hooked up to an IV (after four failed attempts by a very skilled nurse (I’m told) because my veins were so dry) and dressed in an oh so glamorous backless gown.
The ER physician told my parents I was so dehydrated, I would’ve had to have consumed twenty (TWENTY) water bottles to restore the amount of fluid I’d lost. (Insert an inordinate amount of laughter, because I can barely put away two or three on a normal day). I had texted my ex when I got admitted that I was in the hospital and didn’t know when I’d be discharged, so we would probably have to reschedule our meet up.
He didn’t respond.
I didn’t expect a text or call immediately because it was the middle of the night, but in the morning I got a text telling me he was going to be busy the next day but could get his stuff later in the week. No “oh my god, I know we’re over, but holy fuck are you okay?” I mean shit, you don’t have to be my best friend to ask if I’m okay, but I’ve had more compassionate emails with strangers who mention they’re dealing with xyz so whatever we’re working on might be a little delayed and I at least offer a kind word or something.
After five freaking years, nothing.
It’s not like I told him I went clubbing and was too drunk to meet. I was in the hospital on the verge of a complete body shut-down.
He ended up getting his stuff that morning anyway. My mom and sister brought him my stuff, and again, he didn’t ask if I was okay or what happened.
Nothing.
Whatever, maybe he was playing it cool or didn’t want to show emotion, but I know 100% if the roles had been reversed, I may not have answered the late night text, but I sure as hell would have asked if he was okay the following day or if there was anything he needed.
I mean, even if I didn’t want to talk to him directly and he couldn’t meet up, I would have at least asked whomever was there if he was okay. That’s the decent thing to do, right?
I’m not an asshole. I mean fuck, I’m letting him keep the $4k bed (I had no idea beds were expensive until we had to get one and our $500-$1k budget only covered beds he didn’t like) my parents bought us so he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor/spend money on a new bed at the place he’s moving to (where, I have no clue because he doesn’t want me to know, which is whatever).
I didn’t terrorize his stuff or call him names or harass him on social media. I’ve literally told him (and mean it when I say) I want the best for him and have tried to help him in any way I could since he told me he couldn’t be with me because his parents had bad vibes about me.
The kicker is I cancelled all of the plans (hotel, airfare, excursions) for a trip in two weeks that he’d gotten me for my birthday (months ago). It would’ve been the first trip he’d paid for the two of us to go on, ever. The day after he broke up with me, he bitched about how much money he was out for the hotel, so I called them up and got the $600 stay put on a lifetime credit for him to use whenever he wants. The airfare was refunded and the excursions cancelled without fees.
What do I get, for my birthday mind you, since this was supposed to be my gift? Jack shit.
I’m desperately trying not to be that petty bitch that guys fondly refer to as “the crazy ex.” I wouldn’t have told him I was in the hospital but for we were meeting the following morning and I was physically unable to make it.
I thought I’ve been handling this breakup as maturely as possible and then this happened. I was literally in the worst place possible, on my hands and knees coughing and shitting my brains out and when I realized he couldn’t have been bothered to ask if I was okay, this little light clicked in my brain, “I don’t recognize this man. He’s not the one I was in a relationship with.”
Maybe this will make it easier to get over the breakup because I shouldn’t care about someone who give zero shits if I’m dead or alive after all I’ve put into this relationship. Maybe it won’t.
I guess what I’m trying to tease out is I’ve got two midterms this week and this is all I can focus on right now. It’s been a while since I’ve been admitted to a hospital for emergency medical help and breakups or not, the decent thing would have been to at least feign interest that I was still breathing.
I know I’m not the hot mess I was three weeks ago, but being on the floor of a hospital bathroom retching my guts out has made me inordinately grateful for my friends and family that have made sure I’m busy and preoccupied, but I know there are a lot of hard days ahead – his birthday, our anniversary, my upcoming graduations that he was going to be at cheering me on, the intermittent breaks during bar study this summer, the list goes on.
Plans have changed and I get that, it’s just really hard to pivot my focus and get back to some semblance of normalcy.
I hope I don’t have any more nights like I did a few days ago, but I feel like that’s par for the course when you have pre-existing health conditions and any spike in stress (or a whole fuck ton of stress) can affect you more so than the average person.
Here’s hoping I can make the most out of the rest of this Monday and that y’all are staying hydrated (because I’m a great example of what happens when you slack (or rather, yak) in that department).
Until Soon,
2LWithIt
