It’s like I mentally grieve the end of my relationship every day.
Then one day the end finally comes.
“I don’t think this is working.”
That's it, the words leave his mouth and the freight train crashes in slow motion.
A million thoughts fill my head but all I do is nod my head. “Okay.”
His head snaps in my direction in shock, as if he expected—or hoped—I’d have a biggerreaction. “Okay?”
I quickly move towards the bathroom, barely looking over my shoulder at him. “Please be gone by the time I get out.”
I lock the door behind me, trying to ignore the angry words he’s yelling at me through the door or the way he’s shaking the door handle. I clutch my phone tight in my hand, my fingers hovering above the numbers.
There’s no reason to call 9-1-1. You’re okay.
As he starts to lose steam, I count to one hundred and try to keep my breathing steady.
I hear his footsteps retreat down the stairs, and only when the front door slams do I allow myself the space to cry.
But the tears don’t come.
Instead, confusion fills me.
I go to work in a daze, trying to make sense of why I’m not more torn-up and why he was so angry when he was the one who made the choice. I spend my morning moving through work tasks with complete disinterest, a cloud hanging over me. I’m grateful that Selena has an appointment and isn’t around to see me out of sorts. She would be analyzing my behavior for sure. Nonetheless, It’s hard to ignore the texts coming from Paul in steady succession.
Paul:You’re not even going to fight for me? After all I’ve done for you?! All I’ve given you…
Paul:Jesus Audrey, I’m so disappointed in you. Your mother would be so disappointed in you too.
Paul:You’re ruining my day. Doesn’t that bother you at all? You didn’t even cry? I thought I was worth more than this. You’re really showing your true colors.
Paul:I don’t know why I stayed with you this long, you’re boring.
Paul:At least answer my texts … don’t be such a bitch!
Paul:I hope you rot in hell.
Paul:… Audrey, I didn’t mean it.
Paul:Answer me, you narcissist.
I read and reread his words.
Me? A narcissist?
I quickly open Google, typing “narcissist” into the search bar. Clicking through one website after another as words flash across the screen …
Gaslighting, criticizing, difficulty apologizing, anger, aggression—it’s like they’re doing a spotlight on Paul.
I half expect to find his picture online.
Is Paul a narcissist? Has he always been one and I’ve just put up with it?
Questions and memories flow through me as I blink back tears. Grabbing my purse from my desk I find my manager and inform her that I don’t feel well and I ask to leave. Thankfully, my pale tired face convinces her that going home is a good idea.
When I get home, Paul is sitting at the kitchen table with his dress shirt untucked from his pants, casually reading a newspaper, as if he’s completely unbothered by the fact he broke up with me this morning and then spammed me with aggressive texts.
