I’ve been spending months – maybe a year or two, even – telling myself that Minx can’t help his foibles and therefore I’m not allowed to feel angry about them. After all, it’s not like he was purposely mean to me. His ADD just gives him a tendency to blurt out tactless things without thinking. And to focus on the negative things I do while ignoring the positive ones. And to space out while I’m talking to him. And to irritably finish my sentences because he thinks I’m taking too long to get to the point. And to shush me because his brain is already too overstimulated and the sound of my voice overloads him completely.
But you know what? He can help those things: he can go to a goddamn doctor and get medication. We’ve known he had attention deficit problems since January and it is now December; I’ve been very clear that his ADD was causing huge problems in the relationship, and I think Minx saw it too; but he didn’t do anything about it.
Also, just because he didn’t mean to do hurtful things doesn’t mean I can’t be angry that they happened. If someone lost control of their car and ran over your dog, you’d be angry even though the driver didn’t mean to kill the dog. It’s okay to be angry when shitty things happen, regardless of why they happened.
And I. Am. Fucking. ANGRY.
I’m angry that Minx was so quick to give criticism yet so stingy with his praise. I’m angry that he made almost no attempt at all to improve our sex life or add BDSM to it even though I talked to him about it intermittently for like two years. I’m angry that he rebuffed my advances until I gave up on making them, but then turned around and said that if I wanted more sex or makeouts, I should initiate more often. I’m angry that some of the best, most skilled kisses he ever gave me were the goodbye kisses the day he exited my life, rather than when we were actually in our relationship.
I’m angry that he wouldn’t read a passage from a relationship-fixing book that I thought could really help us, but later on – narcissistic little prick that he is – he asked to read some of the posts I’ve made about him here. I’m angry that when I did let him read some selected posts, he appeared to digest them just fine – he’d given me the impression that reading long passages was difficult for him so I’d begun emailing him important relationship-fixing stuff broken up sentence by sentence with every line a different colour to try to keep him engaged – it was horribly time consuming to lay the emails out that way but I thought it was the only way he’d read them.
I’m angry that for the past year or so, Minx acted as though my very presence or the sound of my voice was irritating. I’m angry that he shushed me constantly and refused to listen to me, whether I was trying to recount a funny thing I’d read or trying to tell him that I was sick of having my makeout and BDSM needs ignored and we needed to either become poly or break up. I’m angry that for a long while he also flat-out refused to read anything, so when talking didn’t work I had no recourse at all – I guess I simply wasn’t supposed to communicate with him, period. I’m angry that for months I felt like I was walking on eggshells in my own house. I’m angry that Minx gave me the silent treatment every time I expressed the slightest bit of temper about anything at all, and when I reined in my temper by leaps and bounds he didn’t even notice. I’m angry that Minx asked me to make so many compromises for his comfort that infringed on mine.
I’m angry that he put me through the stress of quitting his job and then procrastinating until he’d completely run out of money. I’m angry that this long period of being home together burned him out on my presence so thoroughly that he never really got over it and needed me to be quiet (or just plain gone) as much as possible, even after he was working again (this is not conjecture. Minx told me he felt that way). I’m angry that he’d blurt out horrible things to me with seemingly no idea they were horrible, and be puzzled when I was still crying about it days later. I’m angry that he yanked my emotions back and forth by announcing periodically that he was going to move out, but then quickly deciding that no, false alarm, he was fine. I’m angry that he thought he could move back in with his parents for a bit and then come gallivanting back here whenever he pleased as though nothing had happened. I’m angry that when we finally decided he would move out, he dragged his ass every step of the way to a point where he had to ask me to use my credit card to sign him up for a paid roommate-finding service (because he doesn’t have a credit card and time was running too short for him to mail them a money order) and he wasn’t even fully packed on moving day so I packed a bunch of stuff for him. I’m angry that he developed a habit of saying something life-changing and/or insulting that freaked the hell out of me, then shutting down when I tried to address it with him – to a point where I’d be begging him to talk to me for forty minutes and he wouldn’t even answer a simple “ARE YOU BREAKING UP WITH ME: Y/N.”
I’m angry that I thought I was entering into a relationship with a mature, independent, emotionally stable adult and what I actually got was someone who wanted to run back to mommy and daddy because living independently was too scary; someone who was riddled with mental and emotional problems and projected them all on to me; someone who believed I was violent and dangerous even though there was no evidence of this whatsoever.
I’m angry that Minx lived in fear of me for no good reason at all, when meanwhile he was making my life miserable in so many ways and to this day he probably doesn’t fully realize it. I’m angry that he seems to believe that I ramble on pointlessly and he’s some kind of master orator, when meanwhile I’d developed a habit of covertly banging my head against the wall while waiting for him to finally…complete…a…sentence. I’m angry that he would, without fail, throw a hissyfit over the mess in the apartment right when I was preparing for a craft fair (which requires me to take out my art supplies and make things!).
I’m angry that he never said anything nice about my paintings. I’m angry that he was rarely able to make me orgasm, even though it usually only takes about two minutes. I’m angry that if I asked him to tell me some things he liked about me, he’d usually refuse – but he damn sure never balked at telling me what he didn’t like. I’m angry that hours after turning down my sexual advances, when I’d given up on getting laid and just wanted to sleep, he’d start groping and humping me. I’m angry that it felt, by the end, as though he only had sexual interest in me when I was unconscious.
You know what, Minx? I really have no idea why I thought we might eventually get back together. You were a wonderful boyfriend at the beginning when you were on your best behaviour but by the end, you fucking sucked. Even on ADD meds you’d probably suck. I’ve unfriended you on Facebook and Fetlife and deleted your final “I love you” text from my phone. At this point I’m not entirely sure I ever want to talk to you again. I hope one day you realize how awesome I was and how badly you fucked it up, and I hope that day is soon, and I hope it HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER.
Okay, I think that made me feel better. Please feel free to leave some overblown, facetious Minx-hate in the comments. I know you don’t really know him and you don’t really mean it but the melodrama would be kinda cathartic for me.