Today, The Ex emailed that he wanted to talk. I texted back, asking what about.
Hours later, he passive aggressively answered. Again, I asked what it was about.
I knew as soon as I had read the first words of the three-sentence email that we would be going down one of two roads: One, he would tell me that he’d come to a realization, that he’d been acting like a dickhead and that he was sorry; two, he’d be mad and it would be about money, or time off, or something else that historically has only ever lead to fights.
I wasn’t willing to take the bait, because I’m over it.
I was right. It was about money. How he’s making less now (that’s what quitting two jobs in a month’ll do to ya in this climate), so he can’t afford to pay the child support that we still have to renegotiate about – that I’ve been asking him to make an appointment for since June – and that he was trying to pick up extra work, but that would be happening on the weekends.
Instead of taking the money bait, or bringing up (for the third time in as many weeks) that I’m waiting on him for us to resettle our money issues, I asked him if it meant that he needed less visits, then. He was…nonplussed.
Flash forward a few hours and he’s suddenly going through a crisis because his friend was hurt during the day at work, doing the same type of work that he does, and he’s seen his life pass in front of his eyes while also being concerned for his friend’s life, livelihood and, well…girlfriend (who has apparently freaked the fuck out). He needs me. To talk to him, to calm him down, to assure him (I think) that if he had a pallet of 500 lbs of stone fall on him, I would freak the fuck out and rush to his side.
I asked him why he was calling me. I made it clear that he should be there for his friends and should be talking to someone that he always considered a friend. Like, someone he hasn’t given the silent treatment to for the past two weeks. I polished that message up bright and shiny, without a trace of scorn, anger or hurt, by uttering you can’t not talk to me for two weeks because I’ve said something that wounded your pride and then when you need someone to talk to, or you have a good day, or you decide you’re over it, or you love me, call me up.You’ve been doing this for more than a year, now.
He agreed. We hung up.
Now to most of you, this might’ve been the most boring post, ever, except for yesterday’s. But if you know me, you know that this. was. huge.
The ex. I’ve always – even when I’ve been a heinous bitch – been there for him. Somehow, if he called, I was already waiting to take care of him. And the thing is, it’s like, he’s spent all of this time making sure that no one gets to hear his internal monologue and I’m the only one that does, so I’m always the go-to. And I’m always there, waiting to save him, redo his resume, give him the kick in the ass.
But, you know? I’m over it. And maybe, just maybe, that four-minute conversation I had with him established it. To him. Because I? Am tired of wasting energy on people that just take more and more of it. No longer is it my job to sit around, waiting to catch him as he falls or bust his balls into some sort of respectable shape.
I think the first order of business is to start advertising that I’m looking for a new gig.
