separate

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So that was like a whole thing.

Rob and I were having a somewhat heated discussion about housework last Sunday and, as have most discussions we’d had in the past few months, it became a fight about who’s failing to listen to who and who’s worse at taking responsibility and like everything, and Rob said that he wanted to break up. And though it was a complete and horrific surprise to me in that moment, he was serious.

An hour or so later, I had a packed a bag. I saw my mom and my sister. I stayed with friends for two nights. I went to work. I canceled travel plans and deleted the wedding registries and calendars and tried to figure out what stuff belonged to me and how I could survive on my own and how I could start building my life all over again. When I was alone I was crying or screaming or both. I thought horrible things, I sat with my deepest fears, and I mourned and I raged and I planned and I hoped. I called him. I texted him and demanded that he tell me that he was sure, because I needed that, and he did what I asked and I still tried hard not to believe that.

I returned home during the time I had taken off for a trip to Montreal I could no longer stand to go on and I started packing up books. I immediately wanted to take everything apart, so that I would have something to channel my energy into and so that he would be left with a huge void.

We talked about practical things like how we were going to live with each other for a few months while I got my shit together. We talked about the scary health issues he was dealing with. He apologized for hurting me, he apologized for everything and I told him repeatedly that he didn’t get to be sorry while he was totally and completely giving up. He slept in the basement.

I tried to be nice. I tried not to be nice. He walked around mopey and contrite and still gave no indication that he thought he had made a mistake. After another night, we started talking. About everything. And then it was lunch time and we went to lunch. And we went shopping. And we came home and started talking some more. He continued to apologize and finally said what I wanted and needed to hear, that he had been wrong. I was so relieved. But I was angry.

I’m still angry. What I want is what we have been planning for all along. He is my family. It kills me that he could break up with me, that he could have so much doubt about problems that I know we can fix, about us period. That he made such a huge decision in a moment of frustration. It kills me to think that he could not be in this as much as me. That he really couldn’t see the progress we were making. We are both deeply insecure, actually. Now, I hope, we are both in a better position to try. I’m still scared.

The thing is, I know what I want. I believe that he wants it. I still trust that our problems are workable and I still have confidence. So here we are.

And at least now I can say I’ve had make-up sex.

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