A thread on Ravelry has me thinking about why I'm feeling so OK about everything, which is something that a lot of folk have commented on. FYI, this thread is titled "LOOK AT ALL THE FUCKS I GIVE", so maybe you can guess where this is going.
I'm OK because I don't have to give a fuck. I don't have to chivvy him into shaving, or washing, or eating. I don't have to make sure that random fucking piles of paper are put into the spare room in the order I found them. I don't have to wait for him to come home/deign to text me before I can have my dinner of an evening. I don't have to finish the jobs he'd said he'd do round the house. I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bed alone. I mean, I will be, but not in a totally depressing "My boyfriend feels like my housemate" kind of way. More in a "Man alive I'm tired and not listening to someone else snoring/fucking about on the computer will give me a decent night's sleep" way, which is fine by me.
I could worry about how he's doing. But the likelihood of his doing the same for me is pretty damn small, so why should I waste the effort? Realising this has been surprisingly freeing.
I can go to galleries, and to showings of Drive, and running and anything else I fancy without being concerned about him, and whether he's enjoying himself (I kind of hope he isn't, though). I can buy the food I want and the snacks I fancy, knowing that they won't be eaten while I'm not looking (this happened on a regular basis. "No, I didn't eat all the olives/crisps/sweets" when presented with an empty jar or bag. Oh yeah, so the fucking fairies were at them, were they?).
So for all that I loved him, and was happy with him, being apart from him is making me more aware of his bullshit and how much I put up with. The rose-tinted glasses are definitely off, and in the brutal light of day his faults and flaws are more apparent. Which is why I'm giving zero fucks tonight. Zero.
I'm OK because I don't have to give a fuck. I don't have to chivvy him into shaving, or washing, or eating. I don't have to make sure that random fucking piles of paper are put into the spare room in the order I found them. I don't have to wait for him to come home/deign to text me before I can have my dinner of an evening. I don't have to finish the jobs he'd said he'd do round the house. I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bed alone. I mean, I will be, but not in a totally depressing "My boyfriend feels like my housemate" kind of way. More in a "Man alive I'm tired and not listening to someone else snoring/fucking about on the computer will give me a decent night's sleep" way, which is fine by me.
I could worry about how he's doing. But the likelihood of his doing the same for me is pretty damn small, so why should I waste the effort? Realising this has been surprisingly freeing.
I can go to galleries, and to showings of Drive, and running and anything else I fancy without being concerned about him, and whether he's enjoying himself (I kind of hope he isn't, though). I can buy the food I want and the snacks I fancy, knowing that they won't be eaten while I'm not looking (this happened on a regular basis. "No, I didn't eat all the olives/crisps/sweets" when presented with an empty jar or bag. Oh yeah, so the fucking fairies were at them, were they?).
So for all that I loved him, and was happy with him, being apart from him is making me more aware of his bullshit and how much I put up with. The rose-tinted glasses are definitely off, and in the brutal light of day his faults and flaws are more apparent. Which is why I'm giving zero fucks tonight. Zero.
2 comments:
::hugs:: stay strong love! xoxo
I've been a lurker following your story on LSG, an dI have to say, it's very nice seeing you at the point where there are no fucks to give! Good for you :)
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