“He’s an asshole.”
I look at my friend as I’m saying, and I catch myself. Asshole, loser, piece of shit, waste of space – I’m spewing out whatever typical insult one uses when talking about her ex. My friend validates this, but as I’m saying it, I realize: didn’t I love this person? (Maybe I still do.) Wasn’t this person my knight in shining armor? Wasn’t he “the one” to me? The love of my life? My one true love?
As I’m spewing out all this vitriol, I think back to those moments where I thought so highly of him. Here I am, right now, in this moment of brokenness, but I hadn’t I lived inside of hope and dreams and foreverness with him just a few weeks ago?
This is so cliche. Sure, I can say all sorts of slanderous, acerbic things about him. But part of me wonders: what’s the point in that? Yeah, he’s an asshole. He’s a piece of shit. He knows it. I know it. In fact, I always knew. Even when I loved him the most, I knew he was an asshole piece of shit. But I loved him anyway. It didn’t stop me then, and I didn’t stop loving him because he was an asshole piece of shit. If anything, I liked that about him. Or, at least I liked it when his assholeishness and his shitiness were directed at the rest of the world. When it got directed at me – I didn’t like it too much.
Sure, he was an asshole. But he was my asshole. And we were assholes together. Now I’m just an asshole without him, and maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy. The mask goes back on. I pretend to be nice again. I go on dates with men who seem like the type of person I should be attracted to, and I lie about who I am. When really all I want is someone with whom I can be my assholeish self. Someone who validates my smug and unwarranted sense of superiority. Someone who always wants more. Someone who looks down on other people.
Yeah, he was an asshole. A piece of shit. And so am I. All I need to do now is find myself a new asshole piece of shit, and then I’ll be just fine.