Almost a month ago, my partner of almost two years, the one I call "Mr. Stark", broke up with me. We were in the middle of an argument, which is nothing special in itself. I recall mainly thinking how stupid it was, as usual, that we were arguing at all. Of course, it was about me and my depression and how I didn't "do anything"—because of course, in his mind I did not, oh, I don't know, help with the bills, clean the house, cook, grocery shop. About how my world revolves around music, the fandoms I devout my existence to, my life's work, Project DV, and my creative projects. About how he comes home to find me working on my computer. And he didn't like any of that. Then his words, along the lines of "that's it, get out" were spewed at me, and I detached myself from him. That was my first self-defense. To detach myself from all of my feelings about him, all of my thoughts related to him.
I immediately acted. "Okay," was pretty much my response, and I immediately set about going through my things to figure out how I would pack them away. He called my mother and told me he wanted me out, and told me he didn't love me anymore. Yet six hours prior, and he was nice to me, tender to me. I stayed up that night going through my things. That day, two hours after I finally fell asleep, I awoke to him pulling the blankets off me that freezing morning; he was volatile, verbally abusive, and I remembered staying silent, not moving until he left for work. I recall my uncontrollable shivering from how cold it was, thinking about how he could suddenly be so cruel when he was so kind in comparison just the day before. Just hours before.
I still haven't spoken to him, even though we've still lived together in the same apartment. I've avoided him, staying as unobtrusive as possible, keeping to the bedroom while he takes the living room. I told him from day one that I would fight for him until he didn't want me anymore. So, keeping to my word, I wasn't going to fight, anymore.
This is my last week at the apartment with him. Hopefully, all of my things will be out of there before Saturday, my deadline there, and I'll be intruding on some family until I figure out my living situation. While my things will be safe in storage, I'm bringing little more than the clothes on my back, toiletries and small technologies no bigger than my Lenovo Ideapad.
...I left my job two months ago to give me a chance to work on myself. To find myself again. To reassess my situation and figure out how to go about living. I only left my job because Mr. Stark said it would be okay. He said he didn't like how sad I was at my then-job. He wanted what was best for me. If somehow during that time handling the apartment on his own became too much, or something, he should have told me. He should have said something. Remaining quiet, blaming me for something I thought we had under control, and then forcing me out when he couldn't take it anymore...
I don't know what to think about him, now. I didn't know who he really was, I guess. It would seem. If anything, I have tried to see how positive this whole situation has been, as far as not being with him anymore, two-faced as he was. As he is. But for whatever reason, I did love him. I did want to be with him. When the times were good, they were great. I'm not going to get rid of every picture of him, or what have you. Not every picture. Most, yes. No need for them, anymore.
...At the same time...his sudden cruelty has taken me for a loop, beginning with kicking me out before I could find a place to live. Because of that, all my reasons for leaving my job were futile. My depression will worsen, not so much because of what has happened, but because of where it leaves me when it settles. When I'm gone from his apartment, our old apartment, I won't be able to dedicate my free time to writing, working on my wiki and making images for my projects. I won't have the means to let my creative energy flourish. I can't bring those things with me when I intrude on this family member, for however long that may be.
Of course, that's how I feel, even more so following what happened. I'm an intrusion. A useless, hopeless suicidal-depressive POS who is so mentally, emotionally fragile that I can't do what's expected, the "norm" of people my age. To work 5 days a week for 8 hours a day is too much, it seems. And though I may every now and then find it within myself to understand this is just how it is for me, it seems as if no one else can grasp this. So I am an intrusion, no matter what people say. Just like Mr. Stark, they will all find me to be a burden, a nuisance, eventually.
I don't know what else to think. Not until something changes...because I am so tired of changing for everyone else with no payoff.
But fine. I will try to find another job in another city. I will try to and will work hard at that job, no matter how much I hate it—if nothing else, I am known for good worth ethic, despite my cardinal flaws. I will try to find emotional, psychological help for whatever the hell must be wrong with me—and damn me if there's really nothing wrong at all. I will try and will live to see another day, much as I hate to open my eyes every new morning, because I don't have the guts to take my own life and for some reason, no one or thing has killed me yet. I'll go day to day without my personal treasures, like my desktop computer, and my personal comforts, like my writing supplies gloriously on display before my eyes. I'll stop all of the wonderful creative work I've done since December, as my means to do so will be severely limited once I move in with this family member.
I'll continue trying, even if nothing else changes...as always.
...Hoping for so little...wanting so little in return...
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