The Breakup cont'd cont'd

I was doing fine. Everything was peachy. Valentine's day morning, I was the gold medalist of how freshly broken up people should act. I was happy, I was confident, I had goals to achieve and a smile on my face.

Then he started calling. And texting. Sending messages, cards and songs through e-mail. I love you, let's talk. We're in a relationship and have been through a lot. Don't be like this. You've never been anything but loving to me and I want to change my ways. I want to hear your voice. I want you to hear me out. I want I want I want.

I ignored his calls, texted back to leave me the hell alone, didn't respond to the e-mail. He didn't let up, so I asked Oli to fend him off. Maybe that was gutless, but by this point I'd been reduced to a crying, shivering mess. And just like when I was in kindergarten, OIi rose to the occasion with a tactful telling off, and hung up.

Enter the fatal mistake: signing onto messenger simply to ask him to respect my wishes, and leave me alone. He said he would - if I heard him out first.

I should've run like hell. But I wanted my few weeks to months of alone time, and so I listened. He was sorry for treating me in the way that he had. I was the best, in fact, he didn't know how someone like me ever fell for him to begin with. He'd thanked his lucky stars night after night to have me. Everything about me was wonderful, amazing, perfect. Except for one thing.

Physically, I don't appeal to him anymore.

Now it's time for him to work on himself. He wants to be a BETTER PERSON, see. If he was a better person he would stick around and help me find my way back, but he just can't do that. He wants me to be happy, though, and hopes I find what I'm looking for. Close off with "I'll never forget what you did for me and I hope we can be friends," I said goodbye, and now I have all the time in the world.

To wish I was dead.

It's a fine option. After all, what a fantastic way to close off a major chapter of my life. "You did everything for me and I really appreciate and love you, but while running ragged trying to provide and make me happy you wasted yourself and you're just not pretty anymore." Amazing. How can someone concentrate on being happy after hearing this, that even though you did your best and went to hell for it, you're still not good enough?

Up until five minutes ago, wishing I was dead seemed like a great thing to do. I was planning on going home, getting under the covers with lots of tissue and crying my poor little heart out. I'm not good enough, I can't be good enough, no one will ever think I'm good enough, and no one will ever want me. That every single time I meet someone new from now on, this mantra will be running through my head and my life will be ruined because of it.

But then I thought of an Option B, which is snapping me out of my zone and seems the far more appealing way to go.

Prove the bastard wrong.