There was that weekend in Vancouver when we spent the days together; going to the gym, walking to a Vietnamese restaurant for noodle bowls and iced coffee, making fun of his friends who were on the stag with him because they would be drunk messes by four o’clock while he was just getting ready to hit the shower for a full night of drinking. Going for dinner and drinks with my friends in Vancouver while he went out with the guys and having the guys call me at 11 to come meet up, although I told them all I was perfectly happy staying at my friends or cousins if they wanted to have the stripper dance all night or whatever it is that boys do on stags.
There were the times we lay in bed all day on a Saturday, watching movies, eating “bad food” and making fun of each other. Me for his World of Warcraft playing at 31 years old, him for my weird TV habits (namely watching part of the cooking show, flipping to CNN for commercials, taking an intermission for the house-fixing shows then back to the cooking network). There was the fact that we chatted pretty much every night, whether it was via msn or telephone, and if we didn’t chat neither of us ever asked where the other had been, or why they hadn’t called. There were the poker games that slightly frustrated and bemused him because he was obviously a better player and yet I always managed to win at least some money off the guys.
There were the bad pick-up lines he’d test on me first and make sure they were awful enough for no girl to take seriously and then go trying them out, mostly for my and his friends amusement. There were the 80s tunes cranked at 3 am, much to the chagrin of the upstairs neighbors. There was the time we lay in a field after the bar, talking about our families, the dog I was scared of losing (who died shortly after), and the cancer that ravenged his Aunt’s body.
If he was out with his friends he didn’t necessarily tell me, he didn’t “check-in” on me either and I was free to go out on a Wednesday and make an ass of myself. I could wake up late on a Sunday, go for coffee with a friend and spend all day hanging out with her. I could go to Victoria for a weekend without asking someone else what their schedule was like. All the things I hated about having a boyfriend, I didn’t have with him. All the things I wanted from a boyfriend, I got from him.
Slowly and steadily we started breaking each other, putting the acts in motion to destroy everything we had. One week it would be me who did it. Broke him, hurt him in some way. The next week it was him. It all started with an offhand, drunken, misconstrued comment: “If I wanted a relationship I’d still be with The-Ex”, “But you don’t want a Relationship so you’re with me?”, “I’m Not With You”.
It escalated into a full-on what the hell do we want from each other war. Trying to prove to each other that we didn’t need each other. Trying to prove that we were both still the strong, independent people we were when we first met. I don’t need you. I have myself. We tried to fix it. Tried to make things right, get over our bruised egos and look past the hurtful things that had been done. We tried to pretend nothing had happened. Then we tried to talk about it and lay everything out in the open. It was too hard. It was too painful. I don’t need you. I love you. I don’t need you. I hate you. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.