I have... yeah. Things that I don't even know how to begin.

The thought of writing here is starting to cause anxiety, and since I will not allow myself to stop blogging because of a little anxiety... need to power through it. God knows I've gotten enough negative comments here in the last few days, though a lot of those were from the ex.

I don't quite feel safe anymore, to be honest.

I'd venture forth that he'd be happy to know that.

I'd venture forth that I never knew him at all.

Post-split behaviors translate into a man I never knew, spits on the image of the good times we had, and I can't help but wonder if... gods, if I was so wrong. Not wrong for making the choice I made, but wrong in my perception of him. If he's so hurt that he's lashing out against me in pain, or if, like so many say, no matter how much I defend him, that he's simply acting the upset child who lost his favorite toy.

I'd like to think that he loved me. That those moments we shared, just the two of us, were real. That our perfect Valentine's Day weekend together was genuine, and the love I saw in his eyes wasn't just something I deluded myself into believing.

It'd be easier to think that he felt nothing, nothing other than passing amusement, that I was a good fit into his life, thumped into the shape of a doormat over time.

That way I wouldn't worry over his hurt.

I don't think he'll ever believe that I would have left him that Saturday night whether or not I had known PD.

Because there's loyalty to your mate, and then there's loyalty to yourself.

You have to know your boundaries, and you have to know when you will break.

I saw myself breaking.

I was going to break down the course of the events in epic narrative, from when he "proposed" on Thursday night/Friday morning to how I found myself sitting a couch on the first floor of PD's warehouse, alternately talking and crying.

And maybe I will, one day down the line.

Between the dinner with my parents and the conversation in the diner in the Valley, from the moment that blonde Vienna sausage opened her mouth at the BDSM party he took me to our first weekend back together... it was simply a chain of events leading to the moment where he let me know that my opinion, my needs, my happiness, would never matter as much to him as his own and if I wasn't okay with that, he would withdraw his offer of marriage.

Some people just don't fit.

I finally accepted that, after months of him trying to beat that idea into me, my own sense of self-preservation managed to kick in.

Of course, now it seems to be far too late to save any tatters of friendship.

Many will probably think I left him for PD. Leaping, like so many girls do, from one man to the next. Security, validation, comfort sex, distraction from internal stressors, clinging to endorphins inspired by limerance.

I'm not going to argue that. It's pointless. Many would be surprised that I, I didn't touch him the night I left the ex. Nor the night after that. Or the next.

It was near pure companionship while I gathered my head back together.

Heh, finally free of that chain latching me down to sex as a magic psychological healer. Took ten years, but it happened.

I don't know exactly what PD and I are doing. I'm... really being the pathetic abused puppy. It's kinda sad. I'm hypersensitive to his moods, his expressions, looking for that displeasure, that look of calculated evaluation. Constantly worried that I'm taking too much of his time, too much of his attention. Trying not to get in the way.

But, when I get up for work in the morning, he makes me breakfast, walks me to my car, and then goes back to bed.

And when I asked him to go clubbing with me on Saturday, so he could see me dance, he said yes. He didn't tell me no, that it would be a bad idea, because he might run into someone he knew and want to bang them, which I would simply have to deal with, which is why the ex only went clubbing with me once.

When we brought up how rapidly we were falling for each other, and I expressed concern over his not-quite-monogamy, PD didn't tell me that he would never change, that his needs were his needs, he just smiled and said that we'd make it work. That we'd find a way to make both of us happy.

I sleep in his bed on the second floor. Cats jump up onto the blankets, curl at our feet, our sides, occasionally our faces. Daylight starts filtering through the warehouse windows, illuminating his book cases, his dungeon, his face next to mine. He wakes up and smiles at me, I smile back. Happy. Feeling safe to be myself.

Thursday night, we went to an art gallery/fashion show in Downtown, on the lush patio of the twenty-first floor of one of the buildings. I wore a short skirt, stockings, a loose black tunic, and my usual boots. He was in a dark button-up and jeans, the thick piercings through his ears black and tribal, eyes always looking wicked at me. He included me in conversations, whispered jokes into my ear, introduced me to friends, always made my company feel desired, like I was more than an arm-piece.

Friday night, we met with two more of his friends to discuss a screenplay one of them had written. We talked for hours, I started nodding off, my right leg across his left as he stroked my thigh, talking business, talking ideas, making jokes and ranting, as he does. His friends were wonderful, all of his friends have been wonderful. Open, accepting, easy.

Saturday day we went to Olvera St in downtown, took the Metro in. Wandered the buildings and the booths, people-watching and talking about everything, like we do. Conversation is non-stop. Ideas, thoughts, plans, feelings. Looking into old buildings, walking around in the two museums they have there, reading and discussing, identifying antiques. He bought me a Day of the Dead ornament I loved in a tiny store full of art. Went back to his place and dozed on the couch downstairs, watching movies while he loaded his truck with equipment for the next day. Hit the club where we ran into a tiny porn star, a friend of his, who was quite entertaining and friendly, just like all of his friends have been.

I slept in today, he went to work. Left me a note on my purse, made me smile.

It's good. I'm happy. Anxiety and worry aside, I'm actually happy.

I feel like I should be miserable, but I'm not. I think a large part of it is that I've been put through the emotional wringer by the ex so many times that I've gotten a bit numb to it. There's grief and there's sadness, but not that heart-stab I've had so often with him in the past.

Finally strong enough to move on. Strong enough to stand up for myself.