The introspection

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I was so angry. He did it again, and I just … didn’t know what to say.

I heard him say she, and I knew I didn’t deserve her. That he was getting more than he deserved. That I didn’t care about enough for him, did enough for him.

He told me the same thing, almost exactly. That she did enough for him, did enough to remind him that there were women in the world that he could spend time with and actually feel connected to and for.

She didn’t have enough, he said. I needed to do more for him, to give him more. To keep him at my house instead of letting him go back to his own.

I told him I was mad, and I started yelling, and I just … didn’t know what to do. He seemed to be trying to tell me not to hate her. That she did enough for him, and that it wasn’t that he needed more, it was just that I needed more, too. That he was all I had.

But it wasn’t true. He had his family, and they loved him, more than I ever would.

He needed to do more for me. To get me, and not just come up and bring me home like he always did. He needed to do more for me and his family. He needed to take more time, not just to hang out with me, but to be with me, too. He needed to pay attention to his other family, and to me and my family, and to spend more time with his own, to give more of himself to his own life.

He did do enough.

He needed to go back to his own life, his own house, his own bed, and leave me alone, so I could go to sleep in peace. He needed to not chase after her.

He did enough.

He kissed me.

She did enough.

I didn’t say anything to him. I kissed him back, and then I just stood there, looking at him, and hating him.

He told me the same thing. It was like it was the same thing that happened every time he needed something. He needed me to make him feel loved enough. That I was too worried about my own feelings, and too insecure to trust that he could make me feel loved.

She did enough.

I knew that. I could see it, in myself, in my own interactions with him. I didn’t think he was right. I didn’t think he was good. I hated him for it. But I also hated him for being so clueless about other people, for his own inadequacies.

I didn’t say anything to him.

I did my usual thing, and made him leave, but he wouldn’t go back to his own bed. He said he needed to stay and talk with me. He wanted to talk, he just needed me to listen, and that he was done talking, but he wanted to do it. That he was done.

He wouldn’t leave me alone.

I knew enough about him to know that he was not going to do anything about it. He did enough for me, enough for my family, and I told him that he was done with us. That I needed him to be gone, and he said that he was, but he just kept wanting to talk.

He told me that I did enough, and that she did enough, and that he did enough. That she did enough, that she was enough for him. That he did enough, and she did enough, and that we did enough for him.

She did enough.

He told me that she did enough.

I did not say anything.