Three Years of Freedom

Trying to go for a short walk yesterday was brutal. I wanted to at least try to get a little exercise, but I was so short of breath that it was very clear why I’ve been so tired and unable to work out lately (Not enough spoons for an exercise routine). I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for later this week and hopefully, we can nip bronchitis in the bud this time around.

Before my walk, I happened to be perusing Facebook Memories. As I do every day. I guess I didn’t so much “happen to,” I just did, because that’s one of many things I do every day.

This post from 2016 popped up.

Me, at 10:46 AM: Come on! Get up! Get up get up get up! Come help me chop onions for chili!
The exN: You fail at incentivizing.

I wrote a lot of cute posts like this back when the exN and I were together, about him refusing to do things with me or help with things that needed to get done.

At the time, I needed to pretend to myself it was somehow adorable or endearing. I would write funny little posts about his behavior in order to help me maintain my delusions.

If everyone laughed it must be normal, right?

The chili I was making was served that night, at my 40th birthday party, which we held at our house. It was vegetarian chili. Nobody else would have cared if it was a meat-based chili. 99% of the guests would have preferred meat. But I made sure the exN would have something to eat so he wouldn’t feel I had ignored him or his needs.

He refused to help me make it. He also refused to help with any of the errands that needed to be run that day. He wanted to play video games instead. I spent the whole day running around and getting things ready while he lounged and played games on his phone. (He did help a bit with tidying up for a few minutes later in the day, and he vacuumed, both of which I appreciated.)

Once everyone arrived, he proceeded to get obnoxiously drunk and was rude to all our guests. And, in front of everyone, he tried to claim credit for the party. He wanted me to thank him for throwing me such a great party.

After everyone left, we got in a fight. I hadn’t liked his behavior and he had hurt my feelings. He refused to listen and called me names, and when I got upset, he ordered me out of “his” house.

Those words stopped me cold. “His” house. The house we owned together was, in his eyes, “his” house.

I broke up with him the next morning.

Cheers, everyone. Today marks three years since the day I broke up with the narcissistic ex.

Happy three years of freedom to me.


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