Some months later, she's moved on

And so I have.

When I wrote that second-last post of mine, I was a different person. I didn't believe that dreams could come true, and not for a moment did I think that I would someday be the person that I am today. I had little idea that I would be so, so happy. So fulfilled. Exhausted, crawling into bed every night, but happy.

I've moved on, and beyond hate and anger. (That's not to say I don't still get the iffies when I think about my previous relationship--I'd be lying. I've got a lot of pent up emotions, most of which revolve around annoyance and silent rage)

But the point I'm trying to hit home now is that I'm happy. I am, impossibly, cheerfully, hopelessly happy, and that's because I've found, or rather, re-discovered someone in whom I can be myself. I can laugh and snort without fear of being judged. I can tell the truth without feeling anxious. I can take this person's company without feeling angry or annoyed at his being here. That's because he's been here all along. All of seven years.

He makes me giddy with happiness without ever forcing his beliefs, or his company, on me. He's cunning, but not in that sleazy, untrustworthy way. He makes me laugh, and never fails to curl my lips into a smile. I think of him when I'm alone and amongst friends, because really, as much as our horoscopes clash, it's him that I love. And at the end of the day? That mutual, shared love will bring us someplace. I know it. I'm sure of it. I've hung on for so long, and I'll keep hanging. Dropped the ball and slid a little far and in between--gotten hurt, and hurt someone else in return--but that's in the past. The pendulum keeps swinging, and time goes on.

And I love him. I always have. I'll always be proud of the fact. I know--bitch alert. It certainly wasn't fair to my ex, but as much as I'd love to be the one to blame here, I know I'm not, entirely. So I'll say it, loud and clear, and get it over and done with. If you know you won't be able to handle what I am about to say, please, for your sake, don't read on.

My previous relationship was a bad decision. I don't take well to being cheated into meeting the family. I don't enjoy being cunningly forced into joining family events. I do not like being forced to do things I don't want to do. I don't like having my alone-time taken away from me, and I certainly don't like being forced into a corner so hard that I end up crying in the bathroom.

I hate being hounded when I don't pick up the phone once, or even twice. I hate feeling emotionally blackmailed. I do not like pouting, and I hate when I am expected to take a guest when I have said no. I hate having to deal with people who think they know everything and anything, because sometimes, yes, I am right. My throat constricts at the very idea--I detest being talked over, as if I were a little girl who did not know better for myself.

And as much as I hate what was already mentioned, I also hate being made to feel like a bad girlfriend, because I know at the end of the day, that I was not as bad a girlfriend as I could have, and had reasons, to be.

And he doesn't do any of those things to me. He's had plenty of time to do it--seven years, three, if we want to get technical about when the feelings first started coming up. That's why it's him I want to come home to at the end of the day, him I turn to now when geckos raid my house. It's him I wake up grinning about, and him I am talking to when I get the heart fuzzies.

It's him I want to adopt those puppies with. And I will, one day. We'll make it. Even if we're a world apart.

I'll fight like hell for it.