I know there are two sides to every story; this just happens to be mine.
"It's over" cannot logically be followed by "No, it's not" although it never fails to surprise me when people seem to think it can.
"It's over. I'm done. I'm leaving." "No, it's not, and you're not."
See? Imagine that conversation. Crazy. I've had it. It was laughable. In my case, it sounded more like this (and I'll be paraphrasing this so as not to bore):
"You're taking advantage of me. I'm done. I want you and your shit gone." (Actually, I said that, it's a direct quote.)
"No. I'm not leaving. And neither are you. Neither of us are leaving for at least two months." (I think it was two months; it was around that because it was whatever we had left on the lease.)
"Oh really? Yes, I am."
And I left.
Maybe laughable isn't the right word. It has been two years and it is still difficult to describe the feeling I had as I watched the look on this persons face as I calmly (as I had always been the one who yelled) did what I said I was going to do.
This person, who had held such control over me for so long, as it dawned on him that I really wasn't staying this time.... I had tried to keep him on a pedestal that I had built for him, I had unearned faith in him (that he didn't deserve) and I had made a commitment and tried to really build something with him, and after 18 months I finally saw him for what he is.
So I left, and two weeks later he still didn't believe it. When I came by to get some things he locked himself in the bathroom and left a note for me on the bathroom mirror, typed and printed from the computer, that said, in big enough letters to fill the page, "I HATE YOU". He piled all my things in one place and every gift I'd ever given him stacked in what had been our room.
Three weeks after that, when he knelt in front of me crying saying he would do everything I had ever asked him to do, he would change, that I was the best thing, that I was too good for him and he thought he'd die without me, and I told him it was way way way too late for that, he got up and vomited.
My six foot tall 127 lb frame couldn't help but see the tragic comedy in him regurgitating whatever was in his stomach at that moment, as I had lost about 30 pounds since moving in together a year before and he had gained weight steadily.
That final morning was the first time he had ever made coffee for me, had it waiting for me when I arrived. After the begging, the tears, and the vomit, I said goodbye to the dog and I drove away. He packed his truck and left that afternoon, leaving me with a house full his things to get rid of and a whole new lease on life.