It hurts. I look desperately for a sliver of hope, some kind of proof that you care, that you realize how badly you fucked up, that you feel bad.
But all I find is more broken promises.
I realized yesterday that I haven't cried as much since I moved to my new home as I used to. I still have bad days but the soul crushing blackness is gone.
I was so sad when I lived with him. He made me so miserable. He might have stolen my sewing machine and my underwear and a skein of marks & kattens "Madrid" and all my photos but at least I'm free from the horrible darkness of living with a psycho. At least I'm not constantly worried about his mood. If he's going to explode over some meaningless little thing.
He's a little bit like my ex only more evil and less attractive (and my ex was not very attractive). Come to think of it my ex, the compulsive liar, seems pretty nice in comparison. So there's that. At least I wasn't in a relationship with this one. Hah.
I realize daily things that I miss. A shawl I knitted. Things I made when I was a blacksmith. The last ball of the yarn I needed to finish a project. But the feeling of lightness that comes from not living with him anymore makes it easier to bear.