I love her to death, but it seems like, every day, she adds to the reasons I have to let her go.
It's not the cats that stink up the place. It's not their fault they pee anywhere that feels even a little like sand. It's not their fault the carpet, couch, and love seat feel like the perfect places to sharpen their claws. They don't know that they're destroying their clothing every time they gently paw at me. They're just being cats that will never be introduced to the concept of being de-clawed.
It's not the laundry that doesn't get done. It's not the food that doesn't get cooked. It's not the carpet that never gets vacuumed. It's not her chronic back pain that keeps her from doing anything around the house while she's home looking for a job.
It's not the rushed wedding plans. It's not the feeling that I'll never be able to pay for it on my own since her father's broke and she's unemployed. It's not the constant feeling that the slightest over expenditure is going to eventually leave me broke as well.
It's her maturity. Or, rather, not. It's her throwing her phone in anger. It's her rapid escalation from annoyance to feeling hurt to anger. It's her hitting me when she's frustrated or angry. It's her leaving, crying, when I present the reality that doesn't conform to her hurt feelings. When I show her that she's wrong. She thinks I'm taking sides. If the truth is a side, I guess I am. She wants my love for her to blind me from the way things are and I just can't. I'm crazy in love with her, but I'm not crazy.
And if she doesn't come back this time, I'm not going after her. I'll miss her, but I can't deal with it any more.
I'm a liar. If she comes back, I'll deal with it all just fine. Smiling my way to misery.