Do Robotic Women Dream of Mr. Right?

It all started when I casually corrected my boyfriend’s grammar. It sounds ridiculous, right? He said “than” when he should have said “then” over text – I’m a grammar nazi over such things. It wasn’t the reason this started, but it was quite possibly the spark. “I’ve gotta ask,” he texted, “is everything okay? You seem kind of distant lately.” He then asked me if he did something that I didn’t like.

I think it’s important that I mention that I have a very mild anxiety disorder which was a lot worse when he and I began dating. I was getting better, though. And he was questioning me about it, no matter how much I told him that I was fine and that he had nothing to worry about – he did nothing wrong. He would never believe me when I said I was fine, free, and happy. He never learned to read me because he never really cared to. I eventually realized that I was never special to him, no matter how much he thought I was.

And so I declared that we take a break after he had a fight about how weird I’ve been. I’ve also come to realize how much he’s been blaming his anxieties on me and my condition. In the beginning, it was at a weak state, since I felt I wasn’t good enough for him. I know now it’s quite the opposite.

Not long after our little fight, he messaged a mutual friend of ours, ruminating about how inhuman I was. His words: “I can never be as much of a f—ing robot as she is! … She’s a psychopath and deserves a psychopath! … She’s not a real woman and I’ve never complained!”
This was a fatal flaw since I have known this mutual friend at least eight years longer than he has. He brought these messages to my attention because he felt I deserved to know. I never stopped thanking him for that.

Was I hurt? Maybe a little. Was I angry? Oh yes, those comments put me in a vendetta kind of mood that only grew worse as other friends have told me that the only thing he liked about me was making out and that he only saw me because he “needed his fix”.
The more I thought of it, the angrier I grew. A robot with this intense feeling of betrayal. Well, no longer. I made a date with him to the Tim Hortons nearest to my house. Unfortunately for him, it was an hour and a half walk. I knew from the start he’d do just about anything to get his “fix”. He was a boy, after all.

I didn’t give it to him, though. He denied everything he said. We both knew the truth, though. It was very quiet in the coffee shop. He was shaking like a leaf when I told him it was over; and just when I really began to think about him, about how broken he was, he got up and left before I did. But, thankfully, before he did, he got one last look at my face. No expression, just like a robot.

Perhaps he was somewhat correct about that robot remark because I’ve never felt love for any other man after that. I still have the utmost faith in my capacity to love. My love brought him far higher than he has ever been in his life and then dropped him on his head and sent him reeling like a whimpering child. He lost our mutual friends – his only friends. He lost direction and he lost the feeling in his heart.
He was weak and needed the support of another. I told him he would need to support himself because I couldn’t do it for him. The truth was that I was strong enough to lift the both of us – I just didn’t want to.

Go ahead and tell me I’m horrible, but when he called me a robot without emotions, I laughed. Can a robot like me find Mr. Right? Maybe… maybe not. I’m ready to accept either outcome.

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