I've been friends with exes before, of course, but never with one who dumped me. Not until fairly recently. It is not the same.
Which is to say, it's not really a friendship. Other ex-ships are bereft of pretense and discomfort. It's what makes them special. This one, on the other hand, is beset with pretense and discomfort. Don't get me wrong; this is preferable to hating one another. It's just a sad legacy.
I had to work to get here, too. My onetime dumper (who I will not name, for reasons that will become clear) has been reintroduced into my life in phases.
Phase One - It's the Devil!
This is the initial encounter. Best dispensed with, like removing a Band Aid.
Phase Two - Really?
Now she's starting to loosen up a bit, and she tells you select bits about her life. You sadly note that none of the problems she mentions—career, housing, family, men, finances, lack of ability to pursue what she really wants to do—would even exist had she simply meant it when she said she loved you. Everything you had once hoped she would accomplish for herself remains just hope. Diminishing hope. You say nothing.
Phase Three - I don't care anymo-o-ore.
You begin to notice her exhibiting the same self-destructive behaviors that drove you nuts in the beforetime. But now you both have the luxury of it not being your problem. Where was that back when you needed it?
Phase Four - Incontinence
As a certain point, if you're lucky, the demise of your relationship shifts from tragedy to comedy. For me, it wasn't when she told me about the "asshole alcoholic" against whom she had to get a restraining order. It certainly wasn't when he brandished a knife, chased her, or ended up in jail. It wasn't even when I found out he'd done this all before, to another woman, and had served 18 months for violating that restraining order. No. That's not funny. You question your retarded ex's judgment, certainly, but it's not like you wish this upon her.
"He must be incredibly hot," you say.
"He's literally an underwear model," she replies. "How did you know?"
"Because people generally don't give ugly psychopaths second chances."
And then I found the preening photos of himself he'd posted online. And that's when I burst out laughing.
I erupted at the sight of him. Suddenly the ludicrousness of my history snapped into focus. "Oh. My. God. I can't believe I lost a single night's sleep wondering what I did wrong to lose her!" I laughed. Apparently she was looking for a knife-brandishing, uneducated, alcoholic, underwear-model ex-con.
What did I do wrong with her? Absolutely everything. I wasn't close, really. And thank Christ.