With the passage of time, I see things a little differently. I don't detest him but instead feel sorry for him. And what hurts me the most, even now, is that he couldn't find a way to tell me that something was wrong, that things were out of control. I was so in love with him—to be honest, a little part of me still is— that I would have found a way to deal with it. Not accept or embrace it, but confront it, puzzle it out.
I understand being out of control, being self-destructive. My methods are different (binging, shopping, moping), but I think the feelings are the same. Instead, I found out in such a horrific way that it rattles my sense of self and trust to this day.
While it's easy to ask why, say, a wife would stand by her husband, I can almost understand it. I can't compare my brief relationship to a marriage, but I can see how it takes a while to process this sort of betrayal, how you don't want to believe your man could go there.
It's not a black and white situation, to be sure. As much as I'd like to hate my ex, I don't. Nor do I forgive him. I just wish I understood him a little better. I guess I'll have to save that for my next relationship.