I wish I could have changed my name in your phone. Maybe I’m not even in your phone. That would be the sensible reality.
I’m back. Back in this dismal place where you sit on the pedestal in my sadistic brain. Someone who repeatedly emotionally shook me and said it was my fault when I exploded.
And some of it was my fault. I put my hands up and admit that, I’m not here to blame. I’m clearly just here to beat myself up. Nothing like a self-pity party.
If I was a child I’d be screaming. If I was a bit more productive I’d be writing. Instead I’m brooding and making notes on my phone that no one will ever see, scribbling thoughts that will just bounce around in my head until I choose to stop feeding them and they die.
In this moment I hate myself because I don’t hate you. I have an irrational hat on and I can’t get it off. I’m not at peace with it or grateful or anything really. I’m seeking a reason to lose myself. I want to break something just to see if it changes how I feel. I want to destroy something to stop you from destroying me. I’m exhausted. Exhausted fight you. Exhausted fight this part of myself. Constantly putting out fires only for my mind to continue dropping matches on piles of combustible second thoughts and gut instincts. We were fire. A fire I have never been able to stomp out. I crave the burn of you.
Leave me. I know it was one sided. I know you never felt the same. I know I was taken for a ride. But even now, even writing it, something, somewhere in me doesn’t fully believe that. I have never wanted to be wrong so much. I want you to have been the villain but of course people aren’t so black and white. Cutting me free to let us both move on was never really going to work was it? So here we are. Well here I am. Surround by love and yet left with this empty pain in the space I’d reserved for you.
If this is really it, if we’ve said our last word and send our last message then I really don’t know myself or my feelings at all. And that, after everything, is the hardest thing to accept.