You Hurt Me
I suppose it goes without saying that there was anger. How could there not be? You left me in a state of confusion, in a state of betrayal, in a state of utter and unrecognizable loneliness. You left me…you left me. To say I was damaged is an understatement, because that implies that I thought I could be fixed. I was broken, destroyed, and done. For far too long, I wore matted hair, dried tears, and day old mascara. I spent my mornings in bed, my afternoons sobbing, and my nights drinking anything to numb the pain. Sleep was my only consolation — the only reprieve from this dark world I was now living in. I’d dream about you there. Think of happier times when we were together, when I still made you happy, when you still loved me, when I wasn’t hurting. I’d often wake up, tears soaking my pillow, clutching your t-shirt, desperately trying to breathe you in, trying to make you real to me again. There were times that I’d wake up screaming, shaking even from the pain. I’d throw your picture at my wall and wait for the glass to shatter — a representation of the brokenness that I had become. I was hurt. I was angry. I was alone.
I Called You
…one too many times. I also texted you. And I emailed you. And I Facebooked you. And I probably Tweeted at you, liked your Instagram photo, added you on Google Plus, and contemplated calling your father. I reached out to you. It was incessant, and constant, and crazy. But you know what? You did that to me. You made me that way. You walked out of my life without so much as an explanation and you expected me to pick up the pieces. How? How was I supposed to do that? I didn’t just want answers, I needed them. I yearned for clarification, for affirmation, for…closure. And you wouldn’t give that to me. You ignored the calls and the texts and the emails and so I kept trying. I tried, and I tried, and I tried. The more you avoided me, the more I persisted. The drunk dials were excessive; the drunk texts were even worse. I questioned my sanity and I questioned your soul. I wondered how you could claim to love someone and then be able to just walk away forever. I probably left those exact words in a 2am voicemail. But finally, after days, or weeks, or months…they stopped. Or, rather, I stopped. I finally got it.
I Was Afraid
A weird thing happened when you left. Between the loneliness, and the anger, and the tears, and the bitterness, and the wine, and the Ben and Jerry’s, and the whimpers, and the fits, and the all out, no shit, batshit crazy, there was fear. I was terrified. Somehow, I knew in my heart that you were done. I knew that we were over. Knew that there was no saving grace or second, or third, or ninth attempt at us working; we were finished. But I was afraid of moving on. I was scared of letting you go, worried that the moment I finally got over you would be the moment that you’d change your mind and come walking back through my door. I didn’t want to move past you, didn’t want to forget you. It’s hard to put into words, this self-inflicted torture I was doing to myself. I didn’t want to move on — loving you, albeit unrequited, was a connection to you. Moving on meant that it really was over.
I Lost My Mind For A Little Bit
Between the lack of the sleep and the overindulgence of alcohol, I fell off the deep end for awhile. I didn’t eat enough, I cried more than anyone really should, and I admittedly dabbled in self-medication. I was, for lack of better words, a mess.
I’m Okay Now
A strange thing happened one day. I woke up and went about my everyday routine. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ache. I wasn’t lonesome. I enjoyed my normal activities, I was productive, and I smiled for the first time in a long time. I realized that I no longer missed you. I no longer yearned for you. I no longer even wanted you. I was finally independent, finally free, and finally…happy. I was on my own and I was happy. I didn’t need you anymore. I don’t need you anymore. The empty feeling is gone. Instead, I feel content. I make my own decisions. I do what I want — what I choose to do. The hatred, the anger, the self-loathing, it’s no longer present. I was exhausted from carrying around the resentment…and so I stopped. I let you go. I no longer hate you. I no longer wish you loneliness or even premature balding; I wish you well. I wish you fulfillment and excitement and love. I wish you success and happiness. I wish you a lifetime of prosper. You deserve that. And I do too.