I just need to keep walking away from all of it.
I need to walk away from the pain, the betrayal, the constant obsessing over images I conjured up in my mind about what was going on behind closed doors, the agony, and the patheticness of blaming myself and asking what I should have done differently.
If I just keep walking, it might create a distance between myself and the memories. Ah, the memories and the songs that trigger a reaction—they are too much to bear.
The love of my life was gone—he was not who I thought he was.
If I keep walking, pretty soon I won’t be able to see him anymore. He will merely be a speck on the road. If I walk long enough, hopefully there will be nothing left of me.
Only if I keep walking…
And I don’t know who I’m going to talk to about the random numbers I see that remind me of him. Who will laugh at my stories of clumsiness? Who will get me?
And I pray to all that is holy that there is mercy on me. I hope no one shares with me the gossip they heard and the rumors (or the events) that actually took place because I don’t want to know. I can’t know, and I pray that no one gives me that one more detail that could send me over the edge and even deeper into this pit of raw despair.
I beg for mercy that these obsessive thoughts disappear: “Why wasn’t I enough? What did I do wrong? Why didn’t he love me like he said he did? I must have deserved this.”
No, I did not deserve this.
All I did was love him with everything I had. I did not betray him—I just wanted to make him happy.
My ride or die.
I did not do this, and I would have never done this.
Again, I fall apart and hope that no one notices I’ve been gone so long. I desperately want him to reach out to me because he should know that this is what I need at this moment. He knows me so well and better than anyone. Can’t he feel that I need him right now?
I want something from him—anything—because we’re connected.
My sadness is making room for rage now. It is ugly, and it scares me. I imagine she made him feel like the rock star he wishes he could be. He loves a good ego trip, and that high meant more to him than I to me.
I need to know what he was thinking. I seem to obsess over this question.
But I know that there isn’t an explanation that can save us. The more important issue here is what he didn’t think about: me.
That is all that matters—he did not think of me, and that tells me all I need to know.
So I will cry some more.
I will rage.
I will self-medicate.
I will become numb.
I will feel sorry for myself.
I will lash out.
I will collapse.
I will lay there for a while.
I will self-destruct and become someone unrecognizable.
I will hate myself.
This must be rock bottom.
The lies and denials that I wanted so badly to believe are long gone. I know the truth, and weirdly, the truth has set me free.
Because when I didn’t know, my heart was still held together with stitches, not fully broken yet. But now, it is split in half—it is wide open.
And now I pray that the light gets in.
The darkness overshadows me. So I keep walking until the old, dark me is gone.
And I pray for the light to come.
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