I want to escape

I yearn for the ache

To just end

You're NOT my friend

You caused this pain

Loving you was insane

Your actions- definitely wrong

Why did I stay with you so long

These wounds are still raw. Freshets containing salt from my eyes fall into them which cause throbbing pain.

The first time I broke up with him, I did not cry. I felt badly, but I coped well with knowing this was a good decision on my part as at the time he did not fit into my life. However, with little human contact and even more limited friendships I endured crushing loneliness and longed to have a friend in physical proximity. Two weeks later, I didn't have to beg him to take me back; he just said we were together again. The same problems arose quickly, we both suffered from distance and lack of communication.

Months later, we had seemingly strengthened our relationship though I knew he wasn't intelligent enough to have a meaningful conversation or even have anything in common with me besides age, I kept holding on believing this relationship valuable. Then we were engaged. I thought this meant progress as marriage entails a future and intertwining of two people in companionship, love and understanding. Though we were engaged we had never been more far apart. In the hospital for the fourth time since we'd become a couple, this time I learned he'd gone to jail as well. This would be an adequate reason to terminate a relationship, however that was not why.

All my life only my mother has seen my behavior linked with causal motivations; she understands how I am and what bothers me. She knows my idiosyncrasies and negative character traits; the more obvious ones and the subtle. I realized that he didn't understand anything about me- from the most visible like why I wore makeup and the intricate- why did I hang onto all my Mylar balloons from every birthday I had since age nineteen.

As with most horrible memories, I repressed the sorrow the breakup manifested within that hour last summer in June. Even hours later, when I recorded my actions of the day, I could barely recall what he or I said barring these few details that only exist in my personal memoir. He tried to shrug off the accusatory statement I mentioned in which he said he'd "settled for me" with the worst metaphor in existence- comparisons of picking Cheetos verses Doritos. Upon reviewing that trinket of retort- I drew up the conclusion that these cheese flavored snacks are displayed right at the checkout line and are a mere quick grab regardless of real desires. They're just there and you don't care what you get as long as it's edible. And the other rejoinder that my journal brought to reminisce was that he asked if we "could kiss and make up?" This was not an argument- this was my elegy and conclusion of the relationship- there was no opportunity for that to occur.

After successfully ignoring his calls and an actual correct usage of the word "prerogative" in a voicemail, I answered a 520 number to hear his voice. He was in the hospital… again. And this time he alluded to the timeline of events attributing this hospitalization to my ending our engagement. Being a caring, sincere person though occasionally completely selfish and only devoted to my own problems- I felt incalculable agony, extreme sympathy, and culpability for his visit there. He called me nearly every day from the hospital asking about the infinitesimal details about my monotonous life as he knew them. He asked about my constant DVD viewing, library visits, my animals, my writing, and Amazon shopping. During these phone calls, he told me stories of our future life together. He constantly ignored my repetitive statements that we were no longer a couple.

When he was out of the hospital, he'd come over one day with an engagement ring-inside our initials were engraved. As awed as I am with jewelry, I did not accept this proposal or any subsequent proposal because I'd already evaluated our life together and it was not good. I'm not yet a mother but I've chosen my children's names, planned what books, movies, art, sights, and music I wish to share with them. I clearly envision their thought processes as they will have to wait for their mentally ill father to be released from the hospital over and over for the rest of their lives. I also harbor resentment if they were not to receive my intelligence but only his ignorance, stubbornness to learn, and generally low intellect accompanied with minimal comprehension.

The following months contained occasional kissing and hand holding despite our official broken up status. Though I attempted to convince myself I was a single female, he had convinced himself that I was his girlfriend and it subconsciously emerged in my mentality. He still called me "Babe" and he still told me he loved me. I didn't tell him I loved him then. I had had to considering all the overwhelmingly negative aspects his personally encompassed only to be met with minute positive ones.

In December, officially un-coupled since June but unofficially in a relationship (extremely complicated) since July- I encountered something extraordinary in a revelation- I would never be able to trust him. Priding myself in honesty, I was contrasted by his stupidity in not remembering which false stories to uphold in conversations. I caught him in four lies within ten minutes, my deductive reasoning ascribed to writing many mystery novels. When he left, I did something I had not done over him- I cried. I cried so hard; wailing and screaming out as much pain as I could so the ache could immediately cease. After I'd done that I knew now whatever this was, it was finished.

He attempted to call and he sent texts but I ignored him. Truthfully over nineteen months have elapsed since I first met him. It's been thirteen months since I began dating him. It's been nine months since I was first engaged to him. And there is no difference in my life. I have no more or less friends than I did back then. I am still alone. Still I live with my mom, three cats and dog. I still watch DVDs every single day- still visit the library regularly, still record my life's episodes in my journal and still go to school (albeit reluctantly). He added nothing measureable to my world except interminable worrying if he would be alive the next time he made it to the hospital.

I'll take this little pain now by myself rather than let years accumulate into vast despair that my children and I would have to endure together. The wounds may be splashed with saline tears and sizzle but when I get done stitching; these cuts will become scars my children don't have to feel.