I wish I could tell you how I'm doing now. Truthfully how I'm doing, not the "alright" in some form or another I always give you when you reach out again. I wish I could say what's actually on my mind. Maybe then you would see why I never reach out. Why you're always the one to make the first move.
The pain I'm left with is so difficult to put into words. I imagine maybe you feel similarly, but I know you don't think the same as I do. I know you feel like we could be friends. I know you feel like we made mistakes that we can get past if we both just tried hard enough. But I know we're toxic. Together, we're disaster. We bring each other down and try to pretend we don't. We distract ourselves with our nerdy interest, our common grounds, and our fake faces.
We were never our real selves with each other. Not fully. We glimpsed each other and chose to believe we hadn't. You kept thinking you could pull me out with enough coaxing, persuasive talks and comfort until it all became too much for you. I saw your frustration more than once. Saw how you'd light up anytime I was having a good day and felt as though you deserved a reward for them. As though my highs were because of you, not for you as they actually were.
I felt like I was a toll on you. A burden. Something you had to drag around. That my depression was a weight for you to carry and attempt to fix, but it wasn't. You took on hardships you shouldn't have when I asked you not too then used them against me. You pouted more than once. Huffed and shook me in your frustration. Whined about how hard you were trying, but my depression and self esteem were not things that you could mend. You tried in your own way to help, but it wasn't something you could force out of me. Maybe it's not fair that this a major contributor to what made me leave...but I can never forget that look on your face. That look of frustration and anger and disappointment...because I was depressed.
Because I was fucked up.
The day came when you told me that. Fighting in the middle of the night because you made advances towards me I didn't want. Because I was tired and hadn't slept well in weeks, which you knew. I huffed at you one time. One. After all the times you pouted at me and I took it silently, forgiving you because I imagined how frustrating I was. How frustrated you must've been for trying to help where you couldn't. Because I always thought about it from your perspective. I always put you before me.
You know this. I rarely said no. I rarely did stop your advancements because I put you before me. Because I believed I loved you and I was trying to show you that.
The one time I make a sound of frustration, you get angry. We fight. I cry. You yell. You say something that hits me deep and walk away.
"You're fucked up."
I sit for a time, playing those words over and over in my head. Blankly staring into nothing as the weight of the world seems to cave in on me. Shaking, I dressed and walked right pass you to my car. You rush to me and began to beg me not to leave, putting yourself behind the car preventing me from backing out. It's the first time you've ever heard me scream. It's the first time I ever have screamed at someone like that.
You tell me to leave if that's what I truly want, and when I make to do so, you again jump behind my car. Begging and crying, you're asking me to stay, and it seemed as though you didn't hear me begging and crying for you to let me go.
Defeated...I got out of my car because I knew I wouldn't be able to leave without running you over…
I remember you tried talking to me, but what you don't know is how everything went over my head. I sat on the couch numb, imagining myself on the road home and far away from you, letting tears fall silently as I realized how trapped I was.
Somehow, I'm back in bed with you and eventually, I fall asleep, dreaming about bars at every corner and darkness suffocating me. I never told you that because I knew it would hurt you to know what my mind had done to me.
In the morning, you've slept in…
I slept two hours…
It felt as though you thought everything was okay, and when you asked if it was, I told you I'm trying to forgive you. That I couldn't talk about it.
Later, I sleep, and when I wake up I make the decision to put on my face. The fake one. To give you what you want. To see if you would see through it, like you always said you would. That I couldn't wear a mask with you because you could always see behind it.
If you did see through it, you didn't act like it.
And that night, I give you what you want.
I waited until you were asleep then crept into the spare room, where I sobbed until I fell asleep.
That night I knew I would never be the same. We would never be the same. That I had to get away.
I didn't want it to be so, but every time I saw you, I felt anger bubbling in my chest. I felt that hurt resurface, and I still do now.
When I told you it was over, you did everything in your power to deepen the wound. Name calling. Blaming. Guilting. Manipulation. But worst of all, you acted like the bigger person. Like you were still going to be there for me and be a good friend, when I knew you couldn't be. You can't be a good friend when you're always relieved to hear I'm not dating anyone. You can't be a good friend when you're letting your hurt and anger get in the way.
I felt broken before, but this is something different.
I am ashamed to admit to anyone how much it hurts. That I let someone hurt me so deeply. That you had so much control over me…
And the thing is...I don't hate you. I hate myself. I'm angry and wounded in a way I cannot put into words, but I can't find it in me to blame or hate anyone but myself. I have to live with that.
I wish you had let me leave that night. Perhaps some of this hurt would've never happened if you had let me drive off.
There's so much I wish had happened and so much I wish I could say to you. But I'm working through my lesson. We've both started new chapters in our lives, and need to let the one we shared go. Just like you should have let me leave, I hope you close this chapter. That you stop trying to write something that's ended.
Our individual stories aren't over, but our chapter is. I don't have much clue for what I'm writing anymore, and maybe you don't either. I don't need to know your side anymore though. I don't have to see from your perspective any longer. Now it's about me. It's my story and while I have to live with what's already written, I have control over where I go next.