This post was originally dated February of last year but sat in my draft box for the longest. Although I have gotten to a better state than I was at the time of this write, it is an accurate reflection of the ups and downs that I faced then, and sometimes face now.
I could go into some really fancy recap as to what led up to it all, but quite frankly, it would feel too much as if I'm reliving all of the events. I cannot say for sure when or if I will ever go into full detail. If I decide, it may make for material beyond this blog.
Well, with no further delay, here is the content of tears (like ripping) and tears (like water).
I’m not sure if the heart really heals from heartbreak. At best, it will have some nicks and tears, or scabs where it was formerly ripped. At worst, there is this leakage, where little drops still drip when one walks away.
It’s difficult when you and others know of a truth but the very person who performed the actions is in denial. However, because one tricks the mind and tells enough lies to block out the ugliness, it doesn’t mean that the events didn’t occur.
Someone has to be the bigger person, and it’s no surprise it’s me. Throughout my life, I always had to—whether it was by my own nature or by request. Oh, how I wish I could say what I have written but the person it’s intended for refuses. I don’t think I’ll ever get “I apologize”—one can’t apologize for something he feels he didn’t do or so convinced he’s right about. I just wish he would stop, pause, and entertain that his certainty can easily be shredded with time stamps, evidence, and recollection of a nearby source.
Since he won't, this will be my write bite—if you will.
When I’m quiet, it’s not because I’m scared to speak my mind. It is in those moments where I don’t know what to say. When I ask, “What are you doing here?” it is beyond your physical presence. It is beyond this time. It is emphasis on all of the words at the same time. Hell, do you even know? Or are you just not sure what role you want to play? Or are you absolutely sure but are too ashamed (read: too stubborn and prideful) to admit all of the wrong you did, and that you were actually the mastermind not the victim of this demolition. You see the end result and blame me—when, quite honestly, you worked diligently to inflict this self-destruction.
Was it fair for me to get involved in these crosshairs? Your energy cried for me to save you, to give you peace in your existence. It never occurred to me that perhaps you thrived off the chaos yet it is the only explanation that actually sticks. The fact that even in those moments where all was still, you’d have to do something to cause me pain—putting us through this cycle where you’d have to fight to prove your devotion all over again, not realizing that with each failure, my soul never got quite right but just enough to have you convinced that we could carry on—as usual, and like always.
However, when people take jabs at me, I remember them ... long after the initial stinging has passed. I analyze, trying to pinpoint if it was just out of anger or was a little more truth seeping out with each episode. I go into introspection, attempting to understand why the very qualities you said you wanted in a mate ... although you received them, you now act as if they were vile and disgusting to you.
Towards the end, when you became black … when you became soulless, I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid physically but more so, the unpredictability of it all. All I could feel was this tug of war—one force trying to hold on to my light while this person I didn’t recognize trying to vacuum out the soul you no longer had.
When you crossed that line, it destroyed every possibility of reconciliation. Before, I could dismiss certain things as being machismo, being loud, or just your normal disposition. Yet now you were doing things you swore you would never do—that became worse than the excessive gaming, the growing neglect, yes, even the emotional cheating (which may or may not have gotten physical). I just can’t take the chance that the man who ripped apart my boundaries and took from me, will return. I can’t forget the poisonous aura that was here when that other man was around and what remained. It impacted me and others around me too much.
I love the man that was presented to me at the beginning of our union. I say this because everything is so blurred that I cannot tell which one is the real you. I don’t think you even know, and I’m exhausted. I’m too tired to keep trying to find out. I’m too sick to keep putting myself together, and everything’s too real for me to put on the coat of optimism—the mothballs of pain have eaten through the material. I have no protection from the very person who was supposed to provide it all.
I never wanted to sit here and end everything. I was brought up to find that one person and ride it out. Yet, I can’t remain in a situation where I have to question whether a person has that same devotion, care and appreciation for me as I do for him. I can’t be with a person who refuses to apologize, or apologizes but does nothing to change the behavior. I can’t be with someone who runs to soothe the heartache of the multitude but fails to be mindful of the home front, of his queen.
I can’t help him and stay intact. I have to help myself. Too much of what has happened mimicked a path I’ve been on before. I promised myself that I would not starve myself of the attention, love, and respect I deserved to garner healing and satisfaction of someone else. The pattern was there. The only difference was that one partner was mentally ill, and after a while, the person used it as manipulation because said person was too cowardly to let go when things were dead; this time around, multiple people made him aware of what he was doing wrong but he refused to listen and refused to change. And, knowing that I’m private about my affairs, he has chosen other people to tell his rendition of the tale, when he’s the true monster.
All I know is that I’d rather be alone than be neglected. I would rather have no mate than hold on to one when he’s become sour. My outside family will call me damaged, coming up with their own theories as to why things are done—once the word starts trickling down. But I did the right thing. My heart just has to catch up with my mind—it’s just taking its sweet time in doing so.
There are good days, and there are bad. On the good days, I don’t even think about it—the day to day is prevalent enough to where I don’t get many opportunities. On the bad days, everything is overwhelming and it’s a struggle to keep breathing. A song, a place, a fabric, a scent can play a small role in flicking on a memory.
The response “I’m okay” is sufficient; it’s the only phrase that covers these times. It’s the only statement that is more truth than delusion, the best I can live with until all is set and done.
Everyone is confident that “well” and “great” are on the horizon for my disposition. Some will even further to say “quicker than expected”. Sadly, all I see is a haze that mimics light, shrouded by thick fog unrelenting in latitude or density. It is my Sandy but more like Katrina where the reconstruction is snail-paced in arrival and execution. All in all, this is my life, where getting to those promising emotional states is a marathon. I just pray I’m conditioned enough for this race and that I will reach the finish line.