I think I can now relate to how a druggy feel when craving a new fix. I need to hear your voice. To see you. To understand that we were once real, and that reality now is, that we are not. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare and I can’t wake up. My brain is reasoning this must be a nightmare, because even I can’t be stupid enough to give up on us. On you. On myself. We weren’t picture perfect, but the perfect picture. Why did I let us go? And why didn’t you fight me? I thought we were more.
She cried and cried until she felt empty. The tears crusting on her cheeks. And for the first time, it did not make her feel better. It just left her in despair, feeling hopeless.
I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have left him. I knew it when I did and I still know it now. Why did I then? Well to release him, of the burden of me. Because I know, I am not good enough for him, and I never would be. I am damaged, broken. But I wasn’t shattered, I wasn’t completely unglued until I left him. Now I am nothing. Small tiny fragments that will never stick together. Now I am sorrow. I am remorse. I am guilt. I am embarrassed.
I should have put as much faith into us, as I did in you.
It’s been a while. As I mentioned in the last journal entry, I was grieving. And I still am. I’ve been reflecting a lot about our break up, and if I’m being completely honest, I think it was always meant as a test. I know, I know, no healthy relationships tests their partners, but I honestly believe that was what I was doing when I wanted to break up. You have to understand, I was unhealthy in my dependency of him. I knew it. Everyone knew it. He literally saved my life in my dark periods, and his mere presence diminished the dark periods. But at one point I just wanted him to fight for us, not me – because he did a lot of that all the time – but fight for our relationship. I wanted him to show me, that he was with me, because he wanted to – because I was as important for his sanity and life as he was for me. I wanted him to prove that he wasn’t just with me, because he felt guilty about leaving me, that it wasn’t just because I have suicidal tendencies. But he let me go, so I guess that backfired, huh? And damn that hurts.
I’m mourning. We were supposed to get married next week. That was the deal we made, the plan we’d been working towards from 6 months into our relationship until it all collapsed around us. Our fifth year anniversary as a couple was supposed to be spend making it legal. We were supposed to be trying for a baby. Instead I’m spending the week packing my stuff, relocating and unpacking a new chapter of my life. And eventhough it was my idea to break up, eventhough I’ve had 8 months worth of time to get used to the idea of leaving I’m mourning. I’m crying and I can’t seem to find the point in all of this.
I’ve never shied away from my feelings, and I thouroughly believe that if you are going to be doing something you need to put your all in it. I don’t halfass important things. So when I love I love with all my heart, and I loved him. I do still. And I know I’m not madly, deeply and irrevocably in love with him anymore, but he is my best friend, and he has been my whole support system for the past 5 years. So I still mourn. I mourn the love we lost, the love that turned into a friendship I appreciate with all my heart, I mourn the kids we would have had, the future we talked about and conjured for ourselves through countless of talks over the years. I mourn for the unconditional support I’ve lost with him and our relationship.
I also fear. I fear the unknown. I’m afraid of the uncertainty my future suddenly holds. I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of ending up alone, because if I couldn’t make it work with him, my best friend, then I don’t see it happening with anyone else. I’m afraid that I never get to experience being a mom. That I never get to be a bride. I’m absolutely irrevocably terrified that I’ll never experience being happy.
“There’s no one thing that’s true. It’s all true.”
― Ernest Hemingway,
In memory of Chester Bennington, may he rest in peace. Love and prayers for his friends and family. These are three of my favourite songs from Linkin Park. Linkin Park was one of the bands that truly helped me through some very dark times. I can never fully express my gratitude so I wont even try.
Songs of the day:
Linkin Park – Skin to Bone Listen here
Linkin Park – Not Alone Listen here
Linkin Park – What I’ve Done Listen here
The past two days has been spend with some of the most amazing friends in the world. And on shopping. So ultimately some really nice things. Yesterday we lazied in the sun, shopped for summer goodies in Sephora and played catch-up. Today we went out for lunch, spent a couple of hours book shopping (one of my favourite things to do), had dinner and played board games and everything just feels amazing.
I bought two books, even though I swear I could have bought a 100 and still find more books I need (yes not want but need), and I can’t wait to read them. If they are worth the effort of writing a recommendation I will be writing them.
So as you can probably deduct I’m in a YA phase. Now, as I’ve mentioned before I read quite a lot of books (close to one a day on average), so I don’t buy every book I read as I’m not a millionaire. My decision-making-process for whether or not I’m going to invest money in buying a physical copy of a book goes sort of like this: 1) Do I want to read it? 2) Would I be embarrassed if people saw the title? 3) Is the bookcover pretty? Now, I realize this might make me sound a bit superficial, but I might as well be honest about it. Packaging and design means everything as to whether or not I buy something. If I’m going to be looking at it, I want it to look nice. Am I really the only one, who feels like this? A lot of my friends consider it fake, but I mean, I completely acknowledge than this is what I do, and I’m not shy about admitting that I only display the books I feel depict a flattering picture of me.
I’ll create a different post with my Sephora goodies, as well as my two-cents about the products soon.