Her gaze was always drawn toward the sky, her thoughts running amongst the clouds. She felt nothing like an angel, but was always dreaming of flying. No she was no angel, but felt like the fallen. Always longing for belonging, knowing her place was nowhere on earth but among the stars.
I’m standing on the platform, looking at the train approaching, I can’t help wondering what would happen if I jumped now? What would happen to the people standing along with me. How would it impact their lives? How would it affect my family and friends? Who would attend my funeral? And how long would it take for people to move on? Because they inevitably will. That’s the real kicker about time right? It moves regardless of how we feel. With no regard to us.
Will the people on the platform wonder if they could have mattered? Will they feel guilty for not reacting when they first noticed me? Or did they never notice the pain behind my eyes? Were they preoccupied with their own demons? I wonder if my pain is not as apparent as I feel it is. I look at my chest searching for a hole, where my heart was before you stole it.
I’m standing on the platform, looking at the train approaching. It stops.
I keep wanting to write this magnificent thing. These words that will completely convince you. Will show you my undying, unyielding love. That things are different. I left us to find me. I left us because I was scared of forever. I left us because I wanted more for you. But I can’t write the words. I choke. I scare. Because I’m the vulnerable one now. Yet again. I flash back to the beginning of us. To all the times I showed you my heart, bared to you my soul – just to have you throw it back in my face. Just to have you tell me, you did not want. I was not worthy. I am not worthy now. But I can’t be the exposed once again. And I know I need to be. I need you to be gentle with me, but take charge. I need you to love me, and let me love you. I want you to want us again, I want us again. I want us to never let us go. I am ready now. Ready for forever. I am no longer scared.
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.
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.
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.
A couple of weeks ago I went to the doctor for a check up on how I’m handling the medicine, whether the dosis was correct and similar.. And it went well, I mean for the most part my medicine is dulling the hard feelings, which in turn makes it easier to discuss some of the things I have had a hard time sharing with other people. I shared the attempted assault with the doctor. It was the first time I admitted it out loud to someone I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared for nightmares to resurface during the night though. It’s been years since I was plagued by it. I’ve never really discussed it with friends or family, not because I’m ashamed as most people might think (not because I should be, but because assault victims often are) but because I’d rather not think about it. If I don’t think about it, it’s like it didn’t happen. And well.. If I’m being completely honest a part of me have probably always felt like it was partially my fault. The fact that it was recorded and shared for amusement, didn’t really help to entice me to speak about it either.
I guess I should have seen it coming right? Obviously if you’re going to speak to someone about something you’ve tried to burry in your mind for the past 10 years, it’s going to come back and haunt you. And with the medication I guess it makes sense, it wouldn’t show up until my subconscious was at it’s strongest. It’s difficult, because I honestly don’t remember everything. I was drunk of my ass that night, so drunk I couldn’t move.. I remember mumbling for him to move, I remember the pressure of his body on mine, and I remember being frighten but in the end resigning, and letting blackness engulf me. The next thing that I remember is waking up the next morning.The last thing I remember seeing before the blackness engulfed me was my best friend walking past the room looking in and leaving. And that is the hardest part. Knowing she saw, and she did nothing. We haven’t discussed it afterwards, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, I think I know, that if I really want to heal, I’ll either have to leave that friendship behind or forgive her, and I’m not sure I can actually do any of those things.
First step of recovering is said to be sharing and accepting what happened. First step done I guess. Someone tried to rape me, recorded it and shared it with his friends. My best friend saw what happened and ignored it and I have never forgiven her.