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.
So journal entry number 2, huh?
A couple of months back I broke up with my boyfriend of five years, and I didn’t shed a single tear. Don’t get me wrong: I love the guy, he is the most amazing man I have ever met, my best friend without a doubt. But he wasn’t the guy, you know? No? Let me try and explain..
I, like a lot of women these days, has a love for romance books. When I say romance books I mean both the innocent YA kind and the dirty “mommy porn” – they serve the same purpose. They give me a believe in the perfect love. Which is completely ridiculous right? I mean, love as a concept – I guess – exists, but the love portrayed in movies (not a big fan of rom-coms btw) and in romance books are glossy and picture perfect, and I guess real love isn’t like that. But if there is a tiny sliver of a chance that there might be a guy out there, who can make my heart feel as if it’s pounding out of my chest, who can make me shiver by whispering in my ear, and who can make it seem as if I’m seeing color for the first time, shouldn’t I be waiting for that? So I broke the heart of the only person, who’s ever been there unconditionally, and the only thing I felt was guilty that I hurt him – and that made me feel guilty for not feeling more.
In the end I think I’ve sort of come to terms with the fact, that he will always be my family. And I will always love him, but it was not fair to me, and it was definitely not fair to him, to keep a relationship going, if I was always going to wonder, if there was something more. And if there was more, I really want that for him as well.
I’m not completely sure what this rambling was for, except maybe easing my guilt – does that make me a bad person?
P.S. I’ve started writing my own romance novel, maybe I should share it here?