I haven't written in days. I decided there was no point. Even if for a short while it calms me, it doesn't change the way I feel. A few hours later I'll whither back into being a 5 yearold, sticky tears running down my cheeks, and wanting to destroy everything I see.
What has happened recently doesn't matter. I'm sick of playing games. No more counting days and checking emails and rereading text after text and hoping. Finally, finally, I can see the full scale of how lowly I was treated.
Like a worthless, cheap piece of shit, that is.
No I'm not over it. I probably never will be. Its another one to add to the long list of loss and choked up words. Like dad, and the sister, and the once-best friend. Betrayal and hurt over and over. "There seems to be a pattern," the therapist said. Right you are.
Sure, I'm still a mess. Still drinking my gut away to get away from it all, breaking down in public places, talking to myself and generally being a bit of a psycho. But at some point you have catch sight of yourself in a mirror and realise just how self-absorbed you'd be if you let yourself carry on. And how much you would prove to everyone that you really are a worthless pushover, if you still want the person who made your life a trainwreck for months back in your life. Which I'm still undecided about.
I'm glad she had the guts to do what I never did in the end. And thats punch him in the face. But then again, having done that she was fooled that he'd stop the lying and pretending and be a new person. Which of course, he isn't. He has conditioned lying into his system and its a compulsive trait. I feel quite sorry for him really. But not sorry enough.
I'm bored of apologies and excuses and explanations and pleads to be "back to normal." What the FLYING FUCK is FUCKING NORMAL.
I am so far from normality that its over the horizon now. Yesterday morning I was home alone at last. I'm surprised the neighbours didn't bang on the walls for me to shut up.
Its devastation at its best. Every single minute of every day. My head is poisoned by it. The worst part is why. Why would you do that to me. You loved me once. And now I am nothing enough to be your doormat.
Slowly the last three letters of hurt are transforming into something else. A. T. E. Hate. Eventually, I hope.
I plead every day for it to stop, for something else to start, anything. I'm all dried up, used and uninspired. He killed the person I once was, I don't feel like myself anymore. He switched off the lights to everything I knew to be real and now I'm lying in the pitch black with a head full of tears and ripping off my hangnails.
One day. One day you will mean as little as I have meant these last months to you.
The difference is, you will not care.
And you won't lift a finger to turn it all around. Maybe some are born to be broken?
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