Friday, 20 January 2012

the letter I'll never send you

You know that phrase "I love you so much that it hurts"? It's so, so true. Still today, every day, I carry my broken heart around with me, and it aches for you - sometimes a dull, relentless ache, sometimes a sharp, breathtaking stab. But the hurt, the pain, is most definitely physical. I take deep, slow breaths, wipe the tears from my eyes, and I go on.

I'm still waiting for you. It's some kind of insanity inside of me that is either astonishingly wise or simply too delusional to let go. There's such a big part of me that simply doesn't buy it. I don't buy it that you stopped loving me. That you want a life without me. That you've let me, us, go. I think your life fell apart around you, you lost your strength and your self-belief, and you either blame me (and haven't yet forgiven me) or you don't think you can bring the best of you to a relationship with me. Or maybe it's both of those things. And I think you want time, a lot of time. So much time that you would never dream of asking me to wait. And yet I'm waiting anyway. I have not a clue why, but everything in me tells me you need three years  (just one year, ten months to go!). That's one hell of a delusion, probably.

On the other hand ... I have felt such anguish and such distress over the notion that you don't love me, that you feel nothing for me at all, or worse still that you hate me. I've considered and accepted the likelihood that you don't look back, you never will, and you'll certainly never turn back. I've imagined that you believe I'm bad for you, bad for your family, a toxic influence and entirely at fault for everything that went wrong in your life while we were together. I turn over and over in my mind that for you it's over forever.

And so, as you can see, I'm torn. My mind and my heart bounce between these two beliefs and they lurch through hope, pain, resignation, fear, distress, guilt and more.

And as I write this I understand, once again, that none of this matters. That my only choice is to go on and to let go. I might never know which of the above is true. I'll probably never know. And I have this life to live still, as empty and as meaningless as it seems. A small flame burns inside me, almost extinguished but not quite, telling me there is life after you.  Honestly, I hope so.

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