I have been feeling the desire to write for a while. The problem, however, is that I do not know who to write to. I am so angry. I am so low. I am so empty.
I watch thirty second videos of my daughter every couple of hours to remind myself that she is still mine. I write text messages to my wife that I never send. I contemplate asking for help when I know I will not want it from those willing to give. There are only three things in my life that I do not hate right now: my child, my dogs, and the hospitality of my friends.
The list of loss grows with every passing day. The welcome received from my friends begins to stale. The quest for work becomes more tedious and more discouraging with every application filled out, every resume handed over, and every cover letter pain stakingly dedicated to specific businesses I know will skim and then discard them. I began this new chapter with hope, accountability, determination. It seems that my hope was placed in the wrong hands. My accountability counts for little. My determination was squandered on ideals unshared.
Even as I write, I know that the thoughts that have plagued me over the past few weeks will find their way onto the page. I waited. I guarded you. I strove to protect you from yourself. I knew that the remains of what we shared hung from a fine thread since our separation, and you held the scissors poised for a clean cut. I let you hold our fate in your hands. I thought you were entitled. I thought that because of all the wrong I had done, I didn't deserve a say, I didn't deserve a voice. I kept silent, I allowed the gnawing resentment to build in my heart as I watched your resentment grow into disdain. Every slight comment, every thoughtless moment quickly apologized for was a shoddy mask for your deteriorating feelings.
Even as you ended us (do you remember our separation? How things were better right before you left), I knew I could do nothing to stop you. As ever, you were ignorant to everything other than your crusade for self-satisfaction. Not once did you stop to examine the truths of our past. Not once did you take into account the times I faced your rage, your verbal and physical attacks with patience and a willingness to forgive. (Or if you did, it was worth nothing compared to your personal trials.) From the ashes of our separation was born not the phoenix of a new beginning, but the grotesque of rage unattended. I beat it back. I challenged it, faced it, and forced it into the depths of your soul and allowed us to love one another again. The change I always begged you for, however, remained unaddressed within you, lurking, awaiting the moment when it would be needed again.
You are right on one point. There is no going back. I broke. I faltered. I fell. I gave in. I forsook. So did you. We are very different people. We fall in different ways. The difference is (and this is why I changed my reality) I was willing to compromise for you, I was willing to change. The only change you were willing to truly make was to leave me behind.
Someday, you will be forced to compare the next man you choose to me. On that day, if you have any ability to step outside of yourself, you will see that no one will love you the way that I did. No one will be so fierce in their devotion. No one will set aside so much of what was thought to be intrinsic to their being in order to accommodate you. No one will see you as clearly or be as attentive to your needs. Then again, you are relentless. Good luck in your search.
I guess this is what we get for basing our relationship around a shared appreciation for sorrow.
I love you, I will do my utmost never to write you like this again.
