You are out there.

Will I ever stop missing you? 

Gods, we were bad for each other in so many ways. We hurt each other over and over again, and I know that most of that blame lies on my shoulders. I accept it.

I'm sorry
Forgive me
Thank you
I love you.

And it isn't even a question of casting blame. It's a question of realising how little I was aware of myself, of my pain, and my fears. It's being unwilling to allow your own fears and hurts between us because I was afraid. I was selfish. Because I needed us to heal my hurts. Because I figured, they were more important than yours. I'm a single mom and my kids need me to be stable and loving, and I figured that we'd heal me, then you. Sounds bad, doesn't it? But it's the truth. Mine, anyway. I wish I'd made place for us both to heal together. I thought I was, in some aspect. But I never truly listened and took part in the things that interested you most. If asked, I couldn't say what your favorite book or movie or show was. I knew you loved me and I loved you, and knew what you brought into my life. And I gave very little in return. For some reason, I thought that just my loving you would be enough, but it wasn't, and you deserved better.

I'm sorry
Forgive me
Thank you
I love you.

I feel like I haven't changed at all since we've stopped talking. And it's been two years. I still think of you, always. My journaling often involves our relationship, and wondering whether you'd be proud of me or not. I can't be living up to your expectations; I need to be living up to my own. 

That being said, it feels good to be writing like this. Anonymously. To you, but not really. 

I'll keep moving forward. 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I used to be prolific.

I used to have 3-4 Word documents open at the same time. I was always on a writing roll. Whenever I was stumped for one story, I'd jump to the next. It worked for me: I was always writing something . Now? Not so much. I got pregnant, bought a house and dealt with everything that entails. I felt guilty, not writing, but whenever I sat down, I would look around the appartment and realise I still have more packing or unpacking to do. So, I didn't write. Then I gave birth and any thought of writing flew out the window. Well, not so true. I would rock him at night, and sentences or scenes would enter my mind. I play around with the thought, the words and I'd get excited at the prospect of these ideas. Then, I'd lay my baby down to sleep... Thought forgotten. Now? I have time to write. But try as I might, nothing's coming out. I wrote scenes, or memories and that was fine. But the stories just aren't working. I have several ideas of characters and such but the plots a...
Read more

Nano fail.

I had huge hopes for my first time nanoing. Big hopes. This month was finally going to relaunch me as a writer, instead of the flailing about I've been doing. First day: wrote 1500 words! Booyah! Not the required amount, but definitely good where my writing is concerned. And then, life got away from me and I found myself extremely tired at night, every night in bed at 8. Did a pregnancy test: realised where all this fatigue was coming from. I'M PREGNANT! Yes, it was a planned pregnancy. But my body was so out of whack since giving birth in December that its been sending me mixed signals. And now, finally, I'm pregnant again. Early pregnancy comes with fatigue and scatterbrainess. It's a word. So there. Which means trying to bring two ideas together to make a sentence, paragraph or page, dialogue, scene or whatever, is extremely challenging for me. Still, I'm glad because I HAVE started writing again. My plot and characters are rolling around in my head, and it's...
Read more

The Tear.

The tear. A tear on her cheek. Black-rimmed glasses, hidden by short curly hair. Pale cheeks, revealed to all, And there, the single tear. Dark head bent, starring at her mute phone, thumbs twitching, as if, waiting, hoping, praying for a reply. The bus sways but she does not. Face and body stoic. Emotionless. Unwilling to move. To breathe. But that tear betrays her, as it rolls, down, further more, and drops onto the dark screen, framed by now motionless thumbs. 
Read more