I want to remind you of how just three Sundays ago, we went to church together. When you were helping me into he truck to leave the church parking lot, I said something about how I knew you needed to get going after we ate something because you needed to get back to your life. You corrected me, saying “you are a part of my life.” And I said that I knew that…because I did at that time. I went home after breakfast and you went and spent the rest of the day with Charlie. I went to dinner with Tim and Jerry. You sent me a Marco Polo. I sent you a Marco Polo. I was truly, truly happy.
I am miserable. I got up everyday excited that I got to carry on with you. To talk to you. To miss you. To desire you. To feel you desire me. To hear your voice. You’re telling me that’s gone now. You’re telling me I don’t get to love anymore. You have destroyed the newest and most delicate part of me. You’ve taken my sunshine. You’ve taken what you know I need.
When I think about the fact that you know how much I blossom and glow from your love, I feel like you are being cruel to me by withholding it from me. You know that my world is dark when you reject me and push me away, and you’re doing it anyway. That adds a whole other layer to the pain I felt last December when you did this. Actually, it adds multiple layers. Now, you do it even though you know I can’t even function in the wake of loss like this. The fact that you would hurt me like this intentionally makes me feel less than human.
I feel like I’m treated like an animal because you and everyone else in the world just assume I can handle more pain than others. When it comes down to it, it’s always the case that I get shit on for the bittersweet outcome that always seems to be more sweet the other party and more bitter for me.
But I am not bitter. I am just devastated. Everyone always hates hurting me, yet they do it anyway. There’s always a good reason to break my heart, it seems. My heart is cheaper than anyone else’s, apparently.
Also, that comment you made this morning where you said, “please don’t break up with me,” was mean. You really didn’t need to belabor the point that you don’t want my love. The way you are treating me colors all the sweet things you’ve said and done that I used to think were real. I can’t even have those anymore.
I have whittled everything I wanted away to the most essential in order to have a relationship with you on your terms. And it’s always been on your terms. Asking for what I needed, in its most minimal form, got me here, to this point, where you’re once again asserting your terms over me and at the expense of my emotional well-being. You know all too well the psychological pain that follows from being denied physical and emotional intimacy, and you are proposing to subject me to that pain.
You led me down this path. You encouraged me to fall in love with you. You painted me coffee mugs and brought me flowers. You went out of your way to make me feel safe. You apologized over and over again for making shit hard. And now you want me to make your life nice and easy in a way that renders mine absolutely unlivable.
I really just don’t really feel up for anything. I can’t read The Republic. I can’t fucking read a page from my MPRE outline. I can’t go to a movie. I can’t talk to my mother. I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with Tim. I really wish I would just disappear. I don’t want to live in the world like this. I just don’t want to and even if I did, I don’t think I can. There’s no point. I just can’t handle anymore.