and that’s okay.
because i’m acknowledging it finally.
it’s been about one year since then– a year and a half if we were to mark the beginning of everything. about three months since we really ended everything.
hell yeah, i’m angry as hell that she could twist her words like that, make everything feel like it’s always been in my head. how she could hold my face in both hands the way she did, tell me everyone she knows hates me but don’t worry, she’ll stay. how she made me feel so unwanted and dirty, so hopelessly tied to her. i’m angry that it wasn’t her searching hands that had traced their way underneath my underwear, that it wasn’t the face she buried into my neck, pushing and pushing like a knife to nape the way it did, that stayed with me. it wasn’t the time she tried to force kisses on me, it wasn’t the time i had to push her off my body and off my bed. when i say it was the sexual assault that stuck, i feel guilty because it’s not that. i’m sad that it’s so, so minor in all of this. i’m angry because of everything else. so much that i can’t even put it into the right words. i feel so much shame in everything that happened. and i can’t help but swim in my self-blame she filled that tiny, tiny room with for me. i’m angry because she’s happy and okay and loved and successful and surrounded by people all the time, still moving forward.
while i’m stuck here.
like thin wisps of sad, just a breath would be enough to send all of my being away.
and i’m frustrated at this ugly resentment.
oh, but i’m just now realizing all of this was wrong. how it wasn’t all in my head, how it wasn’t all my fault in the way she always made things out to be. how i wasn’t overreacting when she tilted her head, back and forth, told me to tell her how bad of a person i was. i remember still how wide her eyes got, how close her face got to mine, how her face still remains suspended in my memory. like a cigarette burn to the skin that somehow still burns like midnight oil– a tragic recipe for insomnia. it was wrong for her to always throw things at me, kick the cabinets, compromise my being.
oh, but she’d always turn around and tell me how much she loved me. bring me back cakes and hold my head to drink warm water when i was sick, write me little notes of encouragement. but always after the huge arguments. like putting rose-colored lens over my eyes so i would continue to ignore all the red flags. i was decomposing in that room.
she always claimed liberty over my time and space. made me dependent. made me sick. she is still something i can’t scrub out.
because when you put the label of “love” onto everything, you expect it to be a bandaid for all the bad, bad actions and words.
when you gaslight others the way you did and for as long as you did, it’s gonna make it damn hard for them to see straight for all the years after. make it hard for the eyes to refocus, make it hard to trust their own actions, doubt their own voice, lose claim over their space so much that they start to fade out. because if that’s what you’re going to call love, i really don’t want any part in it.
i’m angry that you’re as okay as you are. i’m angry that you’ve again and again twisted and turned my words against me the way you did. i’m angry at myself for thinking that dangling myself off the stairway is the solution, that testing gravity is easier than carrying the weight of all of this. i’m angry that i’m always, always so quick to jump on my lifeline like a tightrope, teetering, teetering.
but fuck that. i’m going to stay here as long as i can. ’til even those cigarette ashes that flaked off from the heat you pressed against me sprout root. prove to myself that there is still something left to grow in this garden, that life can still be new and good. this mending, all of this, is a process. yeah.
–a sad chapter but not a sad story.
it’s been one year. i still feel like i’m beating a dead horse, milking this for too long. damn repetitive with parallel structure and this entire situation. but it’s time i stopped feeling guilty about trying to flesh out what this all meant and means. that sometimes there’s never a deeper meaning or fate bound to it. bad things happen and there’s no immediate need to turn it into a teaching moment or inspirational quote. sometimes you just have to throw your hands up and admit defeat so that you have some perspective, figure out what’s really worth fighting for. reevaluate.
i’m fucking sad, fuck you, and i’m healing.
(excuse my french)