I Still Find It Hard To Forgive You For All That You’ve Done

It feels great that you’re no longer in my life. It feels great to keep you in the past as a memory but sometimes your voice is still in my head. The fears you planted still find a way to creep up on me. The pain you caused doesn’t really want to go away.

I still find it hard to forget what you’ve done. I still find it hard not to picture the life we could have had if you didn’t selfishly tear it all apart.

I still wonder what it’s like to go on a family trip and take family pictures and explore the world together.

I still miss the dinner table with more than one person and big meals and uncontrollable laughter.

I still crave a busy home that never runs out of things to do or talk about. A home where we can all watch a movie on Sunday night. A home where we host people and have big gatherings and play loud music and dance all night. A happy home. A home full of love and warmth.

I still remember glimpses of that home. I never thought that I would end up living away from home. I never thought that home would be a place to dread. I never thought that I’ll be kicked out of my home and find a new one.

I still wonder what it would have been like had you been more present, more reliable, more loving and less selfish.

I find it hard not to blame you. I find it hard to see what other homes look like and forgive you for taking away that feeling from me. Taking away that right. Taking away that security.

I keep looking back at my older pictures. They’re all with friends, colleagues and strangers. None of them are with you. I can’t remember the last time we were all together in one picture. I can’t remember the last time we were all together in one place.

It sounds like a distant memory. More like an outdated story no one wants to tell.

I still find it hard to forgive you because that’s the only story I ever wanted to live. I find it hard to forgive you because I have to rewrite a new story and sometimes I don’t know what to write. I run out of ideas. I run out of words. It’s hard to write a story when every single character you ever truly needed doesn’t want to be in it. 

But I guess that’s the whole point. I guess God wanted me to live another story away from you. I guess he wanted me to take another picture without you in it. I guess he wanted me to travel the world without you holding my hand. I guess he wanted to shelter me away from your pain, even if it means finding another home that doesn’t have your name on it.