We had some really wonderful times together. The memories of the things we did together are there, and I still have the photographs of our adventures, and so many cute, romantic moments.
But I can’t remember what they felt like.
It’s been mere months since the day I left, and I honestly cannot remember how it felt when we were happy. I remember that I had been in love, that I had been happy, but I can’t for the life of me remember how that actually felt.
There are many things I do remember:
The pain of being dismissed and feeling unwanted.
The helplessness I felt when I learned that you had lied to me.
The numbness I felt as I was being gaslighted and worn down.
The anger which flared in my chest in reaction to your impassiveness each and every time I told you that you were hurting me.
I remember how it felt to be on constant alert, ensuring that I was beautiful and bubbly and sexy and talented and sweet, and how I thought that if I could be more, if I could do those things better, then it would feel like you actually wanted to be with me. If I could be more attractive and nurturing and patient, then you would really love me, and we would be fine.
And it doesn’t matter how many times I am told that it was not my fault and that I left for all the right reasons. It doesn’t matter that I knew – and still know – that I made the right decision in leaving.
Because this weight still rests on my shoulders: If you had actually wanted me, you would have actually tried. If you had loved me, we would never have reached this point.
And so, regardless of how hard I tried, regardless of who is guilty and who is not, the conclusion that I reach is always the same. I can’t understand what has happened from any other perspective other than this:
I wasn’t enough for you to want me.
That thought is haunting, and it eclipses everything else. And I sense that it will continue to do so for a long time.