When I wrote about you before, I was told it didn’t look like a final draft. The original title was “Rewrite Our Story”. I still loved you then. I thought we could rewrite our story together, and things would turn out alright in the end. You made me believe in fairytales with your inspirational quotes, the promises of “forever”, and the constant “I love you” thrown in.
They were right though, it wasn’t the final draft. This is the final draft. I was drawn to you, I remember the first few messages we shared. We talked about life. You didn’t treat me how others did, you were treating me like I was a person. You never acted like I was some kind of dream, you never once thought things were perfect in my life.
You were a dream to me. Now I’ve woken up. You were nothing but a terrible nightmare. There was romance, happiness, and the inevitable crash. I didn’t see you for what you were. You lived on a pedestal in my mind for so long, and in one text you said I left you there, sitting on the pedestal. The pedestal is gone, I’ve finally garnered enough strength to kick it out from under you. You never deserved to sit on it in the first place.
Yeah, I read your message today. I was drowning in the quicksand, and instead of throwing the life rope, you tried to push me down further. Instead, it brought me back out. I’m not in the quicksand, but I’m seeing the light. I’ve made it out of the woods. The very same woods that you pulled me into. You said you’d walk through hell with me? You’re the one that created the hell.
I missed a call, you ignored me for days. I took my friend to the hospital, missed another call, and was put out in the cold. You claimed you were icing me out because you couldn’t express pain. You don’t want your pain expressed? Then don’t express anything.
You say I wasn’t good enough because I couldn’t get over my hang-ups. At that moment, you kicked your chair out from under you, hanging yourself. Hanging everything that we were with you. It’s dead and gone, and you are gone to me.
You made it seem like I would have nothing without you. There is no truth behind that. There is nothing true to anything that you’ve said. The way you treated me wasn’t out of love, it wasn’t out of concern, it was controlling. Everything you did had an ulterior motive, didn’t it? I was always in the wrong, apologizing for things that I did or didn’t do.
I would even apologize to you for things I did do – even when you asked me to. I went to the hospital because you asked me to, only to be told a couple of days later that I’m a hypochondriac. I let you know everything going on in my life because you asked me to, only to be told that I’m being manic and clingy. I tone down on talking because you ask me to, only to be told that I’m a coward and running away. I do what you ask, it’s wrong. I don’t do what you ask, it’s wrong.
I heard about the things you’ve said to my friends. “You know how he gets, he gets manic.” This was after a fight you started, then called the next day, and I was in the wrong, yet again, for being upset by cruel comments you made. You tried to turn my friends against me, but unlike you, they have a sense of loyalty. I was called a chameleon, based on a book you loved. I loved the book too, but now the thought of it makes me sick. One of us is a chameleon, but I let who I am shine. You change. You always change.
Your mood swings back and forth, and I was expected to take it, to handle it, to be there unconditionally. No, not anymore. I am not your punching bag and you’ll come back later with another sad excuse. Another reason that I did something wrong, and you were the victim. Then tell me that I paint you as a villain to my friends. I never painted the villain, you picked up your brush and painted yourself.
I was right to be told it wasn’t the final draft. This one is. You helped me write the final draft, and I don’t want to rewrite our story. I’m writing the story of my own life now, and you no longer have a place in it. We’ve said goodbye so many times now, I said that it wouldn’t be said again. I wish you well, and I pity the next person that becomes the object of your desire. Maybe they’ll see the flags I ignored. This is the final draft of you and me, and this is where it ends.