The Belly of the beast (II of II)


“P!…NO!,”

I hiss under my breath but it was too late. She lurches up from her chair and makes a mad dash over to the two women before they could get away. I watch in horror as I see her tap Elizabeth on the shoulder, and my stomach drops as Elizabeth turns around and P begins to speak. Suddenly I am standing and moving over toward them but I feel like everything is happening in slow motion. I can’t hear what they are saying, I feel dizzy and my knees are weak. Even later, I cannot recall the five second walk over to join the three of them. But suddenly–I am just there.

“P!,” I say as I reach out with my arm, prepared to hook it through her elbow-on-hip stance and haul her away like a double parked car. I cannot even look at her…IT, and her friend is nothing but a blur. Just as I am about to complete my maneuver I look up and find myself in a locked stare with the devil herself. I stop, My knees tighten, and I muster out a shaky “hi.”

“Hi,” she repeats back in a smug condescending tone, her lips pursed, her eyes squinted, her manner as if I—we, P and I, were the ones that were the scum of the earth. I pull my arms down to my sides in an effort to hide my trembling hands. Even in flats I am nearly 6 inches taller than she. Her long red-ish stringy hair hangs limply over her shoulders and runs down the front of her sloppy frame. Her rumpled, striped blouse, even tucked-in, cannot contain her stomach from bulging over the top of her faded black skirt. I am instantly disgusted.

“You came into my home. You slept with my boyfriend in MY bed,” I begin, softly. “Wwwhat’s going on,” I hear someone say. I turn my head and suddenly her friend comes into focus. I did not even realize she was still standing there, on my left, silent. “Well,” I begin in the soft, detached, matter of fact tone I have come to perfect, “Elizabeth had an affair. She cheated on her husband with my boyfriend and would come over to my home before work and have sex with him in my bed.” The friend’s eyes widen and her mouth gapes open. She says nothing.

“Ummm this is awkward, I am going to go,” Elizabeth exclaims in what I can only imagine she believes to be a bitchy-better-than-us tone. In actuality it comes across as laughably pathetic—like a pre-teen performing a one-woman, home play production, of Mean Girls for the only audience she can find—her mother and a couple of raggedy Cabbage Patch dolls. She swerves past P and tries to leave.

“Are you serious?” P asks, giving her a tutorial on proper bitch-voice. For a brief moment she nearly falters, her faux-poker face dropping to reveal the sad girl underneath. But, just as quickly as it happens it fades and she is once again attempting to maintain the illusion of control. “I’m not even going to discuss this,” she says in the same aforementioned tone as she motions for her friend to follow behind.

“That’s all you have to say,” I hear myself almost-shout, actually startled by my own voice.

“You can’t even say you are sorry!?” P yells. We are making a scene and I don’t even care. Her friend scampers past me and over to Elizabeth. They walk two feet away to the corner, but have to wait for the light to change on the busy street.

As they approach the curb, I find myself hoping she’d try to make a run for it across the intersection and get mowed down by a group of bicyclists—yes bicyclists—not cars or a giant semi- truck, because that way it would be both entertaining and humiliating. The thought of her having to peel herself off of the cement, human road kill covered in tire marks, and gimp away mortified is far superior to her getting carted away by ambulance. She does not need to be handed the opportunity to play the victim.

“Can you at the very least apologize,” I ask incredulously, my words aimed at her back because she refuses to turn around.

“Say you are sorry! She deserves to hear that,” P snipes over in their direction. Still the lumpy frame will not budge. Her accomplice, an obvious casualty to the situation turns and glances back at us, somewhat shocked, somewhat sympathetic. The light changes and they march off together, Elizabeth clinging so close they could pass as conjoined twins. She does not look back. P and I stand on the corner of the patio in silence and watch them go.

We don’t retreat until they are out of sight.

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The Belly of the Beast (Part I of II)


“I’m going to go say something,” P says, gaging my reaction with her eyes as she slowly rises up from our table, her bun of black curls bobbing with every move.  “NO!” I snipe back in the most authoritative whisper-yell I could muster.  “Fine,” she says sitting back down although not yet ready to admit defeat, “but I am going to say something before we leave,” in a move of temporary conceit.  I wanted her to so badly and yet I am terrified of what would happen if she did.  Sitting in silence I stare over P’s shoulder at her—that.

For months I played this scenario again and again in my mind.  What I would do if I ever saw her, the perfect scorching…no, no, no soul crushing remarks I would make followed by an elegant exit leaving her alone, ashamed and in tears…well at least that was what would happen in an ideal world.  Truth be told, I hadn’t thought about it in a while and although the mere sight of her caused my blood pressure to instantly elevate I was a bit rusty in the ‘you should be ashamed of yourself’ witty comment department. 

“Just seeing what she looks like in person is satisfaction enough,” I say to P with a smirk trying to convince both her—and myself that no words between she and I were necessary.  In terms of appearance, she is even less attractive than I imagined and if given the challenge I could probably find a more flattering and fashion forward outfit on the sale rack of a Wal-Mart than the clothes that hung frumpily on her oversized frame.  Beyond that, however to continue to describe her obvious physical shortcomings, while totally deserved would be cheap, petty and far too easy—and besides this is a story about me, not her. 

P and I continue to talk as I do everything in my power to remain poised and dignified—trying to calm the uncontrollable shaking in my hands while simultaneously resisting every impulse I feel to go Jerry Springer girl fight on her ass.  By now, enough time has passed that this is no longer about him, or us, but rather me.  I’d like to give the benefit of the doubt to the others—maybe they didn’t know about me.  But she—she did.  She was in MY home.  She did unspeakable things with my then boyfriend in MY bed.  She exercised a level of disrespect for me, my personal space and my life that goes beyond anything anyone should have to tolerate.  EVER.  Quite frankly, under the circumstances I was doing a pretty good job of keeping it together. 

We sip our drinks and make small talk as at the moment anything but surface level conversation—even between close friends would be too difficult to maintain.  Despite the relatively cool temperature outside, beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead as I hear her high pitched cackling laugh as she talks to her friend, pretending to be oblivious of my presence.  She looks over across the patio at me and our eyes lock.  She immediately looks away.  A few minutes later it happens again.  I wish I had the courage to say something.  “I don’t want to have to ask you if I should do it,” P starts “so if you get up and use to the bathroom I am going to go over there and say something.”  I have never been more thankful that at the moment my small bladder was still relatively empty. 

I wasn’t ready.  I didn’t know if I ever would be.  Long ago I had bedded the idea that actual personal interaction between she and I was ever going to happen and with time became content with the fact that at the very least she had gotten my drunken anger-ridden e-mail over a year earlier.  But now, with her in front of me all feelings of contentment faded.  Enough time has passed that I don’t need revenge or a screaming match or a shame-fest to heal this wound.  All I need is an apology.  An actual acknowledgement of wronging me—of what she did that was so wrong.  I’d love to order that served with a side of remorse and a bowl full of tears but unfortunately apologies don’t tend to come with an a la carte menu.   

 

 

 

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Make it through this year…


I spent the bulk of last Sunday sitting in my friend’s living room on her overstuffed tan couch listening to NPR and trying to break free of the writer’s block that has seemed to consume me for the better part of the last few months.  I really do have a lot to say, which lately has taken the form of many half started word documents that now sit in a growing larger by the week folder on my computer just waiting for the perfect moment of inspiration to finally be finished.   

On this particular day, my friend and I who both enjoy This American Life—often preferring it to music (due the subsequent impromptu dance parties that tend to occur, hindering overall productivity) chose to listen to episode 425: Slow to React.  The episode featured the stories of individuals who despite being faced with life changing circumstances chose to put off taking action—or perhaps did not even think to react until months or years after the fact—often spending the meantime suffering in silence.  It was interesting to hear their stories—but it also made me think about my life and my own slow reactions. 

Making a change, taking a stand, choosing to break out of a role that has for so long defined your identity is one of the hardest things a person can do.  I’ve heard that fortune favors the bold—but what about everyone else?  Are there benefits to waiting to react?—I think so. 

When I think back to where I was a year ago at this time, or two or even three years ago it brings me to a place of profound sadness.  Last year, devastation—but even before that I was not happy, rather just hanging on, waiting for things to get better, for him to change, for life to get easier…  A common thread of the broadcast was that people knew they were slow in their reaction time but perhaps it was because they were not fully able—or ready to process the events that hindered their reaction. 

When it came to leaving my previous life, once I was bold enough (or perhaps had finally been pushed too far) to publicly list (albeit by drunken facebook post) what had been going on, and how I had been suffering in silence for so long my life changed dramatically—and although it took quite a while, for the better.  So, if I knew then what I know now would I have done it sooner?  I would like to think yes, but the truth is, maybe not.  When I share my story, either here on the blog, or with friends, or even the writing class the line of questioning that follows inevitably circles back to why didn’t you do something sooner—why didn’t you tell someone what was going on—why even after you knew on that fateful night did you, and were you able to act like nothing was wrong? 

At first, I didn’t have an answer.  I couldn’t say why I did what I did or what made me stay so long but as I continued to explore and write and work I slowly began to realize it was because until that final breaking point I simply was not yet ready to process or accept or perhaps, most sadly, even change it.  Slow to react.  It was because I knew that with that one decision, everything in my life would dramatically change, that what I had planned for and counted on for so long would disappear and that by choosing to make that change I knew my life was going to be substantially harder…at least for a while.  In a situation like mine, where I had been trampled for so long deciding when and where and how I was going to confront him was the very last bit of power I had left—and I needed to use it wisely. 

Truthfully, I couldn’t have left earlier because I wasn’t yet ready, or strong enough to face what would come next.  As it turns out there is no convenient time to have your life turned upside down, and had I done it sooner, and in a much less public way I can almost guarantee I would have gone back—which is the saddest and most real truth of all. 

 

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One year’s eve…


A year in the life…

 

A year ago today (tonight) is when it all went down.  It is hard to believe how fast time has gone, and how much has changed.  A year ago today was the day my whole world collapsed—but a year ago today also marks the day that I finally got my life back—and let me tell you, it has been a pretty great year. 

 

Life hasn’t been easy—some days it still isn’t easy—but it sure has gotten better.  I didn’t realize how much anxiety that relationship brought me until I was out of it—way out of it.  Even though it has been the most painful experience of my life I am glad it happened—I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I would have stayed with him or not confronted him or God forbid– gone back to him.

 

Lessons I have learned:

 

  1. It is possible to be both single and happy.
  2. Living alone is fabulous.
  3. You are never too old to make new friends—or join a kickball team
  4. Being confident—and having confidence in yourself is more than half of ANY battle
  5. Your true friends will be there for you no matter what, no matter how long it has been. 
  6. No man should have more power over you than you do over yourself. 
  7. Love yourself, put yourself first. 
  8. Everyone deserves to be happy—and if you are not happy only you have the power to fix it.
  9. Even in the worst of times stay positive, think positive—sometimes it is the only thing you have to get you through.
  10. Life is good—and even when it’s not keep muddling through—because it will be.

 

….this is not a conclusive list…more to come. 

 

 

 

To everyone: Thanks for listening, thanks for reading…thanks for BEING THERE for me.  I am so lucky to have so many amazing friends. 

 

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Cold weather and old feelings


These past few weeks I have been sad.  At first, I didn’t know why.  I chalked it up to post holiday blues or the cold weather coupled with the short days…and then I looked at the calendar.  It is late January.  A year ago in late January was when I first felt like I was losing Joe.  In actuality–and unbeknownst to me I had lost him long ago but for the first time I could actually feel  the distance. 

These days I have started to feel that familiar pain all over again in a way I can only imagine would be equivalent to feeling phantom pains in a severed limb.  It has been nearly a year but these past few weeks it feels like I am losing him all over again. 

For nearly a year now I have struggled with this.  I have tried to find people who understand–who have been where I have been and lived what I have lived through.  I have leaned on friends and gotten help from an amazing therapist.  I have written about it and read nearly a hundred books,articles and blog posts.  I have even started this blog of my own–and yet a phantom pain still lingers.

Sex addiction is a really messy, messed up and taboo thing that people don’t like to talk about.  It is an addiction unlike any other that goes far beyond just cheating and betrayal to a deep emotional level of pain that very few really understand.  For those of you who have no idea consider yourself SO VERY lucky. And for those of you who do understand– I am so sorry–but please know that I am right there with you. 

Days and sometimes even weeks can pass with no tears–but then a familiar smell or sight can suddenly trigger those memories and that pain still lingering just below the surface and in moments–microseconds my chest becomes heavy and my eyes well up with tears.  I have learned to embrace this experience for what it is but more importantly for what it has taught me.  I have spent so much time trying to be positive that this too shall pass and even though I still have faith that it will, some days are still really hard. 

As the days start to grow longer and the snow begins to melt I hope that my heart too will thaw.  Until then, I am just doing the best I can…which really is all anyone can ask for. 

 

 

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The Sunday Night Blues


I have to say, Sunday nights are always the hardest.  I remember when I first became single, my mother told me it would be Sunday nights that would be the worst, and oh was she right. 

Sunday nights are– or at least they were for making (or more realistically going out for) a good, early dinner, coming home and getting our affairs in order for the week.  Watching some (more than likely) trashy TV and having a glass of wine.  I really loved my Sunday nights. 

The funny thing was, until I was single I didn’t really realize how lonely a Sunday night can be.  After an eventful weekend that almost always involves staying out WAY too late at least one night and sleeping in much later than intended the next morning the last thing I want to do is venture out for dinner or even just to visit a friend I want to relax at home with someone I love.  These days my “special someone” consists of the feline love of my life, Lily. 

While the relaxation is amazing, it sure can get lonely.  I remember once, long, long ago in an apartment far, far away Joe and I were sitting in our living room watching an episode of Millionaire Matchmaker.  Patti asked the guy what he was looking for, why he wanted to settle down, etc.  The client, a club owner/promoter/life-liver of general douchbaggery told her it was because he was around people all of the time, at work and out with friends but it was that one time a week–those Sunday nights he spent alone that made him realize he didn’t just want a life full of people–he wanted a life with a special someone, someone to spend those lonely Sunday nights with. 

Sitting next to Joe on our tattered red sofa I realized that I had never actually thought about a lonely Sunday night.  I had spent the previous three years in law school where loneliness was easily trumped by the stress and anxiety of just how much work I had to do, followed by the next nearly two years living with Joe.  First I didn’t have the time to even notice and then once I had the time I already had someone to share it with. I also remember thinking to myself how lucky I was to have Joe so I would never have to endure going on another first date again–let alone have to spend a Sunday night alone. Well, we all know how that turned out…

As with all things that I have gone through these past months I know it will get easier (well either that or I am going to have to get busier!) And that being alone–and allowing myself to sometimes be lonely will make the day that I find the person who I will forever spend my Sunday nights with that much sweeter. 

Until then, you can find me trying to trick Lily into spooning with me. 

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My own private island


The more I date, the more I know that Joe was not the right man for me—but the more that I date, the more I realize that I am not over what has happened, I am not over the deceit and betrayal and pain.  Some days I miss him still.  It’s strange, missing someone you know is better out of your life than in it, but I do.  I miss him on the days that I am driving around town aimlessly under the guise of running errands and days that I am looking for someone to try a new restaurant with—and lately on days when I just need a hug. 

I can’t explain it—a kin to my lack of ability to hate him is the fact that I still sometimes miss him.  It is strange though, the missing him isn’t in the boyfriend sense.   I don’t care who or if he is dating, I am not jealous of those in his life because I am out of it, I don’t care if he is doing well at work or if he’s lost weight or what he had for lunch yesterday…I just miss him sitting beside and the silent comfort of his presence. 

If this was a fantasy world I could transport myself to a deserted island with nothing but ocean for miles.  The island too is fairly bare—just a few palm trees for shade from the perfect, just hot enough sun and below on white sand the old red couch from our old living room facing out to the surf.  I’d take it stains and all—if just for an hour or two I could sit there silently watching the waves with him beside me. 

We wouldn’t even need to talk—well except of course about Lily.  Even though she is now just mine, she will always be our baby.  I just want to sit with him in a place all our own—away from the pressures of work and life and reality—especially reality. 

It makes me feel weak that I still am grieving this loss—but the more I try to deny my feelings or hide my emotions the less control I have over when and where they emerge.  It is amazing how much better my life has gotten in the last 10.5 months—but what continues to still blow me away is how much work there is left to do.  I had no idea just how broken I was. 

Time heals all wounds and until then I will be counting every minute. 

I am so thankful for the person I am becoming with each passing day. 

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Somebody That I Used To Know.


I saw a ghost on Saturday—a ghost of my past life.  At least I am pretty sure I did. 

In the midst of my Saturday morning errand run I stopped at the gas station to fill up.  I was at the pump, waiting for the pump to accept my credit card when I felt someone’s eyes on me.  I turned around and there, in the line for the carwash I saw him.  Joe.  At first I wasn’t sure.  He had a new car—a four door luxury sedan flashier than the last, complete with a new girl with long brown hair sitting in the front seat.  She didn’t even look out the window but I just saw this figure from the driver’s seat just staring at me through the glass. 

Even from that distance I knew it was him.  I just did.   I could spot him anywhere.  I tried not to look—distracting myself by singing along with whatever song was being piped over the gas station speakers.  Even with my back to him, I could still feel his eyes on me and finally I couldn’t help but glance back.  I tried to convince myself it wasn’t him, but I knew better.  It’s funny—I just assumed (or perhaps over-optimistically hoped) that when I saw him I would be looking fabulous in some hot dress having a good time out with friends.  In reality there I was in faded jeans, a down vest two times older than the length of our relationship and a giant scarf he had seen me wear hundreds of times filling up the same car I had when we were together that he probably drove more often than I did.

 In that moment and even now it didn’t bother me that the circumstances were so different.  And—perplexingly what bothered me even less, what has almost become an afterthought or a footnote to this whole scenario was the girl in the front seat.  I wonder where he found her—and if she knows.  I hope so.  I also wonder what kind of woman would willingly—having been presented with all of the information—be with someone like him.  Maybe I haven’t thought much about her because, although it was so upsetting to see him, I don’t want to be with him.  I am not jealous or resentful of the new girl in the new car taking my place in the front seat, just nostalgic about the good times in my past life with a man I thought I knew. 

After filling up and getting back into the car I pulled away from the pump, driving closer to the carwash line—closer to the car, closer to Joe.  I prayed that It was just my imagination—that it wasn’t him and that once I got closer I would see that I had been mistaken and it was someone else…but as I drove by, his head snapped forward, now refusing to look in my direction and instead of easing my fears it only confirmed my suspicions.  I would know that profile anywhere. 

I drove out of the parking lot and I started to shake.  I turned the car around and circled the block.  I don’t know why.  I don’t know what I was hoping to see or find or discover.  I drove in a circle, trying to calm myself down.  I called my friend.  She told me to go home.  She was right.  I pulled over for a moment to catch my breath and stop my hands from shaking.  I didn’t think I would react so strongly to the sight of him.  When I finally regained my composure drove home, radio off re-running the event in my mind surrounded by complete silence. 

I got home and parked my car in the garage.  I walked into my apartment and petted Lily.  I sat down on my bed attempting to fully regain my composure.  Suddenly I was tired.  Really tired, overwhelmingly tired.  I laid down, closed my eyes and didn’t awake until three hours later.  It was as if my body just shut down—like someone hitting the force quit button on a computer causing the system to involuntarily stop whatever it was doing and just shut off.  As strange and disorienting that the self-induced three hour coma was, it was exactly what I needed.  That night I got dressed and went out with friends to celebrate a birthday.  I called the guy from Wednesday and he came and met us out for a little while.  I laughed and joked and danced like a crazy person all night long.  I had fun. 

Finally it hit me.  I am really starting to get my life back. 

 

 

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What I am I really looking for?


“So are you looking for a relationship?” he said, his barstool turned toward me, his knees touching mine.  A moment passes, then two. 

“I, uhh….I…” I say sounding dumbfounded as if he asked me some deep philosophical question.  I can’t seem to get out an answer.  I’ve only had half a beer, I am not drunk, and I drank two cups of coffee before this date so I am certainly not tired—I just can’t seem to come up with an answer.  “You know…” I start but unable to come up with anything I take my gaze away from him and stare down at my hand placed on top of the cool marble of the bar. 

“If it’s too personal of a question, you don’t have to answer,” he says politely, realizing I am struggling to come up with something to say. 

I look up at him.  He is gorgeous.  Really, really gorgeous—not to mentioned accomplished, interesting and super nice—the kind of guy most girls would jump at the opportunity to date—and yet here I am stalling to answer the question he is clearly looking for a ‘yes’ to.  Come on you idiot, it isn’t rocket science…why can’t you just say yes!  YES!  That IS why you are dating again, isn’t it?  Because you want a relationship?  Then, suddenly, in that moment I realize maybe not…maybe I don’t want a relationship.  I mean if anyone is relationship worthy it certainly seems like this guy would fit the bill and yet I can’t even give him a straight answer?  What does that mean? 

“Uh yeah, I am.  I mean now I am kind of just feeling things out but yeah, if the right person…you know came along then…yeah…totally…yeah!” I try to say convincingly while trying to mentally count the number of times I just said ‘yeah’ in the previous sentence. 

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, I am just really tired,” I lie in an attempt to give some sort of an answer for why such a simple question has got me acting so, well CRAZY when faced with such a simple question. 

Since Wednesday, the night of the million dollar question, I have been replaying that moment and my reaction over and over in my mind.  Instead of thinking how great and fun and exciting the beginning of a new relationship can be I instead feel just pain and anxiety in the pit of my stomach.  I crave the familiarity that comes with a long-term, comfortable relationship yet I can’t bring myself to allow someone into my life so much so that I can even imagine getting to the point of ‘comfortable’ with them.  I tell myself I want a relationship yet when I am faced head on with the question by someone who is by all standards relationship worthy I suddenly have got nothing.  No response.  No answer.  NO IDEA. 

This morning as I stared out the window of the bus as it sped along its usual route all I could think about was the pain.  The deep, cutting pain that still exists in my heart.  Part of me thinks I shouldn’t date until I can say with certainty that the pain is gone—and yet I find myself wondering if it will ever really all be gone. 

It is no longer about Joe—well not really—but about what affect that level of betrayal and manipulation has had and continues to have on every aspect of my life.  I want to be better, I have been working SO HARD to get better and every time I am faced with the undeniable truth that I am NOT 100% better I get frustrated, and angry and really, really sad.  I want to scream at Joe, yell at him, RAGE against him and  tell the ways in which he has broken me—and yet I know doing so will still not bring me the closure and the healing I still so badly need. 

And so for now, I am out there.  I am trying.  I am doing the best I can.  And, maybe, someday when I meet the right person all of the effort and time and work I have put into getting myself back will suddenly just be—enough. 

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An Unsent Letter


Dear Joe,

It’s almost Christmas.  Can you believe it has been so long?  Some days it seems like it’s been forever, while others seem like it hasn’t yet been long enough.  I mourn the good times but am not yet ready to look back on them with affection.  Sometimes, although admittedly less frequent  these days I still feel the raw, numb, stinging in my chest when I think of what you did to me, and for how long it went on.  I hate that I still feel pain from those emotional wounds you weathered on my heart.  It makes me angry that even after all this time—and even with all of this distance between us you still continue to hurt me in ways that I am not sure you will ever even comprehend. 

Sometimes when I go shopping I still find myself looking for things you would like.  I don’t do it on purpose—I just find myself wandering through the store and suddenly I am in the men’s section looking for shoes in a size 10.  It’s just habit, I guess.  Even though we’ve been apart for so long, I bet I could still pick out an entire wardrobe for you.  Speaking of shopping, I got Lily a new collar this week.  It’s light pink with bright pink polka dots.  She looks like a real classy lady…although in case you were wondering, she still doesn’t act like one.   

Awhile back, I can’t even remember when but I stopped thinking about you—not completely but I stopped thinking about your day to day or week to week routine.  I have no idea where you spend your time or who you spend it with.  I have no idea if you still have the same job or even if you still live in the same apartment.  The not knowing doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would—maybe because I don’t really think about it all that often. 

I wonder if you’ve thought about or tried to date anyone.  I hope not.  Not because I am jealous or that I want you back—but because nobody deserves to be treated the way you treated me.  I’ve tried dating.  I keep giving it my best shot, but somehow those wounds you inflicted find a way of flaring up and breaking open before I can let anyone get too close to me.  I hate that despite my best attempts to remain hopeful and optimistic about love what you did to me still weighs so heavy and deeply on my heart that I am not able to let someone else in—even if they deserve it much more than you ever did. 

Do you ever think of me?  Do you miss me?  You should.  I’m not sure you will ever find a woman who will love you so deeply and truly (albeit blindly) as I did you.  Back when we used to talk, you told me that some day when you were further along in your recovery and it was time to make amends that your biggest amends would be to me.  I wonder if that is still true.  If it is, I wonder when (if ever) they are coming—and if it will even make a difference.  I hope so.  No matter how much time has passed I feel like I will still need the closure. 

I think the biggest thing I still struggle with is the fact that I am not sure you will ever understand what your selfishness and your addiction did to me.  I don’t think you will ever understand what it is like to have been hurt in the way you destroyed me—and how long it will truly take me to get better.  I think part of the problem is that I simply could not both mourn the loss of you in my life and hate you for what you did to me at the same time.  I wish that type of emotional multitasking was possible—it certainly would have made this process much easier. 

I still cry sometimes.  I still have bad days although they too come fewer now.  Sometimes I think of something from our past and it makes me laugh, other times it leaves me angry and resentful.  Remember how we both secretly loved the song ‘For Good’ after seeing Wicked in Chicago with my family?  It came up on my playlist a week or two ago.  That definitely made me cry, especially because the sentiment could not ring more true. 

I just wanted to check in, to say hi.  Sometimes I just need to do that.  I hope your family is well, and please let them know I miss them dearly.  I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas. 

 

Take Care,

Emily

 

I’ve heard it said That people come into our lives for a reason Bringing something we must learn And we are led To those who help us most to grow If we let them And we help them in return Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true But I know I’m who I am today Because I knew you…

It well may be That we will never meet again In this lifetime So let me say before we part So much of me Is made from what I learned from you You’ll be with me Like a handprint on my heart And now whatever way our stories end I know you have re-written mine By being my friend.

Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good.

 

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