2019.

It’s crazy how long it’s been since I posted. How long it’s been since I wrote. Writing used to be such a big part of how I processed things. A big part of how I got through the darkest of times. How I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. My writing always got me there. I guess, maybe, I didn’t feel like I needed to write. Maybe I only need writing when I’m sad. Maybe it’s in the darkness that writing finds me. Well, however it found me this time, here I am. Back for the world to see. Perhaps, back with some darkness.

 

What Happens When I Stop Missing You?

It’s been nearly two weeks since you sent me a message, even longer since I last heard your voice. And I miss you, god do I miss you. You’re still my first thought when I wake up and my last thought before I go to sleep. There are still moments when I am half asleep and reach over to your side of the bed half expecting you to be lying there next to me, and sadness and disappointment fills my heart when I realise you’re not. My heart aches for you, just as it always has; maybe it always will. Maybe you’ll always be a part of me.
I wish I could reach out, call you, hear your voice. I could, but I’m scared it will hurt. I’m scared that you will say something that will break me, or worse, make me miss you more.
I hope that someday I’ll stop counting the days since we last spoke. I hope that I’ll wake up in the morning and it will take hours before I even think of you. I hope that days will pass without your name being mumbled from my lips. I hope that someday I’ll be happy without you.
Without you. Even just saying that hurts. The idea of a life without you scares me more than the idea of missing you forever. Missing you is familiar, I know how it feels, I know how it hurts. But not having you? Forgetting you? That’s what scares me. The idea that we are taught to let go and move on from people who meant the world to us confuses me. You were my world, and maybe that was the problem. I loved you more than anyone, even myself. In loving you, I lost myself, and I’m still trying to find myself again: the person I was before you. Someone told me once that if I was happy before you, I would be able to be happy again after you. But it’s not that simple. It doesn’t work that way. I can’t just erase you. I can’t forget the way you made me feel. These are things I’ll carry around with me forever. I think these are things that I want to carry around forever; I don’t want to forget you or erase you. I just want to stop missing you. But if I stop missing you… then what?

I Would Tell You

Here’s what I would tell you:
– That you fucked up. That you made a mistake when you walked away from us.
– That you’re a coward. You gave up on us because you were too scared and you didn’t try hard enough.
– That you’re selfish. You only think about yourself and you only care about yourself.
– That you’re mean. That you say things that you know will hurt me, but you do it anyway. You’re thoughtless.
– That you avoid things. That you run away and don’t address things. You turn your back on people when it gets difficult.
– You’re an addict. Many times throughout our relationship you chose alcohol and drugs over spending time with me. You have a problem. But you enjoy it too much to admit it.
– That you don’t deserve me. Not for a minute. Not at all. That I’m way too nice to you. I forgive you, for it all, for everything. And that I hate myself for it.
– That I hate myself for loving you. For not being strong enough to walk away. For making excuses for you. For missing you. For wanting someone like you.
– That you will never find someone like me. Someone who loves you unconditionally. No matter what. Always. Someone who was always there for you.
– That one day it will hit you. All of it. And it will hurt. And I hope it does. I hope it tears you apart and brings you to your knees.
– You’ll realise what you lost and what you gave up. And you will hate yourself. You will hate yourself for not fighting for the one person who always fought for you.
– You’ll miss me. You’ll want me back. You’ll regret all of it. You’ll realise that the lifestyle you wanted wasn’t worth losing the one person who loved you.
– That it will be too late. I will be long gone. You will just be a man I once loved. The man I used to kiss in photos. Your name will never leave my lips and your face will never enter my dreams.
– My dreams and my future will be filled with someone new. Someone better. Someone who realised I was the girl worth fighting for.

Empty

There are so many things I would tell you. So many things I would say. But you took my voice away. You made me scared to talk; scared that it would make you leave; scared that if I wanted “too much” you would leave me behind. But I don’t want too much. I never did. I just want you.

I want the talks we used to have. I miss the love we used to share. I don’t want to be your friend, your booty call, your this. I don’t know if I want this. I tell myself I do, because the alternative, of not having you all seems so much harder. Do you love me? Do you still care? How many of the words that slip off your sweet tongue are just used to get in my bed? What goes through your mind when you see our old photos? How do they make you feel? They make me feel sad. I miss the people in those photos. I miss those smiles. I miss the man I fell in love with.

You look like him; the man in our photos. But inside you’re gone. You’re the shell of a man I once loved. And I hold onto you because you remind me of him, and sometimes when we’re alone, you even act like him. You say things he used to say. And it makes me feel like that girl again. The girl in the photo. The one who got lost the day you gave up and walked away. The one that I’m still trying to find.

There are a lot of things I would say to you if we could talk freely. If I wasn’t scared. I’m not really sure what I’m scared of: you walking away, or hearing what you might have to say. I’ve given you everything. Everything I have and more. And you’ve given me nothing, and yet here I stand loving you. The man you once were gave me the world; he gave me his all. But you’re just his shell. Empty. With nothing to give. I know you’re lost. And I know you’re not ready. But what a thing to learn now. What a thing to discover after tasting all you have to offer.

I know you miss me. I can hear it in your voice. In the way you say my name. But you’re a shell. And slowly, I feel you making me more like you. More… empty.
We sit next to each other, as shells of who we use to be. And our relationship, a shell of what it once was. Empty.

Fight For You

I told you I would fight for you.
I told you I would never give up.
I told you I would fight for you,
Until you gave me a reason not to.
And even then, I would still fight.

You pushed me away.
You broke me.
You wrecked me.
You torn me down.
But still, I fought.

But today, I stopped.
I stopped fighting for you.
Not because you gave me a reason not to.
You had given me a million before.
I stopped fighting for you.
Because you weren’t there anymore.

At A Loss

I’ve always been really good at explaining how I feel. What I’m thinking. Why I’m hurting. But recently I’ve found myself at a loss for words. The way I’m feeling doesn’t make sense, and the words don’t do it justice. It feels like you were never a part of my life, but at the same time I feel your loss every day. I miss you in songs and jokes and TV shows. I think about you when I wake up and when I go to sleep. But at the same time, it feels like you were never there.

I think back to the memories we had together, and it feels like I’m watching someone else’s life. Like I’m watching a movie. Because those moments couldn’t have been my own. Because the person who made me feel that good couldn’t possibly be the reason that I feel like my world is falling apart. Because the person I fell in love with couldn’t have been the one who broke my heart.

I remember being with you on the beach, in my room, on the roof, and yet it feels so distant. I can’t remember what your voice sounds like, or what it felt like when we kissed. And it feels like we never did.

Are you really the person I shared those memories with? Are you really the person who held me close when I was scared? The one who told me that you’d never abandon me and that you’d always be there? The one who told me that we would get through it all together? It just can’t be.

I don’t know why these memories feel so distant. Why they feel so removed. It doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make me miss you any less. It’s not a coping mechanism. It just…is. And it leaves me lost. And confused. Because all the memories. The good, the bad, all of them, don’t feel like they’re mine. The photos I look at are foreign to me, because I don’t understand how I could be the girl in the photo, or how the man standing next to me could be you. Because we never loved like that. We never touched like that. Did we?

I know that as time passes, the memories fade. But these memories aren’t fading. They’re there. I remember them like I remember what happened with my favourite couple on my favourite TV show. But I don’t remember them like they were mine. I feel the hurt, the pain, and the heartbreak. But the memories? They’re not mine, they couldn’t be.

I miss you every day. But I don’t even know what I’m missing. I can’t pinpoint what exactly is making me hurt. I don’t know what is lacking. I don’t miss our good memories because it doesn’t feel like they were ours. I don’t know if I miss you because it feels like you were never really around. Like maybe our friendship and our relationship was all a part of my imagination and it never existed. Like you never existed. Like we never did. Maybe I’ve forgotten you. But that’s not what it is. Maybe I can’t understand how the man I fell in love with could turn out to be so cruel, so cold, and so heartless. Maybe my brain can’t understand how those memories could be with you. The first night you told me you loved me, and I thought I had found the one. It doesn’t feel like my memory. But I miss you.

So where does that leave me? Confused. Sad. And at a loss for words.

When You’re The One Who Cares The Most

When you’re the one who cares the most, you often feel lost. You feel confused, and you feel hurt. When you’re the one who cares the most, you can’t understand why the other person doesn’t care about you, or why they don’t show it, or how they don’t see that what they’re doing is hurting you. You keep giving. You give and you give until you have absolutely nothing left, and then you give some more. This is because they take. They take and they suck you dry. They know it’s killing you; they watch it break you, and they don’t care. You put them first; they put themselves first; and so they win, and you’re left empty, broken, with nothing left to give.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you cry yourself to sleep at night. You prioritise people who don’t think about you. You value everyone else’s feelings over your own. You care. You keep caring even when they give you reasons not to. You forgive. You keep forgiving. They take advantage of your forgiveness. They take advantage of your love. They take advantage of you, of your kindness. You see this but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Not when you’re the one who cares the most.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you will die of heartbreak. You will die of disappointment. Loving others is what is going to kill you. They mean the world to you, but your tears mean nothing to them. You spend your life saving them, but when you tell them you’re dying, they watch you go. They don’t fight for you, and it breaks your heart.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you want to beg them to care about you, but you don’t. You want to ask why they don’t love you, but you can’t. You sit on your floor and cry so that the next time you see them you can smile. Your heart keeps breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. These pieces get lost throughout your life so that even when you want to repair your heart, you can’t. There are holes. Holes that they made when they tore through you.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you walk around wounded. Scars from your past mark your body. The pain you’ve experienced runs through your veins and paints your face. You smile and laugh because you know it’s what they want to see, and you want to make them happy. That’s all you want. But no one cares about your happiness. No one cares to know that you’re okay; no one cares about the tears; no one cares. He doesn’t care.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you do small things to make his day brighter and better. You get him presents and surprises when he’s down. You take care of him when he’s sick. You give him everything, and he takes it all, and he gives you nothing back. He’ll take all of you. He’ll destroy you. He’ll say it’s because he loves you. But it’s not love, because you don’t destroy the people you love.

When you’re the one who cares the most, you’ll disappear. You’ll fade. You’ll vanish. And maybe one day they’ll search for you, but you’ll have nothing left to give, and no love left in your heart.

Friends… ?

Oh, you want to talk because we are friends? That’s funny. You were always good at making me laugh. That’s great for you that you think we’re friends. Splendid really. However, I have news for you. Friends don’t think of you as a sexual object. Friends don’t sext you at 3 in the morning after weeks of not talking. Friends don’t use you. Friends don’t take advantage of you. Friends care. All the time. Not just when they are free, and not just when they feel like it. They care, always. Friends don’t invite you to their hotel room when they are in a relationship. Friends don’t cheat on their girlfriends with you. Friends don’t treat you like you are disposable. Friends don’t get to choose when to be your friend. Friends check up on you when you are in pain. Friends don’t tell you that they’re there for you no matter what and then back out at the first opportunity. Friends are there for you during the good times, and the bad. Friends don’t hurt you. Friends don’t try to hurt you. Friends love.

You don’t know what it means to be a friend. You don’t know what it means to act like a friend. You wouldn’t know what friendship was if it came and hit you in the face. You, my dear, are not my friend.

My Story

A friend told me last week that I had to tell my story. She told me that I had to talk in front of a room full of strangers and tell them why I was there. At first, I questioned it and I was angry. But then I finally realised why it was important for me to tell my story to all of you. I have to tell my story for the women and the men who can’t. It’s hard to tell your story when you feel like it was written by someone else. When you feel like someone else took control of your story. When you feel like it’s not yours, but theirs. Someone wrote a chapter that you wish you could rip out and burn and forget, but you can’t. You can never forget. I need to tell my story so that my voice is heard. Because having my voice be heard reclaims some of the power. Some of the power that was taken when he wrote my story for me. I need to tell my story for the people who carry around that weight every day of their lives.

I was raped. It took me a long time to be able to say those words out loud. And even when I did, I spoke those words like a robot. With no emotion or feeling behind them. I refused to acknowledge the weight those words carried in my life because I was too scared of what might happen to me once I did. It’s important for me to share my story because unfortunately, and it breaks my heart, I know I am not the only one in this room who has been. I know that there are other people here who have felt powerless. Who have felt weak. I know that there are other people here who felt like they didn’t have control over their own stories. I’m not here to tell you that I understand your story, because I don’t. No two stories are the same, and two experiences alike. But I know. I know what it’s like to be pushed. I know what it’s like to be choked. I know what it’s like to fight. I know what it’s like when you give up. When you stop trying and freeze. I know what it’s like when you surrender. I know what it’s like to be raped. I know what how it feels when you blame yourself. When you question what you could have done differently. I know what it’s like to lose your voice. I know what it’s like to be scared when someone touches you. I know how it feels walking home from the library at night looking over your shoulder every two feet. I know what it’s like not to be able to bring anyone home, or touch anyone, or trust. I know what it’s like to wake up at 4am feeling like you can’t breathe because you can still feel his hands on your throat. I know what’s it’s like to be scared of sex. But I’m here to tell you that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power and it’s about dominance. He took something from me that night that I will probably never be able to get back. Because you don’t move on from rape. You don’t wake up one morning and feel fine. You don’t forget it. But one morning you wake up and you start to heal. The weight that you carry around gets just a little bit lighter. And the power you lost that night slowly comes back. You stop doubting and blaming yourself, and you start to believe again. Because you are not a victim, you are a survivor. And you fight. And you tell your story.

Tonight, I tell my story for me. I tell my story for me and anyone else in this room who once felt like they lost their voice. Because we will not be silenced. I tell my story tonight so that I can heal. What he did to me that night is just one part of my story. Just a portion; a fragment. A part that will not define me anymore. I tell my story tonight because it’s mine. And it deserves to be heard.

If We Were Friends

We have never met, and I doubt we ever will. However, not knowing you has never stopped me from having imaginary conversations with you, or from thinking about what you must be like. I used to envy you. I used to be jealous of you. I used to want nothing more than to be you. To be the one that he loved. Not anymore.

In this moment, I don’t know if my heart aches more for myself, or for you. See, I get to leave him behind, and I get to move on. I get to find someone who will love me, and who won’t fault me for caring. I get to find someone who will be there to hold onto during the tears, instead of being the one who caused them. I’ll get to find someone who loves me, and only want me. Someone who will fall in love with me, with all my flaws and my edges; someone who won’t want to change me. My heart aches for you because you won’t get that. My heart aches for you because even though I don’t know you, and even though we’re not friends, you deserve better. We all do. If we were friends I would tell you to run. I would tell you to slam the door and leave him and all of his shit behind. You don’t deserve someone who will invite another girl to your apartment when you’re not there. You don’t deserve someone who says he loves you but doesn’t know what the definition of love is. You don’t deserve someone who is searching for lust elsewhere the moment you turn your back. You deserve to know true happiness. You might think that that’s what this is. You might think that looking into his eyes there is no truer vision of the future. You’re probably so excited to move in with him and start your lives together. From now until forever. Forever. Today is the beginning of the rest of your life. And my heart aches for you if you choose to spend it with him. But oh how easy it is to fall for him. I should know.

I hope you are a strong woman. If not, you’ll be forced to grow into one. Because one day, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year, maybe not five years from now, but one day, he will break you. I hope this day does not come. And I hope that he changes. But I know he won’t. He’ll think he has. He’ll think that he finally knows what it means to be in love. He already thinks he does. But he doesn’t. He wants to love you. He wants to believe that he is the man for you. And he truly does believe that you are the woman for him. He thinks you’re too smart for him, and he’s probably right. It’s funny isn’t it? How you can be so intelligent and yet so naïve?

I hope that one day he truly starts loving you. I hope that he can be the prince, the one you dreamt about when you were a little girl. I hope that he can sweep you off your feet on his white horse, and that it is magical, because we all deserve a little magic in our lives. But if this doesn’t happen. And if he causes you pain, I hope more than anything that you learn to walk away. That you learn that he doesn’t deserve a second chance, and certainly not a third or a fourth, or however many you will want to give him. He’ll beg and he’ll plead, he might even cry. I hope you have the strength and the courage to slowly walk away. But if we were friends, I would tell you to run.