*Trigger warning: self-harm and abuse*

Broken-hearted people often say, think and do things they don’t mean. I’ll admit, in the months since our relationship completely crumbled there were times that I thought “I don’t care if this person lives or dies.” Guilt immediately followed...of course I’m not really indifferent...I’m just hurt.

But then a few weeks ago, I read a headline about a tragic accident in your state. I immediately thought of you. I read through the article and realized that the incident occurred hours away from your town…and I was disappointed. It was then I realized that I’m truly not indifferent to whether you live or die. I prefer the latter.

The day that you told me that a week-long relationship you’d begun with another girl was more important than me, than being my “best friend,” I prayed for you. I told the Lord that I hoped He gave you more happiness than you could ever even fathom.

I haven’t said that prayer in a while.

When you abandoned me -- after incessantly swearing you never would -- you took away my reason to live, at least according to you. For four months you watched my mental health deteriorate. You watched me bleed on the kitchen floor after cutting my arms. You saw me climb into bed at 6:00 pm. You found me on the rooftop, several times, leaning over the edge and when you asked me what I was thinking about, I said “jumping.”

You listened to me scream between the fingers that covered my mouth and nose as you held me down with the weight of your body, pushing my face down into the mattress every time I screamed too loud. You felt me fight against your chest as you wrapped your hands around my throat and shook me.

You watched my tears spill when lie after lie after lie, girl after girl after girl, were revealed.

You watched me turn to mindless rage when I broke dishes, when I screamed across empty parking lots, when I slapped you for calling me a n****r; you wiped the blood running from your nose across my face and called me sick.

When I was pushed past the point of breaking, I left the apartment we shared together. I made the decision at 8:00 p.m., Sept. 18 and was in a car with my family headed for Louisiana by 1:00 p.m. the following day.

That night you called this sick girl crying, telling me how you’ll never be able to love someone as much as you love me, how you “can’t believe [I’m] really gone.” You made this sick girl a lot of promises you couldn’t keep.

I told you that I could no longer live inside my own head and the stresses of this world were too much for me to bear. I set a date for my life to end, Nov. 17, a day after your 23rd birthday...because I didn’t want to spoil your special day.

The thought of being dead soon was the only thing that gave me relief.

Do you remember what you told me? Do you remember the “one good reason” you gave for me to live? It was you. I needed to be here because you needed me here, and I believed you. You needed me, and when I could no longer fulfill that need to your satisfaction, you left.

For three years, I committed myself to your abuse, your manipulation, your degradation, your neglect and your torment -- and you couldn’t even commit to being my friend. Not even with my mental health, and ultimately my life, on the line.

When I realized all of this, in all of its severity, falling out of love with you was easy. Falling out of loathing has proven to be a more difficult task.

They say hate is a strong word, which is why it’s the perfect descriptor for how I feel about you. Not only do I hate you, I regret you and I resent you.

I regret not listening to myself, when I felt something was off in the beginning of our relationship. I regret letting you systematically break down my character and my self esteem. I regret letting you project your insecurities and paranoia onto me. I regret giving you every chance you asked for, even after you stopped deserving them.

I regret thinking that I could kiss the lies from your mouth, feeling that I should coddle your guilt, that I should be the one to mend the relationship you shattered. I regret thinking that I wasn’t beaten because I wasn’t bruised.

I resent that even though you’re no longer in my heart, you’re still in my head. I resent that even now, I’m tempted to defend you -- to detail how I didn’t give you the affection you needed, how I should have been more committed, how I’d been cold and calculating too, how I gave my love away and distorted reality to suit my disorientations…

I resent giving three years of my life to a monster and becoming one in the process.

I resent that I’m not done dealing with this, not yet.

So far, this isn’t a victory story (but believe me, it will be) because I’m still sorting this out. I’m still praying, I’m still healing and I’m still rising. But this is where I’m at right now:

I hope that one day when you are close to death (and I wouldn’t mind if it were soon), that you have to answer to your creator. I hope you have to explain why, even after He gave you what you “prayed for” you opted to betray Him and His daughter. I hope that He gathers the weight of the pain that you’ve caused me, all the pain that He had to take from me because it was too heavy to carry, and makes you bear it, even if only for a moment. And I hope it crushes you.