I am no stranger to heartache. It seeks me out in a crowd, settles in the marrow of my bones. The pain of loving someone always seems to make a home in the place where it is least wanted, and there is a refined ugliness to the particular brand of agony that accompanies waiting. Frankly, it sucks, and I want my money back.
Not only my money—but my time, my effort, my dignity. I want closure. I want to know that my sacrifices have been acknowledged, and you are aware of just how profoundly you’ve drained me. I want you to feel every ounce of grief you inflicted upon me without so much as a second thought.
I fell victim to countless nights spent distracting myself so I might be able to afford you the same sense of lingering disappointment that haunted me at all hours of the day. Bailing on friends to accommodate your flighty plans, which barely entertained the idea of spending time with me. Hung on your every word like gospel. Waiting for a message, a phone call, a shadow of a hint that I was worth anything to you.
You hollowed me out, and I’m tired of feeling like a shell.
The experience of being consumed by another person is uniquely isolating. I don’t expect anyone to understand why I continued to linger on the ambiguity of our dynamic, or why I needed to define exactly what I meant to you. Did you only view me as a placeholder until something more substantial came along? Why wasn’t I enough? And, most importantly, why am I finding it so difficult to blame anyone but myself?
Maybe because it’s easier to recognize my own faults than impart any responsibility on you. Because that means not only was I blind to your shortcomings, but I also chose to willingly ignore the red flags, even when others called attention to them. People asked me if I was okay, and I lied through my teeth rather than admitting failure. Then, when the illusion finally shattered, I had to piece together the remains while you kept moving forward.
At the crux of it all, this isn't fair. I wish the universe would apologize for tormenting me with vacant promises and shiny ideals. But now, I need you to know—I'm letting go.
Consider this a shout into the void. My active decision to stop affording you the most palatable parts of me when all you do is take and take and take. I will use you as a lesson, the same way you used me as an emotional crutch. I will find happiness outside of what you once gave me. I will blossom and thrive and move on, because here's the thing:
I am not expendable.
And I am damn well whole without you.
