(no subject)
Dear Someone,
I don't really know whether this is meant to be read or not. I just feel like putting it out there as a way of catharsis. It doesn't reflect everything but there is truth in it.
I still grieve.
I've struggled with what to say, how to say it, and why. I've just known that there's been a hole in the centre of me for so long. A hole shaped like you. Something empty and void and missing. A grey city with empty streets and cold graffiti and scrappy weeds, in my heart.
For years I was so angry with you, and with myself. I blamed us both for, of all things, being embarrassing. Embarrassingly, awfully base and selfish and mean. You for being embarrassingly shallow and horrible and nasty and spiteful. Me for having been embarrassingly pathetic and small and creepy and nasty.
To be honest I was mostly horribly sad at first, but then I was so angry. And it made me feel ill and awful inside. This horrid jealous morbid black rage. It twisted me. Twisted me up into sharp cut vileness.
And I was so dead. Dead inside. Not quite as bad as the first time when I didn't even know if you were alive or dead. But still dead. It got better the further away from you that I was, but it never quite went away. A strange, oily, dark cast, a flatness to the world. A world where, say, only the colours black and white and grey and orange existed.
I remember riding my motorcycle one night down the Princes Highway in the dark. Screaming down the roads in the way I could not with my voice. Driving past gutted, peeling, abandoned houses among gaudy, flashy, pretend shop-fronts and home-façades. An oily petrol dark pool of sea. The stench of asphalt and burning tires and rotting fish. Humid, hot headlight. And me, my heavy shoulders and my hard eyes and worn face and weary ears, driving into the night for hours and hours until I got to the end.
But in truth, I grieve. I always grieved. I just did not know how.
The horror of the reality of the situation surrounding you, was too much to bear. I could not bear my own participation in making that situation worse for you. I failed you. I failed you. I left you behind, to your fate. I was too weak, too broken, too racked with endless dead nightmares, with guilt, with faceless torment of the idea of people dying due to my negligence and the wounds from having lost everything. I had lost everything, my home, my job, my safety, my mental health, my money, and I had returned broken.
But that doesn't excuse what I did. I failed you. Over and over again. I betrayed you, abandoned you, and I lacked any sort of courage to stand up for what I believed or who I was or how I felt about you. I couldn't even bring myself to be anything but embarrassed that I loved you.
And so, in my actions I cursed you and doomed you.
I despair. The feeling I was too afraid to deal with is called despair. I just do not know what to do. I don't know how to help you. And accepting that perhaps it is not my place to help, and knowing that you would not accept my fickle, shitty help anyway, I know that I can't even rely on things to just get better and right themselves on their own.
I thought, today, about what if you were really and truly happy (without me, and with someone else, even someone I didn't like). And the idea made me feel, just... great. Content and happy and almost euphoric. So happy for you. Actually happy, like a weight had lifted off me; inspired and warmed by happiness. Then I realised that you weren't happy and my feelings crashed again.
But at least I finally understood again. I just want you to be happy. I wish for that more than anything else. I love you. I might not be in love with you, but I love you. Your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy. I want you to be free and confident and to be yourself and to be content. To be free of all this shit. And leave if you want to. My place in all of that is completely irrelevant. That is how I have always felt.
What I want isn't being with you, or talking to you or closure or knowing what happens to you. All of that is irrelevant. I just want you to be ok. Ok? I want you to do what you need to do. That probably means never talking to me again and that is fine by me if that is what you need. But I don't want you to just stop at that half-assed attempt. I want you to do more than that, I want you to live and grow and prosper. I want you to never suffer abuse at the hands of anyone again. I want you to be surrounded by love and to love and be loved. I want you to be the person you are, not the person that people want you to be. I don't want you to just settle. I want you to have something better than that.
I want you to live.
And saying all that, even knowing that I'll never hear from you again, I feel alive again.
Love,
Deutschy.
I don't really know whether this is meant to be read or not. I just feel like putting it out there as a way of catharsis. It doesn't reflect everything but there is truth in it.
I still grieve.
I've struggled with what to say, how to say it, and why. I've just known that there's been a hole in the centre of me for so long. A hole shaped like you. Something empty and void and missing. A grey city with empty streets and cold graffiti and scrappy weeds, in my heart.
For years I was so angry with you, and with myself. I blamed us both for, of all things, being embarrassing. Embarrassingly, awfully base and selfish and mean. You for being embarrassingly shallow and horrible and nasty and spiteful. Me for having been embarrassingly pathetic and small and creepy and nasty.
To be honest I was mostly horribly sad at first, but then I was so angry. And it made me feel ill and awful inside. This horrid jealous morbid black rage. It twisted me. Twisted me up into sharp cut vileness.
And I was so dead. Dead inside. Not quite as bad as the first time when I didn't even know if you were alive or dead. But still dead. It got better the further away from you that I was, but it never quite went away. A strange, oily, dark cast, a flatness to the world. A world where, say, only the colours black and white and grey and orange existed.
I remember riding my motorcycle one night down the Princes Highway in the dark. Screaming down the roads in the way I could not with my voice. Driving past gutted, peeling, abandoned houses among gaudy, flashy, pretend shop-fronts and home-façades. An oily petrol dark pool of sea. The stench of asphalt and burning tires and rotting fish. Humid, hot headlight. And me, my heavy shoulders and my hard eyes and worn face and weary ears, driving into the night for hours and hours until I got to the end.
But in truth, I grieve. I always grieved. I just did not know how.
The horror of the reality of the situation surrounding you, was too much to bear. I could not bear my own participation in making that situation worse for you. I failed you. I failed you. I left you behind, to your fate. I was too weak, too broken, too racked with endless dead nightmares, with guilt, with faceless torment of the idea of people dying due to my negligence and the wounds from having lost everything. I had lost everything, my home, my job, my safety, my mental health, my money, and I had returned broken.
But that doesn't excuse what I did. I failed you. Over and over again. I betrayed you, abandoned you, and I lacked any sort of courage to stand up for what I believed or who I was or how I felt about you. I couldn't even bring myself to be anything but embarrassed that I loved you.
And so, in my actions I cursed you and doomed you.
I despair. The feeling I was too afraid to deal with is called despair. I just do not know what to do. I don't know how to help you. And accepting that perhaps it is not my place to help, and knowing that you would not accept my fickle, shitty help anyway, I know that I can't even rely on things to just get better and right themselves on their own.
I thought, today, about what if you were really and truly happy (without me, and with someone else, even someone I didn't like). And the idea made me feel, just... great. Content and happy and almost euphoric. So happy for you. Actually happy, like a weight had lifted off me; inspired and warmed by happiness. Then I realised that you weren't happy and my feelings crashed again.
But at least I finally understood again. I just want you to be happy. I wish for that more than anything else. I love you. I might not be in love with you, but I love you. Your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy. I want you to be free and confident and to be yourself and to be content. To be free of all this shit. And leave if you want to. My place in all of that is completely irrelevant. That is how I have always felt.
What I want isn't being with you, or talking to you or closure or knowing what happens to you. All of that is irrelevant. I just want you to be ok. Ok? I want you to do what you need to do. That probably means never talking to me again and that is fine by me if that is what you need. But I don't want you to just stop at that half-assed attempt. I want you to do more than that, I want you to live and grow and prosper. I want you to never suffer abuse at the hands of anyone again. I want you to be surrounded by love and to love and be loved. I want you to be the person you are, not the person that people want you to be. I don't want you to just settle. I want you to have something better than that.
I want you to live.
And saying all that, even knowing that I'll never hear from you again, I feel alive again.
Love,
Deutschy.