I’ve had many drafts of letters to write you since that faithful day Oct.13th, filled with emotion and yes, last ditch efforts to right any of your wrongs. Even though I was the one who packed my things and left you, my heart was still sewn to yours. I had imagined such greatness coming from the love in our relationship, never realizing that the love was only mine to give and yours to take. Blood, tears, sleepless nights begging you to return to bed with me couldn’t tug at your black heart to feel anything more than vile animosity. I’ve never cried as much as I have when I was with you, I’ve never been hospitalized as much as I had when I was with you, never felt so responsible for repairing something already broken.
But that’s what happens when you love–the person becomes an extension of you and you see their faults as your own. You divert your energy from the best strong parts of yourself to the person who is broken and weak, their recovery is yours, their health is yours. Every relationship has it’s ups and downs. It’s the down times that make the couple stronger, only if there is a willingness to compromise and work it out. There was nothing more for me left to give; you took my health, my baby, my reputation, my innocence and my love and launched it into hell. You could not man up and tell me your feelings had changed or that you wanted a life without me. You re-wrote history, re-narrated the present, and led a double-standard life, holding me to the fire.
You expected me to be an angel.
But angels don’t live in hell.
I hope you are happy in that solitude of yours, where no one means anything to you and where you don’t need anyone. You can bring someone else down to roast in the flames, but no one can last as long as you because hell is only your home.