In truth, I’ve wanted to write this for a while but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t bring myself to process the hurt because I simply didn’t want to experience it. Avoidance has been my big thing ever since you did it. Avoided pictures, avoided letters, avoided stuffed animals, songs, the colour red. Now I think it’s time to let go. We’re still friends. I told you that I understood why you did it and I do, you were mentally ill. You thought you were saving me. You told me that you would never intentionally hurt me, that you couldn’t apologise enough. In a few years I’m sure I’ll be able to look back at this and think of you fondly, for not dragging me down with you. But I could never tell you about my anger. My pain. My resentment. How could I? It would only have hurt you, hurt us. It simply couldn’t be done, as fragile as you are, it would have been cruel. I pushed it down. Avoid, avoid, avoid. I have to express it so I can finally move on and leave this bitterness and resentment behind.
I am angry, so fucking angry that you broke up with me over text on my mum’s birthday when I wasn’t even in the country. That is some twisted shit and I hated you for it. Even when I was telling you I understood, even when you apologised, I couldn’t stop the hatred from burning in my gut. I’m so fucking angry that you didn’t try and talk to me, you kissed me for the last time a week before you sent that text. Smiling, fucking happy. Hugging me and telling me you’d miss me while I was away. I’m so fucking angry that you did that. Let me get comfortable with you before you broke my heart. You even wrote me a letter, a few weeks before the text, “Thank you for making me happy, please continue to do so for a long time.” now it’s hard to believe that every word you told me wasn’t just empty lies, that you weren’t just using me for your own gain before you got bored, furthering your “Main Character Syndrome” (I’ve diagnosed you with that one.) Then, about a month later you were posting on your social media, asking people to fall in love with you. I hated you for that one. I’ve never felt more rejected, more unimportant, more worthless. I fucking hate you. But I don’t.
The truth is that you were just a mentally ill girl who broke up with me because a relationship was too much. I got all the nice breakup cliches, “It was nothing you did, or didn’t do.” “I appreciate you so much, I never wanted to hurt you.” “I could have handled this better, I can’t apologise enough.” I appreciate them. I do. I wish you had handled it better, waited for me to come home, asked to talk. Maybe I wouldn’t have created a demonic version of you to despise. Maybe the truth is that I never loved you (my feelings were always real, though) and I hate you for shattering my stability. You had good intentions, you just executed this so, so poorly and that’s what I hate. Nobody had ever hurt me like that before. I’ve felt a physical pain in my chest for months and it’s time to let it go. I am not lying when I say I wish the best for you, I really do. But I’m also not lying when I say I never want to see you again. That way all the pain you caused will be washed away and only the happy memories will be left, because there were so many with you. I’m glad you were my first, Emma.
You ruined my holiday and my mum’s 50th birthday, by the way.
I’m spiralling out because of you. It feels painfully unfair that someone can come into your life and hurt you like this, ruin you like this, leave you broken. I haven’t been whole since August 6th. Sometimes it get’s better. Sometimes it gets worse. I don’t understand how you broke the heart that was never entirely yours. None of the love songs were about you but every single one of the breakup songs are. Getting a text from you is physically painful. I’ve created a demonic version of you in my mind that reads them out to me. A cruel, heartless monster who wanted nothing more than to see me broken and alone. I hate that demon but it isn’t you. I know you aren’t cruel. I know you didn’t hurt me like this out of malice, you said so yourself. But here I am months later, still all broken up, you’re just fine and I’m haunted. I can’t wait for the time where I’ll never see you again, when you’re nothing but a sweet, sometimes bitter memory. In the nicest way possible, I never want to see you again. Because I can’t wait for the day where you’ll never cross my mind. You evil, funny, sweet, interesting, heartless bitch. One day, new heartbreak will replace this one but for now, you’re my almost lover. I fucking hate you. I care about you. I wish the best for you. I’m a mess of emotional contradiction. I hope I get better for you, I’m always thinking of wishing you well but isn’t it time I started wanting that for myself?
Why did you hurt me like this Em?