Diary Of A Break-up

followed by enlightenment

The packing is challenging, the human shell follows through the motions. The placement of objects into boxes. It should be boxes. Shouldn't it? 6 years is time enough. There should be stuff
Things. Ornaments. Clothing. Make up. Anything. But there isn't. There is one measly box. With a few unread books and a borrowed soft toy.

One box to six years seems a poor ratio. That's where the enlightenment begins. The thinking. What if? Did she? Did I? Did we? Oh we didn't. No. That's wrong. You didn't. You never.

The shell of this girl is awakening. And her anger is surging through walls of affection and love. The memories are white-washed with a clarity of vision. When did you plan on informing me of you disinterest? Of your other plans? Of your life?

Were it so easy as to write off the faults of oneself in a moment; it would be done with the grandiose gesture of divinty. But the glaringly obvious is a hard to miss. You chose your path. I planned ours. I cut you into the shape I had for you. And you walked your own way. And for that I am oddly proud. If angered by your silence. I wish to give you advice on what you could change or do next time, but my words of advice are soaked in animosity and menace. So irritation finds its place and fuck it's good to listen to what you did wrong. I blamed myself. And others showed me: it wasn't me. It was us.

I still defended you. Make no mistake about that. I recognised the failings. The cock-ups. The bitch-slaps. The fuck-ups. I see them now. Apparently you had been seeing them for a few months. And once I started to pop the bubble wrap protection of our little world I see the brokenness that no one was ready to fix.

I take ownership of faults. My verbal abuse. My sharp tongue and cruel mind. I own my decisions and my choices. I own that. But also I own the integrity I brought to us because you decided to denounce it and throw it out the window. For months you knew your unhappiness lay deep. And for months you pulled and tugged yourself from us. And when I asked: you denied. Which is fair enough. I didn't ask enough? I didn't check our emotional stats? Was I the poor relationship doctor that ignored my patients symptoms and let it die?

The sister put an idea into my head. And I cannot seem to shake it loose. You told me I did nothing wrong. And she told me you wanted me to fight. Present some grand gesture of my agony. I didn't do it. I let you go. I wanted you to find yourself. But maybe it was the wrong decision? No, not wrong. But not the decision you wanted me to make.

I allowed you to end us. I did not fight. And now I am a bit astonished by your social media sites. Do you regret the decision? Do you miss me? Do you want me to want you back? Because I would have to say no to all of the options above. You chose the words: I am not in love with you anymore. And for that I let you go.

I cannot give you the dramatic end you hoped for. I can't mourn us the way you would have me. For months you pulled away. For months you had left me. And for months I must have felt alone. For now, being alone does not feel any different.