My relationship never fully ended. Intriguing, I know. Some say it’s distance, others say it’s someone else, and then there’s my reality. I fell out of love. I fell out of love with what we had because I could not stop thinking about my ex. It mortified me. There are no excuses. I put someone I used to care so much about through hell over and over. We were on and off for months. Ironically, that is how our relationship started. I like you, just kidding, I like you, never mind.
This is on me. The months of late March through July were the best months of my life. You did everything for me. You dealt with my family problems, you took me to prom, you spent time, money, effort. We graduated together, you came to visit me at work, you picked me up to go anywhere anytime. You were constant. I lost who I was and there was nothing you could have done. You did everything to keep me happy at the end, and I continuously proved that I was no longer the same, therefore proving that you were not it anymore.
My mental illness is like any other sickness, except it hurt everyone around me because of what I have done. As much as I would love to blame my mental illness, I know I can’t. My mental illness did not make those decisions to hurt you. They pushed me in that direction, but I did this. I did this to you. I think what sucks so much about the truth is that you are now stuck with me. I took a part of you and I gave it back, and it is now tainted. You have to live with that trace of me now. I want to let you go. I need to let you go.
Yet, even when I am willing to let you go, I can’t. This is not an apology. I have no more apologies. I do not think I had any in the first place. I am empty, and the reason I tell you this is not for sympathy (okay, maybe it is a little bit for sympathy), but it is to have you know that I am not living how I post. It is all a facade, and my emotions are fleeting and I don’t have the effort to stop it anymore. I am who I am and I need to live with it.
Sometimes, I feel like these words mean everything to me, and then they mean nothing. I never end up living by my words. Even when you do things to prove to me that you have moved on, I don’t believe you. I do selfish things. This article is a selfish thing. The Instagram stalking is a selfish thing. I just can’t stop myself. The impulses are how I live. I am getting the help I need. I don’t want it, to be honest. I enjoy living my life the hard way, and I think it is because I feel like it somehow explains my actions without me having to explain them. I have nothing left to say. I have no more words.
I want this to be an ending that ties this up perfectly like a paper. One that makes the reader feel like what they just read was the ending of a good series or season of a show. That indescribable feeling that is like that part of their story is complete, and it is both sad and happy. Writing for me is a feeling, and it only comes sometimes. This is not one of those times. I think this is a fit ending, though. I don’t get to write my dramatic and TV-like ending. I think it’s because I was so focused on when it ended for me, I never even thought about when it ended for you. So, this is my ending and my beginning all in one, the ending is realizing that it didn’t only end for me. The beginning is learning to live with that.