On the first page of our story
The future seemed so bright
Then this thing turned out so evil
I don’t know why I’m still surprised
I hope reading from me again doesn’t ruin your day. Yes, I made it out alive from what happened to be a very fucking strong COVID-19 case. I guess I’m tougher than expected… Or the vaccines didn’t just have 5G and tracking chips in them. Whatever. Here I am on this fine Wednesday of May 2022, fresh out of therapy. And, yet, not in the best mindset.
I omitted this session that I’ve lately dreamed way too often about my ex C. Dreams where she appears to be having a great motherfucking time, and of which I always wake up from feeling like absolute shit. And very conflicted, you know? We have a lot of history, which you might say “Well, that’s the understatement of the fucking century!” I know, and I get it. I’ve already described, in excruciating detail, what she did to me and how it fucked me up emotionally. Yet, I gotta admit it, fellas; I do miss her. Sometimes. And it pains me to say so, because I feel like a sucker. Or a masochist. Or both.
It’s really hard to forgive someone who’s never apologized. Just as hard as it’s closing a chapter with an open ending. Or maybe I’m just an imbecile, because I ask myself -far more often than I’d like to admit-, if she’s changed. Did she have her own redemption arc, that I’m unaware of? Did she take that necessary hard look at herself and went through a fundamental transformation? Or is this feeling I have simply all her gaslighting and my self-destructive patterns at work? I don’t fucking know.
I thought it was going to be way easier to move on. Two years down the line, with several hours of therapy and lots of breakthroughs on my back, I continue to feel stuck. Throughout our entire relationship, I busted my ass trying to make her understand the suffering she inflicted on me. And even in the darkest hours, in the most damning moments of our drama, I could never stop having this gut feeling that we were just one conversation away from fixing our shit. Even today, that fucking feeling remains. Luckily, not in the same intensity of back then.
Unfortunately, that’s not all. I’m scared, man. This damn fear of not being good enough challenges me when I try to get myself out there again. And when that sensation is not force feeding my self-doubt, then this other thought comes along and takes me for a spin: What if I never meet somebody better? What if I fucked up and around so much that I depleted my dating pool? For this life and, likely, for any reincarnation for the next thousand years?
This Friday 13th is a holiday here in Denmark. It’s exactly in times like these when I get this urge for her. If even for just a weekend, we could be together once more, as if nothing else mattered. And I fantasize about an email or an SMS, that never arrives. A call that’s never made. My doorbell, remaining silent. As we mutually have been for the last two years.
Is it just me?