I said this blog was about being honest to myself, and the emotions and thoughts I was working through in the hopes of finding peace with some of the more difficult things, and to grow. This post is no different. It will contain some mature content, which is why it has the age listed above in the title. Read at your own discretion – it’s for moments like this I’ve chosen not to use my name because there’s no way I’d be able to if there was a chance the people who knew me might read this. This post will be one of few about the previous relationships I’ve been in as these are a main factor of why I am the way I am now, the good and the bad. I’ll simply refer to the partner I’m speaking of as ‘you’ for now. Maybe I’ll name them later, not a real name of course. But something a little more tangible. Either way, this is one of my deepest truths I’ve been struggling with recently, so I hope you find something valuable in it, like how I wish to also.

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You must know I really believed in us for a while. There was nothing I wanted to work out more in my life than us, at least at first. I think that’s why I lost so much of myself while we were together. I tried every way I could think of, made every excuse for you I could, and cleaned up every mess left in your wake in a desperate attempt to avoid the thing I knew about a year into our relationship – it wasn’t going to work.

But I loved you completely, so I tried.

Because we were separated at the beginning and as the only way for me to deal with things is to write apparently, I started writing to you. I didn’t start writing with the intention of actually giving you the letters – it was just a way for me to express the intense feelings I had for you in a time when I couldn’t tell you in person because of the distance. I started writing and dating the entries. The more I made myself write, the more I actually wanted to when the feelings came up, and before I knew it my writings became a goal. A passion project.

I kept everything I wrote to you. The more I wrote and saw how much love there was woven into those words, an idea started to form in my mind; one that I was ecstatic about and hoped you would love too. I collected them all with the intention of giving them to you on our wedding day, should we get that far. Months, years even, of love letters for every time I felt the overwhelming urge and uncontrollable outpouring of love for you that threatened to rip me apart if I couldn’t get it out somehow. The love I had for you was so intense at times, that I felt like it was all I was and wanted to be. I wanted to be the person who loved you, and who you loved. And I was. At least, for a while I was. But that love was so addicting I couldn’t let it go, even after I saw yours start to fade. You turned away from me, feeding me lies no matter how small, just to keep me happy enough so that I’d brush off the pain, and I let it work.

The letters I wrote started so joyful; so full of hope and love for us and for you. I could feel my blood flowing differently in my body when I thought of you. It felt lighter and faster, invigorating me with a type of energy I’ve never know before. It was addicting, to feel so in love with someone. To know that no matter how hard the day was, you could go home and fall into their embrace and stay there for hours wrapped inside of them. It was all-consuming to give that love and get it back in return. I was addicted to how entirely you flooded my mind and took up all of my headspace with thoughts and imagines of us together for the rest of our lives. You were right there with me, for a time, in the same boat where we couldn’t go 10 minutes without talking to each other somehow. But then you were slipping away, and there was nothing I could do about it but pretend it wasn’t happening. It became a depressing existence, telling myself I wasn’t sad and that things would get better.

But I loved you completely, so I tried.

As the months passed and our relationship was no longer new, my head over heels infatuation-type love was replaced by something different – a love that was steady and solid. This love was rational, and less impulsive, but always reliable for you. This love, I thought, is what kept relationships going through decades of being together. This was the love we would use to be patient with each other when one of us had a bad day. This was the type of love that did the same chores we hated for each other repeatedly, because we knew the other hated doing dishes just as much as we did. This was the type of love that endured through the harshest fights and would bring us back together on the other side. This was the type of love to turn sex into something beautiful and meaningful; something that strengthened the bonds we shared. This was, I thought, the type of love to get us to our 50^th anniversary with everyone asking us what’s the secret to staying together for so long, and we would say, “Marry your best friend.” It would be that and our strong, reliable, steady love that kept us together all these years. And while my love for you turned into this, your love also changed, just not in the same way.

But I loved you completely, so I kept trying.

I thought love was enough to fix things; to keep them whole. When all of your promises about us spending more time together, or you saying you’d reach out to get help, or when the things you said we’d go out and do started falling through I thought love would be enough fill these empty holes left behind by your meaningless words and absent actions.

When you would stay up every night alone, rather than come to bed with me, I thought love would be enough one day to make you snap out of it and want to spend that time with me. I thought it’d be enough for you to see the pain I was in.

When you were careless with your money, which affected both of us, and you’d say it would never happen again, I thought it’d be the patience and love I gave to make you never want to put me in that situation again. And when it happened again and again, I thought the love would be enough for you to get serious about it and actually not let it happen again.

When you stopped touching me and told me that you didn’t really want sex and if I did, I should just tell you, I thought the love would be enough to make me not feel like I was just forcing you into something you didn’t want to do. I thought my love would be enough to help me come to terms with this, and to be able to be OK with it. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t shake the nagging part in my brain that reminded me, “they don’t want you,” every time I started feeling the need for you.

I thought love would be enough to fix everything but what we both didn’t know, or maybe what we were trying to avoid facing, was that maybe it wasn’t.

And I loved you completely, but I started to feel like I didn’t want to try anymore.

About those letters I was writing you, the project that started out so genuine and full of love, what I didn’t know was that they were documenting the downfall of our relationship. As the months went on, I struggled to deal with how I was feeling. I had so many complex emotions about being in love with you while also feeling so lonely that were so tightly tangled up together that every time I tried to sort through them, I left feeling like an even bigger mess. But through those letters, I could see clearly the escalation happening; I could see how deeply sad I was getting. I could feel the heartbreak and depression leaking out from the words I wrote.

What you didn’t know, was how often I was crying. It was literally every day, and looking back now, I truly don’t know how I was able to rationalize to myself at the time that that was okay. I often think about one of my friends, how when they were together with their wreck of an ex, I remember thinking, “how could they stay with someone who has made them cry more times than made them genuinely happy?” But then I became that person, and I still don’t understand how I couldn’t see it happening.

I cried while getting ready for and while driving to work. I cried at work and had to try to excuse myself to the bathroom hoping nobody noticed the tears trailing down my cheeks. I would cry in the shower when I got home; I would cry alone in our bed every night. I cried every time I watched a romance movie or a cute video online of a couple obviously happy together desperately wishing that could be us.

I cried when I tried to touch myself to alleviate the need for you so you wouldn’t be burdened with my desire. It sounds so sad and pathetic, but this was the hardest part for me. Every time I tried, I just couldn’t stop thinking about how I wish it was you. I didn’t want myself, I wanted you. And I wanted you to want me; I wanted to build that sort of connection and bond with you, since to me that’s what sex was for. To me, it’s a beautiful expression of two people’s love for each other; a way for them to tell each other “I love you,” in every intimate, vulnerable, and beautiful way that strengthens their bonds on a new level. I wanted that so badly with you, but you didn’t want it with me and that broke my heart in such a way that I couldn’t even do anything to/for myself because it was supposed to be for us. For me to want you, and you to want me. But you didn’t. And because you didn’t, I didn’t want me either. So, when I tried, alone, I cried and couldn’t even keep going. Because all I could think about was how this wasn’t what I wanted, and how I wasn’t what you wanted. I couldn’t stop asking myself why I wasn’t enough for you.

What you don’t know, is how that affected me even after we broke up – how badly my self-confidence has suffered from that. I’ve still yet to piece it back together, but slowly I’m managing. I don’t cry on my way to work anymore, or really at work at all. Sometimes I still do at night as I lie in bed alone. But it’s a different kind of loneliness now; one that makes sense and feels easier to deal with.

What you don’t know is how hard it was for me to say goodbye. I’m sure from your point of view, it must have looked easy for me; the one who got to keep everything out the relationship. And I felt guilty about that for a while, and even tried to help you after the fact. But then I realized, I fought to keep all that stuff after the relationship because I’m the one who brought it in. I was the reason all of that was there; that stuff was mine before it was ours. I had a right to everything I got back, and you were the sole reason for what little you had.

What you don’t know is how badly I wanted to curse your name for all the hurt and pain you caused me. I wanted so badly to run and tell everyone about all the horrible stuff you did, or the things you didn’t do. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to be that person, no matter how much pain I was in. I didn’t want to lose that aspect of myself, so I focused on trying to healing and understand my pain instead (something I still have a long way to go on).

What you don’t know, is how much better my life is now that you’re gone, which despite what you might think, is such a sad thing to me. I was still in love with you when we split, and I thought the hardest thing to deal with was the residual feelings I still had for you. Instead, one of the hardest things I dealt with was feeling myself fall out of love with you. I always thought that would be such a heartbreaking way to end a relationship, and I was right. Because while I don’t have love for you anymore, I can still remember when I did. I still remember what that feels like, and when those positive emotions are replaced by more negative ones, or just indifference entirely, it makes you long for the feelings you once had but know you can never get back.

I loved you completely, so I tried for so long to keep a dead rose alive, breaking off bits of myself piece by piece hoping that sacrifice would mean something to you eventually. In time, I saw what an empty shell I had become and it was almost too late before I realized I should stop trying before I lost myself entirely.

What you didn’t know was that you destroyed me in so many ways that I know I’ll carry with me for too long, and may even project onto others which is my biggest fear now. Another fear of mine is of never being loved, something I’m sure a lot of people struggle with too. I know now what I deserve, but I’m not convinced it’s meant for me in this lifetime. Maybe somewhere in another life, another version of me has found this type of love worth waiting for; one where you don’t have to beg for attention or to be genuinely cared for. One that reaches out all on its own, and makes things feel easy.

Maybe somewhere that version of me is happy, confident, and able to give themselves entirely to someone who deserves it. Somewhere, that me has the love we’ve always dreamed of: one where the sacrifices are worth it, and both people put in equal effort for each other.  But they’re not me.

That’s not who I am right now.

Maybe it can be someday; but I am still learning to believe that.