Writing Through the Wounds: A Writer's Solace
I misread you, saw you through a prism of hope. You seemed special, your kindness and zest for life a beacon even after storms of trauma. I thought this meant healing, but how deeply wrong I was. I begin to see the facade, to realize you weren't as extraordinary as I believed. Once more, I've fallen for an illusion.
This is why trusting myself is so hard. In my core, I felt safe with you, despite the absence of proof that you were the embodiment of perfection. Still, I sought refuge in your embrace. I felt seen, heard, and understood through your eyes, but it was all a lie, like us. I've loved the narcissist, the egocentric, and now the emotionally distant.
Years of therapy have guided my healing journey. Financial struggles make continued therapy difficult currently, but, I have grown so much as a result of therapy. I don't hate you, but I wrestle with resentment. You used and hurt me, never apologizing or taking ownership of your actions that led to our inevitable end.
Every decision, every thought, was with you in mind. I prayed for God to shield both our hearts, not just mine. I still pray for your healing and truth. It's hard to see our flaws when we're submerged in pain or on autopilot, dissociating when life overwhelms. I understand but being on the other side aches. It aches because I can do nothing. It aches because I was once the one who avoided, unable to speak to the one who loved me. I hurt someone this way without intent.
The irony is bittersweet. Knowing you likely didn't mean to hurt me, based on my own past, offers some comfort, yet the wound is deep. It pains me that you're in pain, and I can do nothing about it. It pains me that I'm hurting, and you seem indifferent. Yet again, there's nothing I can do. So, I confide in the solitude of my thoughts, feelings, and aches, sharing them only with the pen I write with.
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