I shouldn't be writing this. I should be locked in my bedroom with an empty notebook and fresh pen bleeding into the page until my hand cramps. That hand cramp is almost like running, when your lungs burn and side aches for relief but you just push through the pain. This is my way of pushing through the pain, alleviating the hand cramp so that I can get to the end. I'm getting to the end...
I'm coming to a point where I don't know what to do. Being torn between what was and what is are two difficult things. At some point I have to not only acknowledge the fact that he says things deliberately to hurt me but I have to attach to that thought so that the truth of it really lingers. He's hurting me. He's hurting me on purpose. He has been for months. And he doesn't care.
That's the real root of it. He.Doesn't.Care.
I'm exhausted. And I'm hurt. And I feel like a fool because even with the facts in front of me I still took his word for it, and now he's caught in the lie. Even though he still denies it, denying you're doing something wrong doesn't mean you're not doing something wrong.
And yet my virtue gets put into question... as if I'm some kind of harlot who is running around with men all over town. I've been on two dates. Two. And I didn't lie to him about them...
That, that's the difference.
And I know he's reading this... because it was thrown into my face something I wrote more than two months ago tonight. Maybe that's one of the reasons I feel the need to write it.
Because saying how hurt I am never holds the same power as seeing it in print.
And I'm hurt.
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