He’s an addict, is the thing. He’s not a liar, but he’s someone who lies. I don’t know what it means when I say that I spent five years of my life loving someone who doesn’t exist. That I spent five years blaming myself for something that wasn’t my fault, five years thinking I was the broken one. It might be easier if I could hate him, but the only thing I feel is grief. And it’s not dramatic or interesting, it’s just tiring.
“Most people aren’t like this,” she says and I’m surprised by my surprise. When I imagine love, this is all I see. I’m not saying it to paint myself as a victim, because I’m not quite; I’m saying it because it’s a pebble I found in my pocket and I can’t stop rolling it between my fingers. When I imagine love, this is all I see. She cries when I say this and holds me tighter than anyone has in awhile. That surprises me, too.
I want to wrap this up for you. I want to give you something to walk away with. I want to tie a moral to this story, but I don’t know what it is yet. One of the hardest things for me to remember, on this blog and in life, is that I don’t have to know the answer before I ask the question. Sometimes getting it wrong is a step on the path to getting it right. There’s bravery in taking a leap before you know if what you’re wearing are wings.