March 20th, 2019

I cried over you today.
It’s been months. I’m in a new year, you’re not the first thing I think about when I wake up.
But I still cry over you.
I was never much of a crier. I’m still not. Often I try and fail to make myself cry.
But when it comes to you, I don’t have a choice. The tears just come.

When I think back to those last days, I envy the naivety I possessed. No matter what anyone told me, I refused to believe you’d ever hurt me. The evidence was staring me in the face, and yet I forgave you everything.
When we said goodbye, I didn’t know that I’d never see you again.

Now I don’t even know if you’re alive.

Something I can’t forgive is the fact that you abandoned not only me, but my family. They cared about you, and you hurt them.
It’s always easier to process things that happen to yourself. It’s easier to forgive someone for hurting you.
But hurting my family?
That’s a low blow.

In a way I understand your reasoning. In my mind, at least, we were two sides of the same coin.
I’ve come to accept that we never were, and never will be.
I’ve been angry with you. So angry.

What right did you have, I raged, to haunt my every dream?
What right did you have, I pleaded, to take over my fragile heart?

But you never asked me to love you.

This is a difficult truth that I’ve had to come to terms with.

Taking responsibility for my feelings is what’s right.
But at the same time, I have to forgive myself for them.
I’m too quick to blame myself for everything, too quick to kick myself to the curb, when what I should be doing is picking myself up.

The facts are simple:
You were wrong, and I was too.

You abandoned me and everyone related to me in any way.

But I blamed you for the fact that I loved you, and that wasn’t right.

I’m sincerely sorry.


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Queer librarian blogs mostly about books

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