I loved him deeply, but the relationship was unhealthy. We were both broken, me more than he, and even more so when it ended. I spent a long time raging, grieving, going through horrific depression and suicidal ideation. It was hell, and I would occasionally turn it on him, even though we were broken up. I couldn’t let go.

Well, months/years later, I almost have. I’ve pretty much beaten depression, with a combination of medication and (re)learning basic self-care and self-respect. There’s not much in the way of anger left, though I can still occasionally be a ball of (self?) righteous fury/keyboard warrior. I’m a better person, much better than I was when we first connected (though by no means perfect, and with still a long way to go).

But this is what makes me sad. He will never know the better “me” that being involved with him helped me become. All he remembers of me is the very worst parts of myself – all the neediness, eratic behaviour and spite. It damn near breaks my heart. He did a lot for me – showed me where I needed to develop – even though he also hurt me (and others) very deeply. I wish he knew me. I wish he could think well of me, the way I think well of him. I’ll never see him again, and he’s probably relieved. I alternate between excessive self-pity (“It wasn’t my fault! I was ill!”) and excessive self-recrimination (“It was ALL my fault; I’m a horrible person”). Not every day, the way I used to. Just now and again. Now is one such time, when I’m facing a different disappointment. It’s as though the similarities in the feelings “summon” this old hurt to the surface, so I thought I’d release it here.

Thank you for reading this far 🙂