When I was still trying to win A. back, I sent her some of my journal entries. I omitted this one, though:
I have no idea which one was the real her – the one who held me when I cried, the one who breathed life into the little things I gave her, the one who sifted through my inane FB posts and liked them all, the one who tenderly kissed the pages of the journal where I’d written my love, the one who sat on my lap and towered over me in the back of her car in the middle of the night –
Or was it the one who snapped easily, the one who could see me in tears and not reach out to comfort me, the one who constantly fell asleep during important conversations, the one who was annoyed by my needs, the one who no longer wanted my body, the one who finally turned down my heart…?
I would say they were two aspects of the same personality, but they were too different.
I realized recently that she only loved me because her life was empty when she met me. I was a sweet distraction. My vulnerability made her uncomfortable. She was unavailable to me because she was unavailable to herself.
There is no doubt in my mind that she wouldn’t have given me a second glance if she had enough meaning in her life when she met me.
The first chance she had to get to know herself and build meaning outside of me, she threw me away.
While distance and new experiences only made me realize that I felt at home with her.
I saw this coming, but she wanted me, and every time I couldn’t turn away.
I don’t think it’s such a crime not to know yourself. God knows I’m only beginning to do so. But I wish she could have learned it with someone else. I loved her more than I have loved anybody else, and it broke my heart.