In the nine years that I’d known you, we’d been through a lot. Of course, you stopped speaking to me five years ago, and then in 2019, after so long of just nothing, you reached out. You told me horror stories about the time while you were gone, and I, of course, had your back. Without question.
No good deed goes unpunished, though, and I paid for it.
For the brief moment that I allowed you back in, I was glad the silence was over, though there was a voice nagging, ‘don’t do it, it’s a trap.’ Why I never listen to myself is beyond me. However, I think it’s because I try to keep an open mind, so much so that I don’t even want me to stop me.
Now here we are. I’ve known of your existence for fourteen years. We were inseparable for nine of those; even when we were forced to be apart for crazy reasons, we were never apart in spirit. During that time, I didn’t think there was ever anything that could ever come between us. I, of course, was wrong.
There was a giant manipulator that came between us, and despite everything I’d told you about abusive men and everything I’d ever warned you about, you stepped up to that hot plate and placed your hand right on the burner. You didn’t look back, you didn’t attempt to take it off, you just sat there and let it scald you.
But that was your choice, and you’ll have to live with that. And that makes me sad.
I can’t now, after all this time, repair your burns, not again. The cost is too much for me. While you were off burning yourself into oblivion, the ashes consumed me. I was the fallout. My lungs are now too full of that cancer-causing dust. The thought of going through any of that again… is terrifying. If I let you back in, how can I trust that the dust won’t choke the life out of me?
While I write this, it makes me cry. Cry because though your hand has been forcing my head underwater and I’ve been drowning, I still love and care about you. I guess that’s how it goes when empathy outweighs good sound thinking.
So that doesn’t answer the question, though, do I allow you back into my life? After everything, you’ve done.
You put my children at risk of being abused… knowingly. That right there gets you locked out of their lives all by itself.
You left me after everything I did for you. I bought you groceries when you had literally no food. I paid your phone bill when you had literally no money. I was there for you, always, without question, without agenda. And you still left me.
When you lied to your ‘boyfriend/husband/fuckingtwatassmotherfucker,’ I didn’t agree that you should, but I didn’t out your ass either. Because you were my friend, not him.
When you left that sweet girl behind after you told her you would never in a million years abandon her, I was utterly crushed and asked you why, but you never answered me, nor her. You just left.
When you decided that no one was allowed to come to your wedding, even though everyone wanted to share in your day, you got married in secret and didn’t let anyone be there for you. That one hurt for many reasons, but it was your day, so I let it go. Or I thought I did. But here it is, still a fresh wound, pulling tears from my eyes and seeping blood down my arms.
When you ignored my birthday, I texted you, a beautiful message on yours. Telling you that I was hurt that you ignored me, and told you how much I missed you. That even though you were gone that I hoped you were happy. Sending you the damn song “I hope you’re happy” because it seemed fitting since Blue is where we started. And you left me on read. I mean… fuck.
When you came back, thanked me for saving your life, so so so many times, and then yanked mine back out from under me. You called me a traitor, believing that I would ever reach out to that mother-fucking-dickweed to tell him anything… it was like a smack in the face by Thor’s hammer.
Then complete silence, you changed your number because you believed that I wronged you.
Now here we are, two full years later, and you’re back in my inbox. What the fuck am I supposed to do? How could I ever, in a million billion years, trust you again?
And after all of this… I sit here… contemplating…
I want to know that you’re okay. I want to know that you’re happy. I want to know that you’re away from that piece of shit. I want to know that you have a place to live. I want to know that you have friends. I want to know how your family is. I want to know if you talked to Rissa again. I want to know how everyone is doing. I want to know how big the kids have gotten. I want to know that you’ll never do that to me again. I want to know that I can trust you. I want to be a part of your life.
But I don’t know if I can.
