Emotional cutting in Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Here I am, in the grips of my sadness, wallowing in it, settling down into it, letting it cover me like a familiar blanket. I remembers these feelings and thoughts, they bring back almost pangs of nostalgia. This is where I’m comfortable, where I can give in to every bad feeling about myself, prove myself right; that I’m a terrible person. Twist that knife a little deeper. The worst person. I can feel that stabbing pain. That everyone hates me. Because they should. And if they don’t, I can make them. Push, push, push.

I plucked up the courage to ask Adam what he wanted to do about our marriage. I try not to ask questions that I don’t know the answers to, or else questions that I think I can at least emotionally handle (lololol like I can handle any of my emotions.) So I asked him if he wanted us to be over. He said “I thought we were over a long time ago.” I asked if he missed me. He took a beat before saying “Not really.”

Cue me spending the rest of the evening crying in the bedroom while he played video games with the kids. Because, really, why would he miss me? I’m the worst. I’m needy and emotional and needy and the worst. But I mean seriously fuck him.

Before he left I asked if that was just it. And he said he didn’t know. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t fucking KNOW. I think I’m going to go ahead with a legal separation, if nothing else. I can’t handle this. And won’t it hurt so much more. I can just lay in it. Make that bed. Destroy it. Set the timer and watch it implode.

And Wes. God. I don’t know. I thought things were one way. That they could go one way. Maybe some day. But. I’m no one’s first choice. Just once. I’d like to be. I know he loves me. But I think our ideas of love are vastly different. But with this way I’m feeling, the way I’m trying to hurt, I’m looking for ways to prove to myself that he’s growing tired of me, that I’m not as funny or clever or smart as he once thought I was. That my spark is fading, that I’m not as good. I’m not good. He’s tired. My mind is telling me it’s so. So it can’t be. But when it’s all in your head it’s all in your head.

So I try to save what little I can. I shut down, shut off, because to speak is to be needy and lacking and wanting and show everyone how fucked up I am, how much I want to hurt, how much I can twist words and knives so they bury deep inside me and won’t come out. I can do that. I’m really good at it.

But I want. Someone. To see past it. Don’t let me emotionally cut those wounds a little deeper. Hold on. Hold tight. Hold me tight. Don’t let go.

Please.

Last updated September 18, 2018