I just need to keep walking away from all of it.

I need to walk away from the pain, the betrayal, the constant obsessing over images I conjured up in my mind about what was going on behind closed doors, the agony, and the patheticness of blaming myself and asking what I should have done differently.

If I just keep walking, it might create a distance between myself and the memories. Ah, the memories and the songs that trigger a reaction—they are too much to bear.

The love of my life was gone—he was not who I thought he was.

If I keep walking, pretty soon I won’t be able to see him anymore. He will merely be a speck on the road. If I walk long enough, hopefully there will be nothing left of me.

Only if I keep walking…

And I don’t know who I’m going to talk to about the random numbers I see that remind me of him. Who will laugh at my stories of clumsiness? Who will get me?

And I pray to all that is holy that there is mercy on me. I hope no one shares with me the gossip they heard and the rumors (or the events) that actually took place because I don’t want to know. I can’t know, and I pray that no one gives me that one more detail that could send me over the edge and even deeper into this pit of raw despair.

I beg for mercy that these obsessive thoughts disappear: “Why wasn’t I enough? What did I do wrong? Why didn’t he love me like he said he did? I must have deserved this.”

No, I did not deserve this.

All I did was love him with everything I had. I did not betray him—I just wanted to make him happy.

My ride or die.

Us—always.

I did not do this, and I would have never done this.

Again, I fall apart and hope that no one notices I’ve been gone so long. I desperately want him to reach out to me because he should know that this is what I need at this moment. He knows me so well and better than anyone. Can’t he feel that I need him right now?

I want something from him—anything—because we’re connected.

My sadness is making room for rage now. It is ugly, and it scares me. I imagine she made him feel like the rock star he wishes he could be. He loves a good ego trip, and that high meant more to him than I to me.

I need to know what he was thinking. I seem to obsess over this question.

But I know that there isn’t an explanation that can save us. The more important issue here is what he didn’t think about: me.

That is all that matters—he did not think of me, and that tells me all I need to know.

So I will cry some more.

I will rage.

I will self-medicate.

I will become numb.

I will feel sorry for myself.

I will lash out.

I will collapse.

I will lay there for a while.

I will self-destruct and become someone unrecognizable.

I will hate myself.

This must be rock bottom.

The lies and denials that I wanted so badly to believe are long gone. I know the truth, and weirdly, the truth has set me free.

Because when I didn’t know, my heart was still held together with stitches, not fully broken yet. But now, it is split in half—it is wide open.

And now I pray that the light gets in.

The darkness overshadows me. So I keep walking until the old, dark me is gone.

And I pray for the light to come.

~