The worst thing ever said to me was “I’m not sure I ever loved you.” It isn’t because I feel like I’ve never been love. I am loved. I am surrounded by it, often enough that I feel guilty for how unhappy a person I am. No, why those were the worst words is something else.
The love we had may not have been perfect. She may not have understood my love for her, or even unconditional love at all. Yet we shared a bond, a connection unlike any other. A closeness that won’t exist again, because it just doesn’t happen. Being that close isn’t healthy, but it is so very nice, when you’re in it, before it sours.
To allude that this bond was in someway not genuine, that it was in fact fake, is an insult to me. I was in it, I remember. To think that for years it was just confusion, but the feelings now, surrounded by erratic and irrational behaviour are true is, was, absurd.
I loved and was loved. It went wrong, perhaps it always was wrong. But it happened. Wounded, insulted, blind, alone I soldier on. Perhaps the wrong word. I am no soldier, I have no strength. People say they know I’ll be “okay”. Yet I know there are lessons we cannot unlearn, there are places we cannot go back to, and I don’t even remember what “okay” means anymore.
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