All because a man once took things from me.
My heart.
My soul.
My ability to distinguish what is normal in a relationship and what is just plain messed up.
Yes, some of the blame of why the relationship fell apart is on me, but it is not all my fault.
Yes, I did things.
Said things.
Even acted out when I shouldn’t have. But what he did was worse.
Much, much worse.
Somehow, with twisted vicious words and careless thoughtless actions he managed to break me in half.
Split me wide open, an open throbbing bleeding wound for anyone and everyone to see. He managed to rip the person I used to be from my chest, hiding it in a darkened corner of my house where I couldn’t seem to find it.
And he never once apologized for it.
Why?
This is the one word question I always seem to ask myself.
Why?
Was it because he knew I’d never be what he wanted me to be? Was it because I’m a strong, independent woman? Was it because I intimidated him?
I don’t know why I allow these questions to antagonize me.
Because it doesn’t matter anymore.
Why again?
Because I’m still there.
At home.
Not completely all alone, but on a mental level on my own.
And he’s not.
Not there I mean, at home.
He’s so far gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
A loud car horn blares behind me. I snap out of my reverie, wipe the tears from my eyes, and make a quick right onto the one-way alley. When I reach the interstate, I regain my composure completely and watch the massive, brick skyscrapers shrink through my rearview mirror.
I’ve got a ten hour drive ahead of me.
I’ve got a lot on my mind to keep me occupied.
I’ve got a full tank of gas.