A piece of the story

We spent hours and hours talking into the night. We fell asleep with the phone clutched against our ears, waking up to realize we had fell asleep together.


He wrote me notes after I got in trouble. His small boyish cursive covered the page, scrawled with a shaking, guilty hand. The paper smelled like him. I kept them in a drawer and read them over and over for days.


.............




Everyone talks about the person who was dumped. Everyone feels their pain. Does nobody realize the pain with the person doing the dumping? I realize his pain during that time, just like I feel mine now. Whose pain is worse? Who gets the pity?


There should be someone to talk about the dumper. Change the stigmata associated with it. I wanted to be with him for so long and he wouldn't do it. When it was my turn to move on was I wrong to go? I knew how much it hurt him, but was I supposed to give it all up to be with one who rejected me so many times?


I left. But the pain is so bad it makes me shake. Its his pain. Knowing he is hurting kills me. Add that to my pain and you've created something awful. I miss him more now...

Easier

It's easier to write a blog than to tell the truth.


Its easier to keep yourself hidden from the world, living your quiet life on the outside and pretending everything is alright.


But your emotions explode within you, onto this page. 


My truth is tangled up in a web of lies, searching for a way to come out. 
So here it is.


How do you stand idly by knowing you have broken someone's heart into a billion pieces? 
Now yours is broken. 


My solutions is that you don't. You write. You pour out the words you wished he could hear onto this page hoping one day he will read it and know he was loved. 


Maybe that will fix his heart. Maybe that will pick up the pieces.