I’ve Become a Parody of Myself

The breakdown of any relationship is painful. That’s why, I presume from my limited knowledge of the human psyche, people go back to their abusers. It is hard to live without them, because when you separate, you tend to remember only the good times.

In my case, I was not in an abusive relationship by any means. Not emotional nor mental, never mind physical. My relationship was like a warm, comforting blanket of love and peace, and I cherished every moment, even those I was angry with him for being stubborn and not understanding.

But in this painful aftermath of a love gone wrong, one thing pains me deeply: I see no outward manifestation of his grief. I am grieving, as openly as I am able, where my social networks have fallen silent, my laughter dies after two seconds, and the warmth in my heart has been extinguished. He isn’t a public person, and while I know that, I still have the all-consuming desire to see that he is grieving after losing me. But I can’t, and that is making me do stupid, irrational, downright wrong things.

I never checked his email once when we were together for three and a half years, unless he had asked me to book tickets or check it because he didn’t have Internet access. He had given me his passwords, and I had trusted him with mine, because of our strong belief that we would be together forever. I wasn’t being holier than thou for not checking his inboxes; I trusted him, and I didn’t care. I was secure.

But now, I am drowning in insecurity, after the fact. It makes no sense that I want to find proof of him moving on so soon after our breakup. I want to see proof of either his grief or of his having moved on. I want to gauge whether he really loved me as he said he did, or I was delusional.

Thus, I have become all the things I hate about clingy girlfriends, past and present. My grief is a palpable thing, consuming all my thoughts and energy. I wish so desperately to be able to channel that negative energy into something positive and productive, but I can’t. I carry on because I have to, and the pain and heartache lies just under the surface, walled up in an dangerously close to overflowing dam. And the walls are as thin as eggshells, and I feel close to panic and storms of tears all the time.

In spite of knowing his lack of emotive power, I still desperately want to see a mirrored grief. I need to see that the love I believed we shared in equal intensity reflects in the pain of losing it. Part of my pain is from being so disposable that in the maelstrom of trouble in his life, our relationship became a luxury he could cut out to deal with other problems; whereas, I put everything on the line to salvage it.

Why was I so dispensable?


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