I was absolutely convinced I would never cry like that again. And I see the tears were not a result of the kind of person he was, but the kind of person I was—filled with longing and wanting, yearning to belong and for attention, wanting to be loved and accepted. And I was willing to take whatever I could get.
Even when what I got could get no closer to nothing. And I fought for that. I tried to hold on to that nothing, because that’s what I felt I deserved. That’s what I envisioned for myself—next to nothing. And that’s exactly what I got. I got constant reminders that he was nothing to me and I nothing to him. Still I clung to that lie, to that semblance of belonging, to that illusion, because now I see my self-worth was hinged upin him. Having him (or the pieces of him I clung to) gave me an idea, a notion that, because I “had someone,” was happy.
I, unhappy and unwell, had someone who was unhappy and unwell, and even among all our broken pieces still had no wholeness, no completeness. It was not until I saw completeness and wellness in self could I even acknowledge that he did not love me. That I was committed to a lie.
His unpredictability had become predictable. His lies had told his true story. His façade had become his identity. And it was not until I had begun to validate myself, loved myself, be myself could I even see that. His unwellness only hinged upon mine and grew and developed into a condition—a condition that of which I am healed—a healing for my soul.
More to come in upcoming memoir, "Son, Rise, Son, Shine"