The hardest part of him leaving is the feeling of not being enough. The feeling that somewhere the grass really was greener on the other side. The fact that despite all my greatest efforts in the world, I was and never would be good enough. He didn’t just leave me for someone else; he left me addicted, on a crazy never-ending carousel, dying for his love.
His scent that is lingering on his pillow. Different than any other man I have met before, it teases me of his memory. Thoughts flooded through my head about where he is sleeping now. Thinking about the new women, the apparently better women, that kept him warm at night. The most beautiful, calming, toxic scent that is somehow stuck in my memories.
Wrapping myself in a hug, I sit on the floor looking around the apartment, “our” apartment. The home that you decided to leave because of a different woman. You left me to try and survive by myself, the stress fueling my anxiety. You didn’t just leave me for her, you fucked me over.
You left me wanting something that was just out of my reach. It was all a game to you. You were playing me. I begged for your attention. I just wanted everything to work. All while you wanted something completely different.
The difference is, you never decided to tell me. You left me trying, busting my ass to make things work. I did everything to try to make things better. I did things different more of what I felt like you wanted. I made sure that you didn’t have to lift a finger. I tried to the point of exhaustion, where it started to consume my life.
I would apologize for things that didn’t even exist just to try and keep you there. I would beg, cry, plead for you to come back, which for a while you did. Sad thing that I did not realize was, it was never for me, it was for the convenient life that I was giving you. You had it made. I took care of all your basic needs, all while you left me to be with her.
I was stuck in an intense addiction. It started to become my motivation, my goal, my life: I must win him back. I was hollow. I started to become confused about love really was because I lived without it for so long.
I can still hear the notifications ringing on his phone, dropping a painful, sickening, pit into my stomach. His lies, the constant, painful lies, were all that I would ever hear from him. Despite what people thought, I was never stupid. I knew what was going on, and I knew I was getting screwed over, but I loved him.
This, however, was just as much of a lie as he was telling me. I no longer knew what love was. I was addicted to the rush of competing for his love, not the love that I was receiving. I was living in deception, fabricated by whatever he wanted to tell me.
He got out just fine. He found her, whoever she is, that could apparently do everything better than me. What he didn’t care about was me. He left me in a withdrawal of his scent, his skin, his laugh, his addictive and enslaving love. He fucked me over and left me here, makeup running down my face, crying.
He left me to pick myself up, to start over. He left me to start over, relearning everything I ever thought love was. He may have left me here dying for his love, but he did not defeat me.
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