Shedding My Skin

I am removing the traces of her from my life. The things that she liked, I now hate; they make me think of her. The box of her things? I have given them away or burned them. She never gave a thing to me but anxiety and depression, self doubt and trust issues. Her friendship deepened my PTSD and these are things I still hold. I wish I could burn them, as I am burning the physical remnants and reminders of her.

All the teas she begged me to buy, all the skincare things she cried over not having, the paints and canvases, the expensive pencils and materials - all gone. The little rings and minimalist jewelry, given to those who would appreciate them more. The flowers I bought to grow for her have been left behind when I moved away. The silk bedding, shredded. The expensive clothing, now ash. The plushies and other frivolous things she wished for have been donated to children.

But I still bear the marks of her attachment. I still feel the wounds from every moment she lashed out at me for not "knowing" what she was going through. She withheld and expected me to guess, but I was not allowed to withhold. I never made her guess or expected her to know. I only wished that she would care. Whenever she would force it out of me (I was not ready to talk about it), she would tell me she couldn't be bothered.

And she never could be bothered...

There were periods where I was told I might die from medical conditions. I suffered this alone. There were times I wanted to take my life. I endured this in solitude. There were moments when I felt as if I was drowning in expectations and uncertainty, not knowing where my life was going or if I'd even live to see it. Yet all she cared for was herself and her own passions. Passions I supported and encouraged, and wanted to be part of.

The one-sided conversations grew old as she went out of her way to exclude me in front of me. If it wasn't art, it wasn't worth her time. I wasn't worth her time.

I can no longer trust my friends. I haven't spoken to most of them. I am even less comfortable with affection of any sort. It feels like a lie. Like her lies. I have pain and blackness in my heart, like festering poison. I have hate. I have hurt. I have regret and fear. And I have these scars to remind me of why.

But it will soon be known to all.

A,
I am writing a book about you. Two, actually. One a fiction with a character based on you and one nonfiction to warn others about relationships like ours. And once I have finished, I will never think of you again. You have hurt me beyond anything I've ever endured to date. But I am no longer a hostage. I have gone three days (today) without planning my suicide over things you've said and done to me. I will grow away from you. I will survive you. I will shed this skin that was marked by your words and manipulations and games... And I will pray that no one else will suffer because of you.

You don't know how to be a friend. I pity you.
- Me