I have forgiven myself for the missteps I took in my journey of loving you. For the reverberations of slammed doors that my fingers now carry in their tremble- a quirk. For hoof beats that signal war, that demand defense, and are simply the panic of encountering someone that may shrink me like you did. It was you, not me.
It was you who made me believe that autonomy should be shared. That love was a grand compromise I was doomed to fail at-my inheritance. It was your encouragement that watered the seed of distrust. I hear compliments and immediately expect to fail because your “that’s so good baby” was the chauffeur for your favorite passenger, “chastisement”.
I have since walked off the ledge that was you, free-falling into what I hoped would be a quiet abyss. I am overdue for silence. I have earned my peace.
Somehow, I fell into the madness of healing. Purgatory rivals hell so strongly. It requires work. I have bathed in the pain of unraveling to reveal new skin. I have learned to look shamelessly, at the baggage you stored with me. I am grateful for the trust it took but I would like for you to have it back, and preferably toss it too.
Here’s your pain and guilt and shame and dissatisfaction. I have no more use for them.
Chizobam Ugboaja
P.S. I wrote this a while ago. Was I heartbroken? Unlikely. Healing is just a violent process and I may be conflating the two. En tous cas, take care of yourself.
