They say that life is made up of a series of lessons. I have to agree.
When I look back at my life, I know that there were some lessons that I had to learn – which I did and I was (finally) able to move on. Some lessons, however, are harder to figure out. Whether this is because it’s a personality disorder on my part, a stubbornness that I cannot seem to get out of my system or simply a masochistic tendency, I do not know.
Sometimes I wonder if any of us will ever be at peace with the fact that those we love and love us loved someone else before us. I once asked someone if he regretted being with his ex (and he was with her for 4 years and it ended horribly) and he said yes. And I had the gall to say, “Don’t. You shouldn’t.”
Little did I know that there would come a time when him regretting it or not was not point. The point was that I did.
True, she never did anything to me – I don’t even know her from Adam – and yet I loathe her existence. I loathe her for everything she did to him. I abhor her for how she broke him. Most of all (and most illogically), I hate her for the simple fact that, once upon a time, he loved her.
Never mind the fact that he doesn’t love her now. Never mind the fact that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. It’s that once upon a time he loved her… That once upon a time he wanted to spend his life with her.
Sometimes I wonder why I can’t leave the past well enough alone (and I have to applaud the amount of effort that I put into this, as it sometimes involves reading goddamn posts from
(social network undisclosed) written a million years ago, going through horrendously long friends lists and about a bazillion photo albums containing some really badly taken – and not to mention embarrassing-if-that-were-me-I’d-rather-die-than-post-that – pictures). I know it’s me and my perverse need to know everything… Even if I know that I’ll pay for it every single time.
This is not doubt. Never think that it is. I know that this is it for me. I will never love – nor would I want to – anyone else. I also know, however, that this is intrinsically and inexplicably wrong (the masochistic part, not the loving part). I have come to the conclusion that it is easier for us to speak about our past because for us it is over. But there is always that other person to think about. The one who always hurts a little when they remember that they know what they know. It’s not that I don’t understand that there was a past. Sometimes I think I just wish I could erase it.
But I can’t. I know what I know. Against all logic, I went through what I did. I did this. This is my bed and now I have to lie in it. There is absolutely no one to blame but me.
Don’t be fooled into thinking that this some baggage that I carry with me all the time. It’s not. But again, I know what I know. This is me grieving. This is me trying to learn how to let go. This is me trying to learn that one goddamn lesson that I cannot seem to learn.
I’ve always said that the worst kinds of hell are those that we make for ourselves. And yet with that nugget of wisdom firmly lodged in my cranium, I really have to wonder, “Why on earth do I keep fucking doing it?”
And in times like these, the only sarcastic quip I can come up with to comfort myself is, “See the light at the end of the tunnel? That’s a train heading straight for you.”
I told you I was a little crazy.
Dark & Twisted…