Strangely enough, I feel that now is when I’ve reached rock bottom.
I don’t blame Ashley for all of it, not at all. It was merely a culmination of tragedies and bottling too much in, bottling it up for the sake of making it through the day. Making sure I managed to sleep and to get through this semester and just be at work and to keep fighting no matter what has been thrown at me for the sake of not losing all of my shit. Her ending our relationship is just what finally made me lose absolutely all of my shit. Again.
If I believed in things happening for a reason, perhaps I could view everything I’ve gone through and am now going through as a painful but beautiful life lesson. As it is, I don’t think there’s actually a reason for any of it. At the very least, at least that’s a reminder to not blame myself.
Irrationally, though I’ll fight it, I will blame myself. I want to outright destroy my victim card. It isn’t fair that I’ve experienced a physically and emotionally abusive relationship I stayed in for far, far too long and shouldn’t have been in to begin with. It isn’t fair that I stayed with someone who couldn’t have given less of a fuck about the intense psychological damage he was further instilling upon me through carelessly fucking around, lying, letting me play the role of a step mother through it all, exploiting my bisexuality, and just being a fucking narcisstic, selfish, and mean person.
It isn’t fair that the first woman I fell in love with just broke my heart. God, it just isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair that I was attempting to make a better life for myself and was hit with intense heartache, loneliness, suicide attempts. All of it.
I didn’t want to accept it, because it feels conceited to think in such terms, but perhaps the lesson that can be created is: there is an absolute truth to just giving too much, being too willing to take on all of the world’s problems, so to speak.
I feel pathetic and embarrassed because I’m the idiot who loved the man who threatened to kill me. Who then dated around, but fell in love with someone who clearly would always care more about which new orfice he could try to stick his dick in than the girl he left at home with his son to do so. The same girl that then went on to date and fall in love with someone who was once again, much older, and leaving.
Do I, perhaps, also participate in some weird forms of self harm in making the sort of decisions I make? I don’t want to wholly blame myself, but I want to hold myself accountable so I can heal and grow and be a better version of myself.
And yet, confronting all that has gone wrong in my life and all that is wrong with me is no doubt the toughest thing a person can do. For some reason, this is exactly what is happening to me. As if all of the breakdowns I’d had pale in comparison and now I’m genuinely stuck with this loneliness, this shame, and this complete confrontation of everything I’d ever brushed under the rug, far beyond Brad.
I’m a weird sense, at least there’s that.