January 11, 2012 - 3:08 p.m.
What is there left to say?

It's a weird mix of guilt and longing. With a touch of anger and confusion.
I've written here, about you more than a million times. And a million times more, I've sworn I'd let you go.
But, don't think of a blue tree. What shade of blue is your tree?
You can't NOT think about something that's already there. You can't say, "Well, I'm not going to think about that anymore."
Like a disease or a sickness, it's just there, in your head. Whether you want it there or not.
And although I've written about you those last million times, somethings have obviously been left unsaid - why else would you, some 10 years later - be still in the back of my mind? Why else would I feel the need to creep you on Facebook, only to find that you're having your first child…it (sillily) devastated me.
And it's all silly and pathetic because I know, with every fibre of my being, that what I have now far surpasses whatever immature love we had then. That I am far happier, loved, accepted and cherished more than I would be if we'd stayed together.
And yet here we are.
Here we are.
My Mother said, "Why do you creep him on Facebook?"
"Other than to torture myself, I don't know."
"Maybe you haven't truly grieved."
How could I have not? It's been a DECADE! It's been 10 or more years and I'm still dozens of feelings reeling inside that range from wrath to sadness to hurt to dread.
She suggested I write about you…again.
What is there left to say?
I re-read all those entries about you today. Looking, scouring those words to see if there was something I left out.
Bits and pieces still ring true - the anger about how you didn't want me anymore - didn't want us to work. But anger is really just sadness in disguise. It IS a blow to ones self-esteem when they're not wanted.
You used me. You used me that last time we were together. Knowing how vulnerable I was. Knowing how (pathetically) bad I wanted you back, you used me for a quick lay - and then watched me sob and beg you to have me…that one still makes me sick to my stomach.
Maybe it all boils down to a limiting belief - I wasn't good enough for you.
No matter what I was, who I was, who I TRIED (so DESPERATELY) to be, it wasn't enough…yep, that's it and that's where it hurts, too - right in the guts.
I wasn't, everything she is(?)
She who is a natural blonde, she who is a "true" Christian.
(though, to this day, I'm not sure how you or your parents were appointed judges in the "who is or isn't Christian" forum.)
I could still cry. I could still cry at not being enough. Being good enough.
I could have gone to church with your goddamn family a thousand times. Made a thousand brownies in a peace offering, had the perfect dyed blonde hair - none of it would have mattered in the end - and it didn't.
I did all those things and it wasn't. good. enough.
And I compromised who I was, what I wanted for you…and again, it wasn't enough.
What is there left to say, anyway?
B.