My life is like a really bad written soap opera. Who ever is writing the script needs to do a rewrite, because I’m honestly tired. And it’s getting too out of hand.
I was at work when my mom texted me saying that my ex’s mom wanted to talk to her in person. It was rather strange for me. Immediately all the thoughts flooded to my head, did she find out? Did she see something online about me? Did she see me celebrate my birthday?
When you don’t know the facts the mind can be one of the most creative places ever to exist. That’s where my mind went to. My deepest fears.
She then asked if we could talk when I got home. I messaged her yes while I was shaking my head no. Was I about to come out? I prepped myself. What was I going to say? How was I going to tell my side of the story? How was I going to explain it?
I got home and things were more quiet than usual. As if someone sound proofed the rest of the world from our home.
She was ready at the kitchen table. Calm. Gathered. I sat on the other side. She had been crying. I could tell by the way her eyes look. Tired, concerned, and irritated.
What came out of her mouth next was not what I had rehearsed on the drive home.
My ex’s father had hit my ex. Across the face. Bloody nose and everything.
I felt cold. I felt terror. I felt like I should have been the one to take the blow. I deserved it anyway. I put her in the line of Fire. I used her as a road block, as a speed bump, something to help me run and hide from who I really am.
I asked her why. What happened? I could barley manage the words out of my mouth. It was dry. I needed water. I felt faint. I almost threw up.
She told me that she’s been sad ever since our break up. She’d been depressed. She’s been missing.. me. She’s been angry, furious. Why? At who? Her father. Because I put that in her head. Because I told her things weren’t going to work out because her father was too over protective. Because he would never let her spend time with me. Because he would never let me go over. Because he would never let me see her. Because he ruined our relationship.
It’s my fault she was hit.
It’s my fault she took too much and finally screamed her guts out to her abusive father.
It was my fault he didn’t take it well. I turned her against him. I did.
It’s my fault.
I feel like all this time I’ve been carrying gallons of gasoline, but it’s been leaking for the longest time and everything behind me is now catching fire.
When will the fire catch up to me?