(no subject)
With any luck, this will make me feel better. That's what journals are for, right?
How fucking dare she.
I am not some toy to be wound up and used as she wishes. I am not her backup friend, only turned to as a last resort. I am not her punching bag.
It's been... over a month now, I guess. Maybe. I'm not that sure, the time sort of bleeds together. I don't think about it most days, but sometimes it hits me hard, like right now. And it's not like we were really involved, just friends, though our relationship was odder than most; we wrote together, and parts of me repeatedly fell in love with parts of her, and fought and lied, and maybe, sometimes, I think that she hates me now because she hated him, that beautiful impossible man that lives only in my head and hers. Then I tell myself that's bullshit, because I'm the one she directs all her cold-hearted malice at, the one whose ego she slowly tore down and burned until everything I was floated away.
The last contact I had was a text message, asking me to return some of her clothing.
I responded the only way I could - with terse (it was a text message, after all), bitter, stinging-nettle words. She never replied.
So now I'm sitting in the dark, at six fucking a.m, talking myself out of sleep and going to class when the sun finally shows its face. And all I can think is fuck, I don't need this fucking mess.
Then I think that maybe this is how battered women feel, because no matter how much she's hurt me, how much she's destroyed, I just want her to talk to me. Because I was her friend for nearly eight fucking years and nothing hurts more than the fact that she could cast me aside so easily, especially after everything we've been through, but even though I know she probably feels as bad as I do about the whole ridiculous situation, any god damn me, I can't move to make it better. I've reached out before, the last few times with anger in my voice and honesty in my tears, but she'll forever respond with impatience, because I'm not worth her time.
If I could have any wish, I'd wish to never have met her, because I don't like the me that needs to write thus. Or, for that matter, the me that knows I'm not without blame.