One of the things that really tortures me is wondering what you think of me. Luckily, it doesn't come up much, but it really drives me into the ground when I think about it. I have no idea what you think of me, because you refuse to tell me. It's an unknown that rips savagely at me.
What I like to think is that you're still my friend. You're not there because you want to get better without me, and you think I'll get better without you. You aren't doing this to hurt me. You don't want to be stepping on my fingers as I hang from the ledge of persistence. You don't want me to be alternately void of feeling and flooded with sadness. You think this is the best for us, and so you've done it.
But what if that's all wrong? What if you really are trying to hurt me? The last time you saw me, you saw my continuing depression. What if you delighted in that? If this is your revenge for anything bad I've done to you, I can tell you that this pain must at least have equaled by now anything that I've caused. Maybe I deserve this punishment. But I don't want you to be enjoying my suffering. I don't want to think of you that way.
This last thought I think is the worst. What if I'm nothing to you but a crazy ex? What if you're not doing this to help yourself nor to punish me, you're doing this because you legitimately don't care about me? That's the most painful thing. The last time we made eye contact, you were so scared. I could only somberly appreciate the sight of you, while you did everything you could not to even look at me. I'll admit that I'm crazy, and of course I'm your ex. But I'm so much more than that. I've been so much more than that to you. To think that these events have caused me to be nothing but the past to you... it makes me want to more literally become nothing but the past...
The only way that I can see truly see value in myself is in your eyes, your embrace, and your words. I have none of that. So, I can only fantasize of seeing how much I really mean when we meet again. I only keep going for you and that day.
