While I remember you with joy, passion and sometimes also sadness, I do think of you with anger.
I remember how you pointed out what a mess my life was on more than one occasion. It shamed me. I felt embarrassed by admitting it because, indeed, my life is a mess.
Is it really an excuse to say the mess is not half-created by me?
That I care for others and cannot control their actions, which inherently affect mine?
If I use that excuse it's easy to say I can choose not to be the caregiver and walk away from the mess. That would make my life much easier, but is it realistic?
No. I can't just walk away, and that's what hurt me about your judgement.
To me your life was a mess too, you know?
There was structure that only made sense to you, ideas that seemed effervescent, difficulty in communication without interrogation, you were not mess free- and I accepted that.
I did not point it out; and while I know you accepted my mess, the simple fact that you felt it necessary to make it tangible hurt me. When I remember that I feel less guilty about asking to end things.
I remember that you're not perfect after all, even if my heart tells me you might be.
(Originally written in 2013)
