A letter that was never sent
I loved you. I loved you even when you weren't even able to love yourself. I loved you maybe more than you've ever loved yourself. I was there, next to you, in the moments when you were mentally ill, when you felt lost. I supported you, I listened to your silences, your outbursts, I picked up your pieces even when mine were starting to fall apart.
But you, as soon as I started feeling better, started not seeing me anymore. You started treating me coldly, with disrespect. Not just me, but my family as well. You ignored me, you belittled me, and when I tried to talk to you, it seemed like my voice was worthless. When I was sad and asked you for comfort, you made me feel even worse. As if my pain was annoying. As if I was wrong just because I felt so much.
And then that day came, on the highway. Do you remember? I do, I will remember it forever. You were driving too fast. I asked you several times to slow down, first gently, then firmly. You didn't listen to me. Everything seemed like a game to you: the loud music, the forced laughter, the adrenaline. And when I asked you to slow down again, you screamed at me like a monster that I didn't want to be your half. Why? Because I didn't want to die while you felt alive in that nightmare.
There I had a panic attack, for the first time in my life. Truly, terrifying. Shortness of breath, legs that I couldn't feel, face that was lifting me. And you? You got out of the car, put on your sweatshirt and lit a cigarette. While I was shivering a little from the March cold and a lot from the nightmare I was experiencing. Smoking the cigarette, you looked at me in a way as if my pain was just a boring event and as if I didn't even deserve a look.
Then, when I got back to the car, I was still shaking and couldn't speak. And you told me that it wasn't the right way to act, that "things aren't handled that way." As if there was a right way to be afraid, a right way to be traumatized. As if right there, in that moment, I was the problem.
When we returned to your house, I was exhausted after a 15-hour bus ride to come to you, to celebrate your birthday. I had no strength, I just wanted to get into clean sheets and sleep. And you insisted: “Come on, let’s lie down a little earlier.” You looked at me in a way I didn’t recognize. You laughed, and that laugh made my blood run cold. I was scared! I told you that your eyes weren’t the ones I knew. And at that moment I realized: the man I had loved was no more. And maybe, he never had been.
And how can I forget that time we went out to buy some things. I needed sanitary napkins and I had said I would pay for my own things. But you wanted to pay for everything. And I, at that moment, agreed. It wasn't about money, it was a gesture between two people. But a few days later, you made fun of me, saying sarcastically: "You don't even have money to buy sanitary napkins." As if that gesture gave you the right to humiliate me. I remained silent, hurt. Because I had offered you respect and you responded with contempt.
And the day after that terrible moment on the highway, I tried again to bring light. I said ironically, “thank you for standing by me,” to lighten the load. It was your birthday and I had come for this. Despite everything, I still wanted to believe. I wanted it to be okay. It was possible that, despite everything, I would stay.
And maybe I would have stayed, really. But then, a few weeks later, you wrote to me that you wanted a break. Without even having the courage to talk to me on the phone. I called you, and you didn't answer.
And in that silence, in that undignified escape, I understood. I understood that it was over. I understood that the anxiety you were transmitting to me was taking over my life day by day. But above all, that I had to close it. That there was nothing left to justify, to wait for, to escape.
You didn't let me. I chose to save myself.
I forgive you, not because you deserve it, but because I deserve to be healed. To no longer carry the weight of your words, your silences, your insults. I deserve to breathe again. To be well, free from all of this.
Choose yourself. Choose peace. Choose a version of life where love does not scare, does not humiliate, does not silence. I turn to breathe. One breath after another. One step after another. Away from you.
- Written for Anabel by an anonymous woman, for the “Untold Stories” column – the haven where we recount those moments when the heart wants to speak, whether about the good or the difficult, about the deepest feelings that we don't want to keep inside. If you too would like to share your story, write to us at [email protected] .
