On loving a man who does not love you back

So, I always try to keep my blogs humorous and light. Nothing heavy or deep. However, this is my last personal for this class, and as such I am deeming this my “Dear Diary” post.

The title of this is “on loving someone who doesn’t love you back,” for a reason. I start with the word “on” because I have become an expert on the subject. Yes, I am in love with a man, who does not love me back.

I do not set out to assassinate this man’s character. Remember that I love him.

No, this is where I let things out, the things I can’t say to him, or the things you don’t say when someone ask if your okay. This is the unspoken ideas and metaphors that need release.  The sappy things that stick to your tongue so do not sound more broken than you are.

If your still here, Lets begin,

Loving someone who does not love you back is a heartbreak, but not the simple crushed defeat that accompanies high school break-ups. This is the tearing of an organ, vital to human life, both physically and emotionally.

The pain is constant, looming and encompassing. It centers in your chest and throbs in your head. Your eyes become riddled from tears, your checks stained with streaks from the raindrops you’ve poured onto you favorite pillow.

It stays with you, like the thing you always catch out of the corner of you eye. The persons name lingers in your mouth, waiting to be spoken, seeking any reason to speak their name.

It brings a smile to your face, and your eyes brighten. But the feeling is the equivalent to a fire, your left smoldering long after the conversation, blackened and burned by the inferno brought on by the match stick he is.

You see that person, and despite all reason, you hold onto the concept that its a possibility. That through some fortune, struck of luck, or some omnipotent force will usher him towards you. As if by staying at jackpot, you will hit the lottery before the quarters run out. Soon your scrounging through your pockets, counting pennies to take another spin.

You make excuses for him, anything to make the story world you have crafted have the ending you penned. The knight never shows up, the princess does die, and your left wondering what alternate ending in you ended up in. What road did you take wrong, what pathway did you not traverse.

You reflect on your past, recounting the bad things you ever did, using some made-up karma calculator to mathematically see if the prison you’ve entered was reckoned by some earlier decision that carried someone else into their personal hell.

You put them first in everything, slitting both wrists to help them. You bear the brunt of this invisible pressure because you feel its your duty.  He tells you he needs help fixing things with the person he loves, and you step up to the whipping post, propping your heart up after the brutal lashing it barely endures, mindlessly chanting “I can take another. I can take another.”

You pick yourself up off the floor, bruised from abuse, carrying on like things are fine. You wrap yourself in large shirts and big sunglasses. A gilded disguise to carry on day to day.  You keep your coat tight, because if he ever saw the scars, you would be defeated, it would be the killing blow to your hear-thronged charade.

When loving a man who does not love you back, your heart breaks.  It is the tearing of a human organ, most vital to human life, both physically and emotionally.



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