To Mr B:
I remember so clearly the exact moment I should have walked away. Of all the events, emotions, words that have long left my memory, this one feels like it was yesterday. Possibly because of the pain I experienced in those 15 minutes, or it may be because my conscience is so clear as to that moments turning point characteristics that it won’t let it go.
I remember sitting on the steps, with tears collecting in my eyes, about to flood my face. Up to that point you had managed to pull me in so much, that your change in actions was like a hard SLAP across my face. Not only did it hurt but it threw me off-balance. I was literally holding on to the rails in order to not fall and break. At that point, in my predominate frailty, you could have said anything or nothing and I would have been happy to accept it, happy to simply feel your fingers holding mine.
As it turned out, your ridiculous nonsense, I accepted it; no questions asked, no complaints made. I was ecstatic, albeit I wasn’t really; but I was too lost to ignore my overimagined happiness. You must have thought you had given me the world simply by allowing me to experience your shit presence. Not naively, but for someone who spoke of ‘being a good person’, I deserved an explanation. To be honest it was more than that, I was beyond anything you’d ever even dreamt off, we both knew it, yet I allowed myself to forget that.
I was so strong, just thinking of the things you put me through, the shockingly selfish comments, the immature flashes of hot and cold; if you were worth it I would consider your side. But you proved it time and time again, I was so stupid for letting myself go through all that pain. You were not man enough to treat me right, I was not woman enough to walk away. That I will accept, my actions allowing your shit, I will accept.
Insecurity is a bitch, and somehow I needed to experience that you wanted me, wanted to feel me again. How sad, my personal insecurities in-combination with your mannerism chipped away at my already flimsy self-confidence.
Merde, Mr B, merde.