I blocked him. I deleted telegram. I can't take any more isolation.
For six years, I tried to do everything he asked. There were so many contradictions, so many dreams, so much hope. It's all gone now. He'd ask me to push him if I wanted him to be there, that he needed it, only to be told I'm too pushy. That I wanted too much, too fast. Everything was a minefield. If I told him things, he'd get angry, jealous or sullen. If I didn't tell him things, that was wrong too. Even up until the very last moment. The last push away. I made him feel bad because I told him I was struggling. Every way I was bound to lose.
PTSD isn't a joke, but you can only hide behind it so long. I'm sorry.
To take a page out of your book, coming after me every day and telling me that everything in your head is telling you I don't love and that I hare you doesn't feel like love either. I'm not saying you don;t struggle or have bad voices, but you aren't the only one either, and I'm just trying to exist and build myself back up slowly after I got completely fucking destroyed.
Ok, I'm sorry. Take all the time you need. I won't talk to you any more. I won't say a word. You win.
If you decide somewhere down the line that you can forgive me, maybe you'll look me up. I'm going to block you now, that way I can't be awful to you any more. I can't be the terrible person. I can't let you down any more.
I hope you remember me fondly one day, and that the six years of unwavering devotion actually counted for something. Take the very best care and know that I never stopped loving you.