I wish that I could hate you.
Sometimes I try, but it doesn’t work.
I want to hate you, because of the things we’ve gone through in the past. I want to hate you because of the things you did. I want to hate you because of the things you didn’t do, too. I want to hate you because of the way you made me feel before, and the way I still feel, on occasion. I want to hate you because it should be easy to hate you, and that perhaps hating you would take away some of my doubt. I want to hate you because people always seem a bit surprised that I don’t hate you, which makes me feel like I should hate you.
But I don’t. Sometimes I try, but I can’t. And all that happens is I start to hate myself for the lack of being able to hate you.
I want to hate you when I hear from you or about you. It’s completely irrational. I want to hate you because you are being mature, and respecting me, my feelings, and my life. I want to hate you because it took you so long to learn how to respect me. Years of time together only gained distrust and harm, and a year apart has caused you to be the bigger man. And I want to hate you.
But I don’t. Instead I defend you. I protect you. I think about you. And, once in a while, I miss you, too. I especially hate that.
I don’t miss you as a significant part of my romantic life, but sometimes I miss you for your friendship. It’s completely selfish, and I am aware of this, and even okay with it, too. I miss the way you knew me, and that we had enough history that you knew what I needed and when I needed it. Encouragement, and comfort, and motivation to get my ass in gear.
When I fall and twist my ankle and worry I may need to go to the doctor, I hate that I can’t call you. But I don’t hate you. When I get locked out of my apartment and can’t get a hold of my landlord, I hate that I can’t call you to save the day. Yet I still don’t hate you.
Also, I hate that I have to be the one that vacuums, now. Basically, anytime that life doesn’t go my way, I try to blame you and the fact that I am now single, in upstate New York, in that damn apartment we rented together – two names on a lease that legally bound us together even after the ring left my finger and the bind between us broke apart.
I want to hate you, but I can’t.
The funny thing is, “I believe” that hate is never right, and love is never wrong. Lovewins, I say. Lovewins, I write in blog posts, and display on my refrigerator, and contemplate tattooing on my wrist. Yet I find myself wanting to hate you. It’s complex and confusing and I wish I had some answers to the questions I keep asking, but they never seem to come. Apparently, all I can do is be patient and wait for the healing and the answers to make their way into my heart, or at least until I begin to understand that the answers may never come.
I hate that they may never come. I hate that I know I shouldn’t blame you.
I don’t hate you, and I shouldn’t blame you, and I can’t help but feel damaged. In the great kitchen store of life, I’m a delicate serving platter with a big ole chip, sitting on a bottom shelf in the back of the building marked for clearance. I sometimes wonder if I declare a lesser value of my heart, or life, or potential because of what was, and more specifically, what wasn’t. I know it’s not true. I know that I’m enough, and valuable, and worthy, and that it’s just silly for me to think anything different. But I want to blame you for the chip. I want to say it’s your fault. I want to say you dropped me, and therefore, I’m no longer perfect. But if I wasn’t so damn delicate, I never would have gotten chipped in the first place.
I don’t hate you. Even though I try. Even though I want to. Even though that’s wrong.
Often times, I thank you. I find myself explaining my story to a new friend, or someone who wants to know more about my experience with a broken engagement and a broken heart, and I say, so often, “I am so thankful that he had the courage.” I mean it, too. Because I can not even begin to imagine how miserable I would be if we were married.
Perhaps I just need to remind myself what it felt like back then and what it feels like now. I have felt such freedom in the last year and a half. I’ve broken out of a coffin I had found myself in for a variety of reasons. I feel like I learned how to breathe for the first time in a long time and that I am finally me again. My burial was not your fault, this I am sure. And although you were the one to cut the ties binding me down, I refuse to give you credit for the life I lead now.
Because the life I lead now has nothing to do with hate, and everything to do with love. In the last year and a half I have learned what loving myself truly feels like. I have learned what it is like to put myself first, in order to grow in care and kindness of others. I have experienced a deepening of my heart, and a blossoming of self awareness and self esteem.
So, although I often try to hate you but can’t, I must remind myself that not only should I refuse to blame you, but perhaps I shouldn’t thank you either. You do not deserve hatred, this I know. But what I also know is that I deserve some credit, too. I deserve to be seen as I am – the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. The delicateness, the strength, the chip; the full price and the discount.
The hatred, slowly, steadily, begins to melt. The hatred and the hope of hatred. Melts, melts, melts.