Gunhild Archer, counselor

I am so full of hurt; I don’t even know where to start. My heart is longing for your recognition, your love, your acceptance. I never felt like I could be myself. Me. I was never good enough.

I want to push you away so bad, yet at the same time I want nothing more than for us to reconnect. And I keep trying. I keep reaching out. For what? To get the same message slammed in my face just one more time; it doesn’t work. We are not compatible. I can’t make you love me. I will never be good enough. You will never understand.

How am I supposed to move on? HOW? How am I supposed to move on? It feels like an endless heartbreak. I can’t win. I can’t make you love me and I can’t not want you to love me. I keep longing for that connection, the special bond.

As I find myself reaching out, yet again. For the hundred time. I am angry. SO angry. Red glowing and full of resentment. Old anger, never heard, never seen. I feel like there is no room for all those old feelings. We are supposed to start over. Act as if nothing happened. I don’t know how. How? What am I supposed to do with all my feelings? The hurt. The betrayal.

Why didn’t you defend me? What bothered you so much about me? Why couldn’t you work through your own reactions and feelings? Was I not worth it? All I ever wanted was for you to see ME. I am my own being, my own soul. I am my own special uniqueness. But all you ever saw was… What did you see? Someone too weak? I must have bothered you a lot. My adoration for you and my desire to be One with you must have made you feel trapped. Suffocated. Like it was all too much. I was too much and then I was rejected. And I thought it was all on me. I thought it was all my fault. Something must be wrong with me.

How am I supposed to forget all that, to put it aside, to start anew? With a clean slate.

All I want to do is to blame you for all the pain I carry inside. I’m scared of blaming you too. I don’t want to fuck up this one hundred and tenth billion attempt to make amends. Maybe this time it will work. Hopefully. Ever hopeful. It will probably crash and burn, like it did all those one hundred and tenth billion times before. And I will be left even more futile. Blaming myself for being stupid to think it could ever work. I would curse my naiveté. “You should know better”, I would tell myself. Over and over again.

Dumb-fuck.

“How could you think it would work out this time?”

And the longing for that special bond would linger, just below the surface. Hurt. I feel like I am a living ocean of hurt. It is in me; I am of it. It is me.

Why did you never protect me?

All those times I tried to tell you that I wanted to talk, that something didn’t feel good to me, how I needed us to change – to relate in a different way, you called me “too sensitive”, “too much”, “why can’t you just accept the way it is?”. I told myself I was wrong. That I was making it worse than what it was. Blowing it out of proportion, as usual. If I could just translate your words and your actions, I would understand that you loved me and it would all be ok. I was the problem as I struggled to translate. What was wrong with me, all those times I intentionally assumed you meant the worst. I never gave you a chance. My therapist confirmed it. “What she really means to say is that she loves you.” Of course. She loves me.

What’s wrong with me?

Why can’t I see that I’m being loved? Why am I being difficult? And why do I feel all this anger, this hate, this rage? Why do I feel so unseen? So lonely. Why can’t I feel that she loves me? I must not want it. It’s my fault, I am adamant at believing that she doesn’t want me. If I wasn’t so rigid; if I could just let go of my preconceptions, then I would be able to see her for what she is, and I would be able to understand all the ways she loves me. If I could just get my head out of my own ass.

The bitterness is ugly. You are ugly. It truly is unattractive to hold on to grudges like you do. You are disgusting.