These are some loose ends that either I wanted to say previously, but didn't manage, or new things sparked from our last conversation.
I intend this to be my last communication, unless life ever changes so dramatically for us that our paths can cross again, at a less painful time.
Below is a summary, in no particular order, of things I want to say.
I've tried to be succinct, though it's hard to condense months-worth of thoughts (it takes about 8-10 MINS to read the SUMMARY; about a factor of 5 less than my first attempt!).
For some points, there's further detail if you click on ``MORE''.
(SAY SOMETHING HERE TO ALSO DIRECT TO THE RECORDINGS).
As always, there's nothing intended to harm you, but some of it might be uncomfortable.
Anyway, here goes:
You may think, from the limited conversations we've had, that I've cared most about my own pain in this. It's not true. (MORE);
In our conversations you responded multiple times to things I never said - so I want to be clear: I understood your choices. I respected, accepted, and supported them. I haven't retaliated in pain or anger. I've tried to change nothing. These have been my choices. It's not always been easy, and might only have been an option for someone who either didn't care about you at all, or that cared an awful lot. I wanted you to feel safe with me, even in your choice to leave me. So, it was annoying and disrespectful that you felt the need to say things like: ``I had to make choices'', ``we can't all be winners'', etc., as if I'd ever asked you to change anything. I had not.
I was worthy of more respect and a better Goodbye than you gave me, even if the overall outcome could not have been different. (MORE);
I don't believe that keeping people away was to protect me (MORE).
It's insulting to hear, because of the contrast with what I feel I've done for you.
Without retaliating, I've dealt with my own heartbreak, with no comfort from the one who broke it,
while also knowing what your side think of me. I've put aside all innate reactions to lash out or defend myself,
and made the choice to care for you above all else. It isn't easy: I'm human, I've been hurt, and I live
in the knowledge that I've unfairly taken most of the blame.
It's especially difficult when I no longer know if you ever really cared for me.
I also hate myself for lying, especially when I know it's the worst part - telling the truth would be so much easier.
If you'd been protecting me, you'd have told the truth, at least about your feelings at the time, and your role versus mine.
You'd have let me take accountability only for my part.
The truth is also the only thing that doesn't try and manipulate the outcome in your own favour.
None of your actions have been to protect me. I do not fear confrontation. The only person in this, of whom I've felt afraid, at any time, is you.
(As an aside, I'd actively welcome speaking to people, such as your sister - so, please, send them my way - if you still don't want to, perhaps your actions were not for my sake. You also aren't the only one that's offered protection by keeping people away: though my mother softened after our November conversation, she's struggled to cope with my pain, and has threatened to set things straight with Chantelle - I've given her no direct means, and made clear that harming you would hurt me. I've done my utmost to shield you, through actions, and through words, always speaking of you with care and respect.)
I never realised how much tenderness was in your voice, towards me, until it wasn't there any more. It's harder to view you, now, as someone who had never wanted to hurt me. I can't unhear the lack of care in your voice from our last conversation, nor your apparent struggle to remember what was: it changed everything. I can't control your memories or perceptions, or make you feel something you don't, but I'm angry with you for taking away everything I thought I knew, and for being so reckless with my heart. (MORE);
To address an elephant in the room: I suspect you know I sometimes visit your Grandfather's grave.
I inadvertently signalled it to you on 11th January; consciously, I didn't want you to know, but I also
would've known you're not an idiot, and that you'd guess, if you hadn't already. I'm not sure why I slipped up,
but, to be clear: this was not about seeing you.
I go at random times in the week, when I'm almost certain you won't be there (with rare exceptions when I've been busy and risked weekends††).
It started in Autumn, during a trip to Leicester via Chipping Norton and, on impulse, I stopped to try and find the grave.
At the time, I wanted to pay my respects, and perhaps feel closer to you,
given that story was one of the first things you shared with me.
It didn't take long to find and, somehow, it helped.
I'd been consumed with grief and pain, but also with care for you, bottled inside me.
I couldn't direct it at you and couldn't help you.
I've heard it said that ``grief is just love with nowhere to go'', and I guess that's how it felt.
This became a way to release those feelings: by honouring someone so important to you, it felt like I was caring for you.
It was an action I could take without risking further harm.
There's more I could say, but this is the best I can do in a few lines. It was never to see you. I never even wanted you to know.
( ††There have been 3 weekend visits in total; during the most recent, in late January, I saw someone that might have been you - if it was, I'm sorry. I'm not sure you're there too often, but I don't want you to fear going to your own Gramp's grave. Similarly, had I known you'd be in Chipping Norton on the Friday, after we spoke, you can be certain I would not have been. It's painful that you allowed fear of me to be instilled in you, when it cannot be to do with the real me, nor the true nature of our relationship, which - if viewed by itself and not through the lens of the pain it caused - was filled with happiness, laughter, trust, and safety. So, rest assured, I don't want to see you and be forced to witness the extent of what's been lost. )
I want to put right the one time I wasn't authentic with you, even if it's insignificant now. The day you left for your holiday, after my rabbit had died, we spoke while you returned from golf. You said you felt bad about leaving me, and I replied: ``I'm not your responsibility''. I want you to know those words were a defence mechanism, a way to remind myself of reality. By then, you were the person I wanted to run to, confide in, and be protected by. I wanted to be your responsibility, but knew I was not. Your response, ``I feel like you are'', was perfect, and broke down my defences. I've never felt safer, or more understood, than I did with you. It took until our last conversation, when all care for me had gone, for those feelings to fade.
You mentioned you were trying to change and were not the same person I once knew. I accept that; the person I knew wouldn't have found it as easy to harm me as you did. I'm not assuming the role of a victim, but I am making a point: the notion of ``change for the better'' can be subjective. You were in an almost impossible situation, where actions required to please one side inevitably inflicted significant pain on the other. I recognise certain changes may have been required, and I want you to be the man you aspire to be, even if that means I can't be a part of it. Nevertheless, I do want you to consider that if these changes are merely a redirection of who it's most comfortable to hurt, not accompanied by increased honesty, and potentially resulting in a (permanent or excessive) loss of individuality, it's unclear whether they make you a genuinely better person, or simply a more fearful one, living with lies of a different kind.