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, when we could be friends.
Directly below is a summary, in no particular order, of things I wish to say.
I've tried to be succinct (though it's difficult to condense several-months-worth of thoughts), and it's made it sound cold in places. I don't think it would sound like that if I were to say it.
I'd appreciate you reading it, though I understand the reasons you may feel you cannot.
For some points, there's further detail if you click on ``MORE''. But even if all you read is the summary, I'd be grateful. There's nothing in this 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);
I think there may have been another person, before me, who was never discovered. (MORE);
I was worthy of more respect and a better Goodbye than you gave me, even if the overall outcome could never have been different.
(MORE);
I've understood your choices. I've respected them, accepted them, supported them. I haven't retaliated in pain or anger. I've tried to change nothing. Please do not mistake this for weakness - it is quite the opposite.
You judged the authenticity of my feelings correctly at the time. While it hurt to lose you so completely, and I've struggled significantly with it, your happiness and safety were always most important to me. Your choices were never what hurt the most - it was that it did not hurt you to hurt me.
I never realised how much tenderness and affection 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.
(MORE);
Our last day was the same day that what remained of my barriers crumbled. I'd always had so much internal conflict, knowing what we had to do, versus what I wanted. You'd never left me in doubt as to your feelings for me. I'd come to trust you, the way you'd wanted me to, despite the impossibility of the circumstances. And, just an hour before everything ended, I'd known what I was going to do next. I wanted to give you everything, and experience everything with you. I loved you on that day. I'd become certain that, at least within the constraints of our situation, you'd do your best to protect me from harm. I felt safe. (MORE);
I don't believe that keeping people away from me was to protect me (MORE). It's insulting to hear, because of the contrast with what I've done to try and protect you. It isn't easy to deal with my own heartbreak, without comfort from the one who broke it, while also knowing what your side think of me, which isn't based on truth. I've put aside all innate reactions that want to lash out or defend myself, and made the choice to care for you above myself. You must know 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 feel angry, worthless, and used. I continue because my feelings for you were real, and because I gave you my word I would not betray you. But I hate myself for lying - telling the truth would be so much easier for me. If you'd been protecting me you would have told the truth, at least about your feelings at the time, and your role versus mine. You wouldn't have allowed your sister to be ``seething''. You'd have let me take accountability only for my part, and not everything else too. The truth is also the only thing that doesn't try and manipulate the outcome in your own favour. I'd also actively welcome speaking to people, such as your sister - it would be far easier than what I am doing - so, please, go ahead, send them my way; if you still want to keep us apart, then perhaps it indicates your actions were not for my sake.
[As an aside, you also aren't the only one who feels they've protected the other by keeping people away: my mother softened after our November conversation, but now she can't bear to see me in any more pain, and keeps threatening to ``set things straight'' with Chantelle. I've not given her a means, and have made it clear that harming you would devastate me - only this has quietened her. ]
You told me you were trying to change, and that you're not the same person I knew. I believe you. That person would not have found easy to inflict pain on me. I'm not trying to flip the narrative or play victim - but I am trying to make a point. I'm also of the belief that where love exists, there's not only complete acceptance of a person, but also a desire for their growth and happiness. That's how I feel about you. I want the best for you, even if I'm not part of it, and I want you to be the man you want to be. I let you down in not helping you be that. I am so sorry. It's why, despite the pain, accepting your decisions has not been hard for me. Nevertheless, if the changes you've made are not yet accompanied by increased honesty, and are simply a redirection of who it's most comfortable to hurt, or if they've resulted in a permanent or excessive loss of individuality (e.g. ``never doing anything anymore''), it isn't clear it's a fundamental or sustainable change for the better.
I want to put right the one time I wasn't authentic with you, even if it's insignificant now. It was the day you left for your holiday; my rabbit had just died, and we spoke while you returned from golf. You said you felt bad about leaving me, and I replied: ``I'm not your responsibility''. 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 simple response, ``I feel like you are'', was perfect, and broke down my defences. You always seemed to understand me effortlessly. I don't even know how you did it. It took until our last conversation, when all care for me had gone, for my feelings of wanting to run into your arms to fade.
To address an elephant in the room: I suspect you know that 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 would've also known you aren't an idiot, and that you'd guess from that, if you hadn't already. I'm not sure why I slipped up, but I feel I must explain.
It was never about seeing you. I don't want to do that to 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 so busy at work that I've risked weekends ††). It started in Autumn, during a trip to Leicester via Chipping Norton. On impulse, I decided to stop and try and find the grave. I wanted to pay my respects, and perhaps feel closer to you, knowing you were sometimes there, and because that story was one of the first vulnerable things you shared with me. I knew enough about him that, in the end, it didn't take long to find. It's hard to explain, but it helped me. I'd been consumed with grief and pain, but also with care for you, bottled inside me, that had nowhere to go. I couldn't direct it at you, I couldn't help you. 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, from a safe distance, 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; in the most recent of those, I saw someone (but without my glasses!) that might have been you - if it was, I'm sorry. I don't want you to fear going to your own Gramp's grave. Equally, had I known that you'd be in Chipping Norton on that Friday afternoon after we spoke, you can be certain that I would not have been.
[As an aside, though it's technically about a father and son, whenever I hear this song, I think not only of my own father, but of you and your Gramp, and what he was to you].
MORE details:
:
This outcome was my worst fear. I broke all my own rules. I never wanted to cause pain to anyone. I didn't want to do anything wrong.
I wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect our relationship too - I was terrified that our feelings could one day be poisoned by pain, guilt and shame. I saw what could happen, and I didn't stop. I fought for a while, but my barriers came down bit by bit. (LAST DAY I WAS SHORT ON WHATSAPP BECAUSE I KNEW THAT IF I SAW YOU ONCE MORE TIME THAT WOULD BE IT). I felt ashamed when you once said that you ``didn't know where my boundaries were'': with everyone else, my whole life, I've never failed like this. I didn't need you to fulfill anything missing in me, I didn't need you to boost my ego, I didn't ``need you'', but I fell for you in a way I never have before - you were this unique person that collided with my world; I felt connected to you in a way I just had not experienced before. It isn't a justification, and doesn't take away the pain from anyone. I failed in a way I never thought I could. I know you understood when I said we'd have to say Goodbye on our own terms - it wasn't because I didn't want you, it was because I did. I never wanted that door to be completely closed. But I would have been content in the end, either way, if you were happy. I don't believe that anyone is defined by the worst thing they've done, but I struggle with feeling less than I was before, as much as I've struggled with the loss of you.
I know that in our conversations I've been selfish. I knew time was limited, and felt I had to focus on obtaining certain answers, in order to move forward. I wanted to say so many other things, and to follow up on things you said - I would have if there'd been no constraints.
But what we did speak about in no way reflects everything I feel, nor what I care most about. It's possible to be in pain myself, to feel a need for answers, to want you to understand my side, while still caring most about you. Multiple things can be true at once.
(BACK)
SOMEONE ELSE?
Since the last day we saw each other, I've suspected there may have been another, similar situation, before me. I don't know how similar - whether or not emotion was involved.
The reason is because when you told me ``numbers'', you quickly corrected yourself by one. I thought it an odd mistake to make and, almost as soon as you left, felt like you might have lied to me. There would've been no judgement, but I would have wanted the truth, and to understand what, if anything, it meant for our relationship. One of the things I valued most was our transparency and honesty (though I have now identified a small handful of things, in addition to this, where I think you may have lied...). If I'm right, it makes me feel even more like collateral damage. I've taken anger and blame from people on your side, which, while understandable, is already partially based on them not knowing the truth. This would make that feel even more unjust. It also heightens my feelings of being used and disposable: by virtue of being discovered, I became simply a means to help you realise what mattered, after which I could be thrown away, with no regard for the fact that I was deeply hurt in this too. I can reconcile myself to that if it ultimately leads to you feeling like you're a better person, with fewer regrets in the end. But I feel I was worth more than to simply be a sacrificial lamb in your journey of self-discovery. (BACK)
I DESERVED A BETTER GOODBYE:
I always respected and understood your choices. A different outcome was never possible, not even in my mind, let alone yours. But I think you could have made all the same choices, and also found a way to treat me with respect and care at the end. I know that you were also navigating this for the first time. But the impact on me of the way things were done has made it hard to move past.
I was originally going to write something here about what I'd have done were the roles reversed. But there is little point to that. The way I would have acted, the proper closing I would have needed to give you, even if I'd made all the same overall choices, is based on the respect you would have deserved, given what you meant to me. But we are different people and, while at the time I would not have been able to choose between us on the question of ``who felt more'', this assumes that everyone is like me, and that something like this could not have happened, if it had not been real and of great value.
I've never contested that we had to say Goodbye, but being told by people who do not know me, nor what really happened, what you must do, and how you must treat me, does not automatically make them right. (BACK)
I want to revisit the fact that you said you've ``protected'' me, by keeping people away. I want you to understand that this was not protecting me.
I have no fear of anyone, and no fear of confrontation. I've always been able to take accountability for things I did do. The only issue is that I feel I have to lie to protect you, for which I hate myself.
I maintain that I think your actions here, as well as almost everything else in this, have been primarily to protect yourself. (To be clear: I do not doubt your love for your daughter, and I believe you utterly when you say you want to do right by her, for her to feel safe, and to be happy again).
I find it insulting for you to say, or even think, that you've protected me. Protecting me would have been to tell the truth. It would have meant that I only had to take accountability for the things I did do, and not everything else as well. It would have been the respectful thing, the courageous thing, the fair thing to everyone, and the only thing that doesn't try and manipulate the outcome.
It would also be incredibly difficult and terrifying, and I understand why you've not felt able - in the end, it is something that can only ever be your choice, your decision.
Please understand that to protect you in this, to take upon myself the blame and anger of others, without defending myself, isn't easy.
I also hate myself for lying, when I know that lying is the worst part.
I've lied for you, to protect you, because of my feelings for you and my promises to you. I can't bear to cause you any more harm.
But please don't think for a moment that this is easy, especially since our last conversation, when I don't know anymore if you cared about me ever, let alone now. Please understand the strength and self-control it takes to get up every day and ``choose you''. Choose to care more for you than for myself. Choose to protect you rather than defend myself. Choose to withhold truth, even though it would be better for me in so many ways to tell it. And now I have to do it knowing that you no longer care for me. Please don't underestimate what I do for you, now, and please do not insult me by imagining that any of your actions in this have been for my sake.
I know what I did wrong. I also know that I genuinely fell for you, in a way that I tried, but ultimately did not know how, to resist. I was magnetically drawn to you, to this person who collided with my world, that I felt so connected to, compatible with, and like I'd known for the longest time. And at the time it was mutual. I failed in a way I never have before. You weren't just ``anyone'' to me, this would not have happened with just ``anyone''. It isn't a justification, and it doesn't take away the pain for any of us - it is simply what happened. I can take accountability for it. But to be perceived in the way that I have been, as if I preyed upon you, pursued you, is wrong. You know it is not true, but you have not protected me.
Perhaps this will get easier in time. If and when I completely detach from you, one assumes I'll also no longer care about this. Even now, sometimes, I'm able to logically see that it doesn't matter what people think.
I've been trying to live by the mantra of ``let them''. If people need to believe that I am all these things, because the alternative is too difficult to accept, ``let them''. It's harder to feel that way about what you think. I don't know if your view of who I am has been tainted - by the guilt, shame and pain, or by what others have said I am, even though you, more than anyone, knows the truth. Everything I showed you, everything I said to you, was real; you did know me, you do know me. Maybe one day I will not care, and I'll mean it when I say: ``whatever he thinks - let him''.
(A couple of asides: Firstly, assuming the sister you mentioned is the hairdresser, I've known how to contact her since September. I struggled with not being able to tell the truth, and I wanted to speak to someone that loved you, and who might be more loyal to you than to Chantelle. I might have preferred to speak to your brother, but your sister was easy to find. I wanted to tell my side to someone who loved you, so they'd know how much I cared for you, and how much I hadn't wanted to cause pain, to you or to anyone. I wanted them to know it had been mutual. I wanted someone, anyone, who truly loved you, to understand. That was my thinking at the time. I didn't do it, of course. I'd never have done anything behind your back that could potentally harm you. But I wanted to. Secondly, you're not the only one who feels they've protected the other by ``keeping people away''. My mother, while she mellowed towards you after our November conversation, is so angry, again; she just can't bear to see me hurt, anymore - that's all it is, really. But she's threatened to go to Chantelle (I've not given anyone a means to do that, and I won't). I've told her that she will harm me, beyond repair, if she tries to hurt you. It is only this that has made her stop. My father would not do anything against my will; he controls his feelings better, but I'm sure they must be there. )