I always know something was left unsaid when the insomnia kicks in. Days in a row of waking up between 2 and 3AM. My mouth dry and my fingers heavy. Movement required. Some kind of movement of these thoughts that stay stuck under my heavy tongue and hide in the space between my eyebrow. This very physical tightness from emotions I’ve suppressed below my collarbones. If only you could spend a moment outside of your coma. Your own prison. I don’t think you’d change your mind about me, but at least you’d be unable to claim ignorance. If I could bestow one final parting gift on you, it would be the maturity to realize that your actions have an affect on others. Your actions had an affect on me. You hurt me. You continue to live in the delusion that you did not have a choice. I do not get to live in that delusion anymore. I wake up to it every day. The cold, metallic reality that you did not choose me.
I’ve been told it’s foolish to live with regrets. But I regret every sleeping moment with you. That’s what I was. Asleep. Blindly following, comfortably tucked in bed by a wool blanket sewn with manipulation. You continue to sleep soundly in filth. A rotten foundation that you will soon realize is uninhabitable. There is no room for you, for the cracks are filled with mold and decay. You will not win the love you so desire. I can promise you that. It was easier to stay passive and quiet and let someone else provide my oxygen, while locking me in a room they personally filled with poison.
Easier. That’s all you did. Take the easy way out. But it was an easy way in. You walked right into the beast’s belly. And there you stay, trapped. With no sense of the prison you’ve chosen. Easier…
Some schools call this Stockholm Syndrome, others call it Gas Lighting. That is all they are. Toxic gas. You’ll be familiar with this soon enough. I will not be around to say I told you so.
I will not think of you. Your happiness or your sadness. I will not think of you, the same way you did not think of me. No care or consideration for my hurt, my anguish, or the desert I was left in. I do not get to live in the lush valley of delusion any longer, and yes, it is lonely. But the air here is pure. I don’t need their oxygen tank, I can breathe freely. What do you know of freedom? A question the lamb does not ask as it’s led to the slaughter.
I want to wish you peace on your journey. But I won’t. I know the stale stillness you sit with is anything but peaceful. I remember it well. The way my neck became brittle, and my spine rounded forward. The way my chest would concave, and my eyes would dry and swell. Emotionless as I sat in a painfully exhaustive slumber.
When you left, I took a deep breath. And then I finally found rest.
What do you know of freedom?