At 11:58 p.m. on New Year’s Eve you couldn’t control the impulse to send me a text telling me you loved me. Even though you knew how that would affect me. Even though you knew I would be with Kate and that it would wreak havoc with my emotions to see a text from you.
With those words.
At that particular moment.
After such a long absence of any real communication.
And now I am a prostitute.
I believed you would hate yourself in the morning. I believed you would be full of your Catholic guilt and self-recrimination. I believed you would beat yourself up over and over for your momentary weakness. And I foolishly believed I understood where that need had come from. A place of love and the shared connection I thought we had. I even understood the impulse. And forgave you for the upset you caused in my personal life. Yet again.
But the truth is. You simply didn’t care. Like a spoiled child you acted without any real concern for my heart. For my weakness. Of you. For my life. For my moment. With Kate. For anything other then your own selfish need. You just hit SEND and damned be the aftermath of your thoughtlessness. Your proclamation of alcohol towering your defenses? Bullshit. You knew exactly what you were doing, Pauline. You never get that drunk. You never let yourself get that out of control. I do know that much about you.
And now I am a prostitute.
I wasn’t going to read your last post. I searched for it, as is still a foolish weakness I will squash immediately. Hoping for words of encouragement, compassion. Anything friendly. But when I Google’d your blog and read the first lines written, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t open the page and read the rest of the words I knew would fill me with pain. So I didn’t. I waited until now. Until this moment. Until I felt strong enough to read what I already suspected would be there. I knew it would be filled with… Well, exactly what it was filled with. You did not fail me in this. But I didn’t expect you to call me a prostitute. Nope. I confess. Didn’t see that one coming at all. And then it hit me.
You don’t love me. Not real love. Not love as love was created.
If you did, you would never have put that out there. You would never have written something so cruel and heartless to me, knowing exactly how and where that would hurt me. I know you have the capacity for great meanness. For brutal manipulation. For using and then throwing people away. I just never ever thought it would be directed at me in a such a deliberately cruel manner. Ever. I should have remembered how much you like the taste of the jugular.
And now I am a prostitute.
In this moment I am numb with the enormity of this shift in understanding.
To this very day, literally up to this very moment, so many well-intentioned people have been trying to council my choices concerning you. Telling me that I don’t see the truth of who you are. How damaged you are. How broken you are. How incapable of loving – unselfishly loving – you are. They say I can’t see this because I am so in love with you. That my love blinds me to your true nature. But I refused to believe them. Refused because I couldn’t understand how someone who could make me feel so good, so desired, so wanted and loved, and who I loved so passionately and with such conviction, could be bad for me. Refused to believe that even though you were broken and damaged, amazingly far more then me, that you would ever purposely hurt me. That it all came from a place of insecurity, abandonment and self doubt. That you only hurt me because you felt unworthy of being loved. That you were scared of love. That you didn’t trust love. And that it was that deep, inherent fear and inability to trust love that made you lash out at me. The woman who offered you the very thing you feared the most.
And I forgave your inadequacy because I am human and flawed as well.
But you never forgave me mine.
And now I am a prostitute.
It took me a long time to get here. To this place of real and almost deathly calm acceptance. To understand, that to you, I am a disposal person. Your late-blooming lesbian virgin toy. Played with until I no longer served a purpose. That my heart and my love meant nothing to you. That like a cruel master, you couldn’t help but kick the loyal and loving puppy that stuck by you faithfully. Even after you threw it away. Especially after you threw it away. How pathetic I must seem to you now. I just couldn’t accept the truth that I had been so wrong. About you. About us. About what I felt when you made love to me. About what I saw in your eyes when your underbelly was showing. How could I have been so wrong? How could I have been so wrong about someone who touched me so deeply? I still don’t get it. I suppose I never will. But I accept the truth now. I was wrong.
I believed in you. All of you.
I loved you. All of you.
And most of all. I trusted you. Really trusted you. With me.
And now you call me prostitute.
Fuck. Me. Wake. Up. Trish.
I am trying not to be bitter. I don’t want to carry that poison inside of me. I am better than that. I deserve so much much more than that. You never appreciated the gift of me while I was with you, and you sure as hell don’t appreciate me now. That much is painfully clear. So much misplaced loyalty and love has been spent and obviously wasted on you. Misplaced longing, wanting and dreaming. All culminating in misspent tears and hurt and suffering. God. So much suffering. Over you. I am such a fool.
But I can not fully regret you.
On my part, it was real. My love was honest. Pure. I gave you my heart freely. You used it. Abused it. And then you selfishly, almost childishly threw it away. Broken. Beaten. Even more damaged then it was before. It was mine to give, but it was never yours to break.
So I’m taking it back.
You never deserved it. You never deserved me, Pauline. I am a gift. I am a treasure. I am wonderful. I am beautiful on the inside and out. And I am loved for who I am. By those who truly matter. By those who want nothing but to lift me to heights of happiness and genuine love and peace. By those who would never, ever call me prostitute. No. Matter. What.
I wish you had never ripped off the rose colored glasses. I liked you so much more from that perspective. I saw your imperfections and loved you in-spite of them. I saw your starving cat syndrome and wanted to satisfy your hunger. I saw your need and wanted to fulfill you. I saw your mistrust and wanted to assure you. I saw your goodness and tried to coax it into the light. I saw your darkness and accepted it as part of you. But most of all, I saw your hurt and wanted to love you.
You were often cruel. But you were beautifully human. To me.
Now you are just cruel.
And call me a prostitute.
In answer to your question.
I don’t want this in my life. And since pain and judgement and cruelty is all you have to offer me now, I don’t want you in my life. And I never ever thought I would honestly mean that, let alone write it out. Here in black and white – without any shades of gray – for you to read. I think you want me to hate you now. And that this is how you hope to achieve it. By being hurtful and unkind. Perhaps, you do this so that you can justify the tremendous hurt you caused me. And to some degree. It has worked. After this post I doubt I will ever write another to you. And after I hit PUBLISH, I will move on and into a much healthier and happier place that will no longer include you. I will exorcise you from my heart and look back on this experience, some day, and think of you with bittersweet memory. I can’t turn off my heart like you can. And I can’t throw people away like you can. Nor will I ever sit in harsh judgement the way you can. But, I will no longer live in regret of something I never had in the first place. You are truly the greatest lie ever told to me. And you told it so convincingly.
Well done, baby. Well fucking done.
I wish I had never given you my heart as fully and as completely as I have. You have been the most difficult lesson for me to learn and the hardest one for me to overcome. But I will overcome. Because I know how to love. And I know how to forgive. And knowing that I am deeply loved by people who truly have my best interest in heart, gives me the strength to move past this hurt and betrayal. I feel sorry for you and your inability to let yourself be loved and to love in return. Truly love and give of yourself without expectation and with sincerity. You can’t have one without the other. That’s not how it works. But you are sooo stuck in your fantasy world. A place where everything is perfect. And nothing and no one ever touches you.
Wake up before it’s too late, Pauline.
Real people are not perfect.
Real people will let you down sometimes.
Real people will hurt you sometimes.
But real people will love you.
And heal you.
And fill the deep empty void where you hide your heart. People are not disposable, and damn you for thinking they are. We are not toys. And our hearts are not made for you to break. I don’t think you are a horrible person. You truly are a product of your fucked up life. You simply don’t know any better. And you never moved from the victim to survivor mentality. You still remain the victim. And for that I feel sad for you. You have missed out on so much of the good stuff life has to offer. And that is the real tragedy here. But still, I have it in my heart to wish you well. And sincerely mean it. Even as I begin to wash my heart, body and soul clean of you. Your energy is not good for me. You can not put this much hurt out in the world, and not expect any back. That’s just not how the Universe works. Karma doesn’t forget.
As for me…
Amazingly. I still believe in people. I still believe in love. The forever kind. You haven’t taken that away from me. Even with all the pain you have given me. Even in my weakest moments. I will never give you the power to make me doubt that I am worth loving. Never again.
As for you…
You’ve destroyed it all.
My dream. My want. My love.
I am completely drained of needing you.
Utterly exhausted by this love.
I have nothing left to give you.
I was wrong about you being my forever.
She is still waiting.
To love me in all my shades of light and dark.
Because I, Patricia Ann Wilkinson, am so fucking worth loving!