Why I Don’t Write Happy

April 7, 2015 by Midwestern Twenty Something 1 Comment

I won’t apologize for anything I say on my blog. I’m going to say a lot of things that will make you think, if not say, “what a cunt.” I say the things people think, maybe whisper to their best friend or partner, would love to say, but they would never attach their name to it. I said I would be honest when I started writing.

The problem I have found is that I only tell one side of the truth. I tell my bitch side. To every shitty side of the story there is also a good one. The good stories are almost more personal because my heart is in them. The good stories came to an end and were replaced with hard. When the good disappeared my heart shattered. I still don’t know how to recover from that.

I write mostly about the difficulties in my life. I don’t write about love all that often. When I do, I write with a cynical voice. I don’t write about the good side of love because it hurts. I am acutely aware of the fact that I am the reason who will probably end up partnerless. I use my past as a barrier to keep people at a distance. It’s a coping mechanism. The few people I do let in, I actively push away. It’s easier to do the leaving than to be left because that would be just one more person to whom I didn’t matter.

One love is easier to write about because in the end I did everything I could to make him stay. I had learned that pushing would eventually push him out of my life. I’d done it once before, and I didn’t repeat that mistake. I was all in. He ended it. That was his choice. I got hurt.

The second is so much harder to write about. This relationship will probably not get much air time. Not because it didn’t mean anything, but because it meant everything. It was and still is an incredibly complex relationship for reasons I don’t care to talk about. He and I both made mistakes. I made more. He is a saint for putting up with me for so long. He let me push him for three years, and he always bounced right back into place where he held me tight and told me he loved me. He stayed until I gave one final push. I pushed him right out of my romantic life. I let my jaded, broken self ruin the only good thing I had ever had in my life. We had created a life together with cars, a home, bills, joint bank account, plans for a wedding and a family. All absolutely beautiful and wonderful things I won’t write about. I was blessed to find a partner and best friend. I eventually let my past and our issues get in the way. I did what I always do: I let myself spoil it all.

I don’t like to talk about the good or happy things in my life when it comes to love because those things have faded into the wind. Instead, I talk about incredibly painful things like rape and PTSD; these things are not my fault. I didn’t do anything to deserve it, and I sure as hell never asked for it. And if I talk about it maybe some day I can be a part of change. What I have a hard time talking about is when the good goes wrong, and it’s all my fault.