How I lost the woman I love


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I found myself outside my apartment, standing by the side of the street, my back only a matter of feet from each passing vehicle. The driver side door-  pushing against my body with brunt force from her foot and locked securly in place between us as I leaned my weight into its side- mimicked the very purpose of a wall surrounding a castle. For protection. Our emotions resemble two armies at war and this argument being one of its many battles, I scaled the wall by resting my chin atop the door. My eyes- though uncomfortable seeing the tears that began forming in hers- were ready to attack, but retreated as both sides gave up fighting any longer. Silence lingered in the air but I knew it was time for me to follow her lead and wave my flag in surrender. My shoulders dropped as I released the tension in my muscles and exhaled the last of my breath before I asked her the only question on my mind. ” Am I ever going to see you again? ” Without looking up and after what seemed like an endless pause, the love of my life wiped her eyes and softly spoke. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

~☆~

The final arguement between my “ex” and I was two weeks ago although we officially broken up in the end of  September. After a little over one month of not speaking and spending endless hours trying to uncover my Moral compasses path, I began a dedicated and indefinite process, hoping to get her back in my life. I never intended to date her and I made that clear from the start. Initially, we were only physically attracted to each other and agreed from day one that we’re just hooking up. The sex was fine, but that’s not what caught my attention. Through long conversations I found that she was extremely smart and responsible. Seeing her became a daily ritual and she began spending nights— incredibly sexy lying beside me in bed and falling asleep in my arms.

While she vacations in Miami I felt detached from her, and I didn’t like it one bit. Two things happened that weekend; I realized I genuinely missed her. And I started building this ugly wall in means of keeping the seriousness of what we were capable of doing here. Which was becoming a couple.

I became a bad boyfriend. I stopped giving her the attention and respect she deserved which, after a while, put a toll on her and changed he way she felt about me. If I look back at my time spent with her up to this point, I recall all these times I’d catch her looking at me in such a way I can’t quite explain. Maybe it was just that she loved me. Sometimes she looked at me in awe. I can say that nobody has ever looked at me like that before. And I’ve lost that woman; she sometimes won’t look at me at all.

Being somewhat of an introvert, caused us many problems with the liking of me from her friends. We’d be invited to their cookouts and parties— I’d sit silently, sometimes on my phone and I’d usually not talk unless I was spoken to—and afterwards she would get a phone call and hear an ear full of my rudeneas. Really though, I don’t know how to talk to them because I don’t know them all that well. It takes me time yo open up and talk. Then, because my she started changing the way she felt about me— and i could read it off her like I was flipping pages in a book— I slowly kept things inside with her and started being more and more quiet. If she only knew how much admiration and love I had for her, then maybe things would have been different, but she was clueless I respected her and whom she gave her heart to.

After the breakup— when we began speaking to each other— it was bittersweet, if anything. Picture yourself on a train or bus; you are sitting next to someone—a stranger— and it’s almost intimate sharing that ride, being so close to each other but so far away also. That’s what it was like. I knew everything about this girl but I felt as if we’ve never met.

~☆~

Late one February evening— following a homemade dinner I cooked for us, which we ate in front of a lit fireplace, she rewarded me with a long overdue kiss— beneath a snow filled sky— as I walked her to her car. It was a big step between us— the gesture I anticipated all these months— and i knew by kissing me she had to lay down her guard, and chosing Valentines Day was the perfect excuse to do that. It was her gift to me; one that’s fragile and sped my pulse like an engine reving, so I gently unwrapped this present for me with my tongue and embraced her lips with mine.

The most important lesson I learned from this was never to make promises. Nobody is perfect and promises are meant to be kept— not broken. My heart spoke and when it did it promised her everything you can imagine, anything from checking the air pressure in her tires, to promising her the world. And when I promised her these things, I meant it. Making promises is a simple way of setting yourself up for failure and disappointing the recipient. Today, as I write this on my 33rd birthday, I’m more or less a failure if you were to sum up the relationship, although I gave it everything I had. What i can say warmly and sincerely is I fell in love with a woman. It was honest and true and I would never give the feeling I had for her away to anyone but myself. It was a privilege to love her, and it was a privilege to be loved by her.

Author: Jake Mitchell

Writing nonfictional & brutally honest experiences, stories, & events, from my life; both before, during, and following my intense destruction of myself and the people who were around me. All because I lived a life of lies, manipulation, and self-imprisonment, just a few of the many truths when you're an Active Addict. Although I'm very blunt, I tend to (or at least try to) write as humble, selfless, & full of gratitude, while sharing some of the tragedies and situations which most likely occured due to my addiction and the way I exsisted during that time of my life, as I only cared about and fiened for my next high or score. Please comment on any material I post. Although I'm quite ashamed and embarrassed for most of the actions, decisions, and outcomes, that happened during my torturous years of Active Addiction, I don't regret any of it. Now, by writing about these true stories and events, I'm hopeful another addict can relate to my pain, distress, and the Hell of using drugs. This HELL, becomes therapeutic and important for my recovery, reminding me that I am not the o my person who has ever done or thought these things. And through relating, I may be able to help another addict.

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