Twisting the knife


Some people love to do it. Perhaps it’s a visceral pleasure, a sadistic thrill, I don’t know. I’ve always been the person who needs to understand the why. If I can explain it then I can get over it. I can put it in its little box and move on.

But what happens when the other person won’t or can’t explain. When the person you have come to depend on has a change of heart. But rather than fully explaining it, talking about it just stops.

Stops, that is, until they decide to tell you they miss their friend. Words which should be comforting serve more to eviscerate you. Just as you are starting to get your groove back, find your footing, recover from the emotional upheaval those four little words pop up in the chat box you have become accustomed to ignoring. “I miss my friend.”

And in an instant all of those feelings return. And you are right back where you started except this time the wound is deeper, wider and you can’t breath all over again.

A part of you wants to be angry, to scream at the person, “How dare you?” And the other part of you, the part which was reinvigorated by the relationship wants nothing more than to fall into that person’s arms and forgive it all. To be their friend again, to rejoice in the happiness you once had.

But you know, deep down inside, that small, rational voice tells you NO. Danger lies that way. So you wrestle with the decision and this twists the knife even more. All in all, I think I would have preferred to have been actually stabbed. Something tells me the pain would be easier to endure. And vastly easier to heal. At least that way you would have a cool scar to show for your anguish. When it happens mentally, you have nothing to show for it but pain.

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