The Various Faces of Truth
It finally came out — the truth.
The words shown in bright white lettering, suspended in a green bubble, and oozing with emotional plight.
Years of joking and teasing finally burst through the seams, disintegrating a thirty-year relationship, which now makes perfect sense.
All the answers came through in less than two-hundred and forty characters.
The truth, blooped in in it’s neon green talk bubble, stung for a moment. Then a warmth rushed over me and all the guilt of blowing up at him for yet another one of his inappropriate statements fell away.
I let out a small laugh and stared at the ceiling in relief.
The weight of its thirty-year burdening toxicity suddenly unlatched from my shoulders. I could move, I could breathe better.
It was a facade, all along.
I was chained to an idea, a one-sided perspective — why does everyone treat him so poorly? He doesn’t deserve it! The thoughts hitched in on subtle memories, moments where his truth bled through and I was there to witness it.
I’d swallow them down — he’s not a villain, he’s not my enemy. He is good. Ignorant and childish and can’t seem to listen for longer than a minute, but good nonetheless.
He’s content staying in the same spot, the same situation for the rest of his existence, but I am not. I never have been.
His sisters were “stupid” and “selfish” for leaving their family forty some-odd years ago. Now it’s my turn and the world is tipping off it’s axis, falling away and sucking all the crucial pieces of everyone else’s life down with it.
But it won’t happen that way, it never does.
The world will keep turning and I’ll be happier. Life will continue and we will all move on.
He may not, but that can’t always be my problem.
I have to let go of the guilt.
I have to accept this and move on because my life’s focus was based on a slew of manipulations — ones I hope were unintentional.
If he read this, I know things would be done.
He’d hate me.
But I think they’re done already.
They were done years ago. I just needed a moment, a situation pivotal enough to chip away at the passive aggressive-encased truth, shrouded in the folly of a man too insecure to just come out and say what he means, what he feels.
I blamed a friend nearly a decade ago. I blamed her for making me feel like I had to sugar-coat the words that escape my lips because she could never handle my truth.
But now I realize it was never her. It was him all along.
He never forgives. His memories grow harder, calcifying in bullshit he built up to remain on his self-made pedestal.
This is it. It’s all over.
We’re both at fault— we’re stubborn and our egos get bruised easily. Only I can forgive and move on, and I’ve got thirty-five years less of pain and anger and self-victimized nonsense to sully an otherwise hopeful and bright future.
I’ll enjoy living in my “la la land” any day over drowning in his hatred and one-sided perspective on humanity.
I’ll take my family — the one I chose, the one I created — and leave this place for good.
It’s all so clear now.
(Clear as mud, depending on how you look at it.)