And that is the really tragic part. I have to start all over again. Things were awful, then they were okay, then good, then wonderful. And now this. And this is the worst. I keep thinking about it, keep going over it in my mind, trying to make sense of it. But I can’t. It’s like trying to get two and two to add up to three – frustrating and futile.
But I haven’t lost my faith in love and I don’t want meaningless kisses. I want something real and I am prepared to wait, albeit grudgingly. I wonder is it really possible to love someone and for them to love you in the exact same way, or at least the exact same quantity, not less or more? I don’t know which is worse, when someone loves you too much or not enough. Or not at all. Yes, that’s the worst one – when your heart is completely and inexorably wrapped around someone else’s and they’re oblivious or indifferent. That’s the very worst. That’s like a knife to the stomach. It’s throbbing and acidic and you can feel everything fading away and draining away. And what can you do? Nothing. It’s too late.
Depression is a funny thing. A queer thing. And maybe it should be a private thing. Because it’s not the most agreeable thing. And I would give anything to erase all the times depression reared its ugly head in the past four months. It’s not fair. It never crossed my mind that it would affect anyone else. Just me. And that’s the way it should be. But, sadly, it’s not. We are all only human.
I wonder will it matter to everyone else? I am so naive.
I want to kick myself for these last few months.