And when everything fell apart and I finally found out he'd been married and raising kids and lying to me, obviously it had to be _me_ who was defective. Because he had a family, because I still loved him, he became the one who was okay. Everything was obviously my fault, due to my own lacks, my own faults, flaws. I trusted him, right? My gullibility. I waited too long to tell him I loved him. It was all my fault, I couldn't believe otherwise.

Besides, he was the more important one, obviously. He had a wife and children depending on him. I was obviously the expendable one. Obviously the one who should take the fall, if a fall need be taken. Why not?

I had, barely, enough self-awareness to realize that I was putting myself in danger with that line of thought. I told a few friends the things I would say if my mental state went too far south, and I am still ashamed with myself that I put that on them.

So here I am now, four years later, scared to open the door and let anybody in, scared to look inside myself because my brain is a nest of trauma and regrets and pain, and unable to remember most of what happened for a year after I found out.

But surviving. Slowly but surely, one foot ahead of the other, surviving. Recovering as much as I can with time, trying to keep my thoughts from looping backward, which is all they want to do sometimes.

@Soreth *hugs double plus extra soff and doesn't let go*