My Silent Word For Every Story I Let You Tell

Two years is a long time to be with someone that you don’t love. To be in a committed relationship with a person that you are trying your hardest to learn to love. To laugh at every joke, trying to assure the other person that they are funny, when you have actually taken offense. To hold them or entertain them or give them their space, when all you want to do is get up and walk right out the door. And all your friends are convinced that you two are the power couple, the models for their future relationships.

And ending it is hard. Especially after all that time. Not just because you are hurting that other person. But because all those people who you have made friends with are now shocked. No one will really understand what went on when everyone had left the party, when the mess was cleaned up, when the doors were shut. You weren’t the one in that relationship. You weren’t the one smiling as often as you should, even though you were hurting inside. They will all sympathize with one and not quite understand the others’ rehearsed explanations.

And again, I will be the one misunderstood. To a stranger, I could easily tell my story without real feeling behind it. And for everyone else, I will have to coerce them into believing my sadness or regret. Telling them all the right things.

All I really want to say to all of you is that I tried. I ignored the selfish cooing of my own heart and put myself wholeheartedly into assuring his happiness. I read my Bible and self-help books and articles about what a good wife should do. About my duty to this man I have given my hand to. And while he did many good and nice things for me, that isn’t always enough. I saw his efforts at displaying his love. I acknowledge all the things he did to love me. But when you don’t love someone, you don’t love them. He has been a great companion and will be a great friend. And I am grateful for all the sacrifices he has made for me.

 But I can no longer be his wife. Not if I ever want to be happy.     

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