#cant wait for what the amphibia art book eill do to me

[jojoturnip]

Maybe what I needed you to understand was the love I had for him.

The love I still have.

I've been making a timeline of my life in therapy. It's split between good memories on top and bad ones on bottom. There's so much bad, that much you were willing to accept, but there is a lot of good, too.

Sometimes it's the good that keeps me up at night more than anything.

A younger me runs around our old apartment carrying the wand he hand-carved me from cherry wood ("all purpose, good for a young girl to learn all sorts of magic on"). I asked him to keep a crystal point off the top unlike the other wands he made because I liked to wave around, and I was afraid I'd hurt something I had a sharp tip. Besides, I loved that wand so much I kept it under my shirt, at the ready for playing pretend any chance I got. I'd have scratched myself to hell and back if he had added a point. He put a piece of polished, smooth citrine on the other end of it so I could at least channel some energy.

Citrine was my favorite stone. Because it was yellow. Because I loved the color yellow. Because it meant happiness and joy and sunshine. Because that's who I was.

He wrote me a song once, before he even got with my mom officially. He named it, "Sunshine Girl." My mom recorded me singing to myself in the mirror as I blow-dried my hair once and sent it to him as he wrote it. I was so embarrassed.

He would pick me up from school a lot, and I loved that part of my day. My elementary school got out earlier than my sister's middle school, so it meant riding around with him and getting fast food while we waited. He would teach me about music on the radio, tell me my voice was much prettier than Melissa's, and listen to all the drama I would bring home from my day.

When he went to auctioneering school, we practiced the tongue twisters together in the living room, laughing about Betty and her butter batter. He graduated as the valedictorian of his class. I cheered him on from the audience.

He taught me to shoot a bow, adjusted my draw weights and sights, cut me grips from his leather scraps, and fixed up the old long bow when I snapped it from pulling it too far. His hands over my shoulders as he taught me how to stand, over my three fingers as he taught me to aim. He made a quiver with me by hand with buffalo rawhide and sheep leather and sinew. He brought home horse hair for fringe but I was too freaked out to add it. He made the fringe from leather and pony beads instead.

The wand and the quiver and a locker we painted together and so many more things he gave me, made for me are sitting in that storage unit I'm supposed to empty. I don't know how to face them all.

I love him. I miss him. I think that's what you'll never be able to understand.

You didn't want to understand.

I have to juggle what he did, how he hurt me, with how he loved me.

We can call it grooming or gaining my trust or a false childhood built in manipulation, but that doesn't change the fact that it was my childhood. My reality. What I know love to be.

You said you couldn't handle cognitive dissonance. Can't you see I was born from it, bred from it, grown and germinated from its hard and rocky substrate?

A friend told me she thinks I drove you insane. The way I hold and stitch these contradictive truths together. I think that's the most reasonable explanation I've heard so far.

A part of me wants to apologize here. I am sorry that my life was too much for you to bear. That it scared you to see me go back to my family, to love people who hurt me time and time again. I know that must've been hard. I do understand where you are coming from.

Another part of me knows that I never asked for you to take that problem as your own. I never asked you to deal with my parents. I never asked you to save me. I didn't want that. I just wanted someones shoulder to lean and crash on while I carried the burden myself.

Instead, you told me that it was too much for you.

Instead, I supported you through every goddamn second of you refusing to take care of yourself. How was that not too much? You had the option to change. I cannot change my memories, my childhood.

You ask me to lose my family but you cannot get new parents like you can a boyfriend.

You like to compare my situation with you and your ex, a fool's comparison. Your abuser did not raise you. You keep your life when you walk away. You were not made of a boyfriend you met in college. Our situations are different. Our lives are different.

We are different. You never seemed to get that.

My life is tainted. I can't look through rose colored glasses, the stain remains. But I can't get rid of the memories either, or cast them out in distaste. They are a part of me. They are what made me.

I think I needed you to see that.

Remember a week before you broke up with me, you called asking for the explicit details of quite possibly the worst events of my life. Things I can't write about, much less talk about. You said you wouldn't be able to understand me without knowing.

You left me crying on the phone. It was never about understanding.

It took me one and a half years to tell you the bad stuff. It was harder to tell you the good, you know. It's all racing around, conflicting inside of me, too. But if you wanted to understand me, know me like a partner should, it required knowing the good. Seeing me, and how I am built of cognitive dissonance. Seeing the power that it gives me in empathizing with you and others, and the pain that it gives me, too. My existence is a fragile thing.

They were not excuses. They were glimpses into my mind. Into what I go through every single day.

When I let you in, you only wanted to see the bad. But you have to see the good, too. The gut wrenching good that bleeds out of me in yellow. The citrine stones and bamboo arrows and rainbow cheesecakes and Annie lockets.

I'm a storyteller, and I wanted you to know my story. You only wanted to hear a parroted version of your own sung back at you.

I am not you. I never will be.