The Last Page

There was a journal i kept once of her, of my life while i was with her, and my life when i had left her. i almost filled a journal full of her memories, of our memories together, towards the end, the entries became more sporadic, unknown such was our situation. the journal details my life without her, my choices which led me back to her, the eventual realisation that i wanted to be with her, the steps i had to take to turn back down a different path, and then finally the emptiness that followed when she decided not to let me back into her life again.

The slowing flow of entries towards the end of the journal are a result of the limbo we were in. together and not together. commitment and no commitment. this was a time where i had wished to be, in her loving arms, together at last, i had managed to lie to myself, and believe my own betrayal. the time we spent together was time she was searching for another and in the depths of my blinded heat of emotion, i passed these subtle signs by. i ignored the space she put between us, i accepted being held at arms length. perhaps as a penance to pay for the pain i caused her, a wound i thought i could heal. as surely as the world turns round, she was to find another who had not ripped her heart into two. and i would find myself lost and confused. shocked at a truth so glaringly obvious to all but myself.

The last pages of this journal are still left blank. I left them blank years ago, so i could finish the story, our story, together. I dreamt one day of writing into these last pages the end of a fairytale, the happy ending that concludes a struggle where love conquers all, of romance and heart break and the impossible acheived despite all odds. i dreamt once of writing into those pages words to right all i had done wrong, and to forgive all which had been done to me. there were hearts once broken, trust misplaced. healed by the white blinding light of a miracle romance.

I can not bear to fill these pages with the truth now, that there will be no ending like i had imagined. i can not bring myself to put down onto paper, that she no longer loves me, that we are not together and can not be together. it seems like i would have to write these words in my own blood before i could believe it to be truth.

Until i can finish this journal, fill in those last few pages with what my life has become without her, and our eventuality which is all too true, i can not move on, i will not move on, i do not want to move on. putting that pen down to that paper, every scribe will be like a blade against my flesh, scarring along the way, bleeding emotion. i can not, i will not, i am unable to process such an ending.

I leave these pages blank, and as long as they are blank, i am deep in this hole of misery and regret. as much as i hate myself for it, i will leave these pages blank, i can not fill them with the truth right now, i refuse to let the story end like this. it should never have been this way, it could have been so much more, we could have been everything, instead of nothing.

 

It is an accomplishment to have kept a journal like that, but it sounds like it is contributing to your not being able to move on. I've had similar situations in the past, and found that it was cathartic (although painful at the time) to destroy the book. I chose fire, but a chipper/shredder would work well. It's not the right solution for everyone, and may likely not be the right idea for you, but I found that once I destroyed the written evidence of my misery I was able to progress past the plateau that I was in.

That, and I can never read my own writing once I've finished with it. Especially if it is personal. It's like it is a horrible embarrassment, even if it is only me who will ever read it; no matter how helpful it was at the time to write it.

Having said this, I still dwell too much in the past. For me, the journal is in my head, and as such I can't destroy it. Even if I could, I wouldn't. So if you do someday find a magic panacea which helps you move on, do please share your technique.