Drained

I've written and re-written in my head the speech I would say to him. Over and over again for the past ... four days now? At the office in a moment of still, at home when I'm trying to sleep, or doing dishes. On the bus, walking down Market Street, out to dinner with a friend. I haven't had a chance to say it — don't know if I ever will get the chance to say it. Perhaps it's best I don't. I'm not quite sure I want to, since it changes from moment to day.

But the stony silence hurts me almost as much as the betrayal, the complete and utter obvious disdain for my feelings or my self. I gave him everything I could give him, was there for him when he needed me, was practically his best friend, kept his secrets and defended his weaknesses, and this is how I'm repaid. An emotional punch in the gut (I guess that is some sort of payback, for the physical one I gave him), and some nobody, some new toy, getting the public affection that I always wanted. Someone who's virtually done nothing, getting everything I worked for.

(And yes, I know how pompous and wannabe-martyrical that above graph sounds ... let me have some inflated sense of my own value.)

I alternate between empty staring to furious cursing to sobbing uncontrollably and back again. I feel empowered and hollowed out and like a humiliation all at the same time.

This will pass. But right now I don't know what to do with myself.