Handwriting

I was looking for something in a drawer.  Searching.  Digging.  And there it was…a note.  Mundane, containing no special information whatsoever.  But it was his handwriting.  My ex’s.  And suddenly, I hurt.  Snake-bit.  In the heart.
 
Started thinking about him.  How special I once thought he was.  How totally head-over-heels in love with him I was at the beginning.  How many hopes and dreams died when he left me.  And that’s when I realized.  What really hurt.  What I’m afraid to admit.
 
It’s easy to look back on our marriage and, while not really blaming him, acknowledge that he never loved me.  That he fell in love with someone else.  Left me.  Things happen…sometimes those things are bad and hurtful.  But not technically my fault; more his responsibility than mine, even if it takes two and all that.  Yet the truth is sometimes something you don’t see when you lightly examine facts and take them at face value.  In this case, at this moment in time, a hidden truth (or what I perceive to be truth – a truth I am loath to admit) came at me from the side and mugged me.  Couldn’t avoid it. 
 
Looking at his handwriting, feeling the sadness of the loss even after all these years, I realized the thing that hurts the most is that I probably never deserved his love to begin with.  Being so screwed up and all.  Being so broken.  And him not loving me probably had a lot more to do with me, and with me being totally unlovable, than it ever had to do with him.  I fear the failure of the relationship was probably more on me than on him because I’m such a mess…so who could love me?  Really?
 
Ouch.
 
No little love notes in his handwriting were ever left laying around.  Because he didn’t love me.  It was always something practical.  “Pick up milk.”  “Combination to lock on gate.”  “I’ll be home at 5:30.”  Nothing tender.  Because there was no tenderness in his heart for me. The note I found that sent me back in time was the gate combination.  His handwriting was still so familiar.  I loved his handwriting.  It’s artistic and very stylish and neat; like a draftsman.  I loved him once.  With all of my heart.  I loved his hands; those hands that wrote practical notes.   I thought he was the most amazing person to ever walk the face of the earth.  But he never, ever loved me back. 
 
And I can’t blame him.
 
He wasn’t a horrid person.  He had good characteristics and bad ones, just like everyone else.  He made mistakes.  He did some things right.  He failed a good deal too.  Mixed bag.  But aren’t we all?  My problem is that my bag is mostly ugly and yucky and broken.  Whereas your average person is a good balance of both characteristics, there’s not enough good in my bag to make me worthwhile.  I’m not worth the trouble.   And so I’ve never been loved.
 
And my greatest fear is that I never will be.  Ever.  Because I’m not worth loving.  
 
That’s the reality I was faced with when I saw his handwriting on the note I found tucked away in the back of the drawer.  The reality I have tried so hard to avoid.  That I have run from.  And it hurts more than I can bear.  I am afraid I am 2BRKN2BLVD. And that the reason I can’t find hope is because I have absolutely nothing for which to hope.
 

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