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I was angry today. Not at you. At myself. Unlike you, I’m woman enough to own my mistakes.
It was a cold November afternoon. I sat on the floor. With my knees pressed against my breast, arms around my legs, I wept inconsolably. There was no one in the house. I was alone. But I wish you were there. I wish you could see your only accomplishment. Your only legacy — you ruined someone’s life beyond repair. I hugged myself tighter and closed my eyes so tight to squeeze out every last drop tear out of my body.
It was the last day I thought of you as a man. You know why — it was the last day I doubted myself as a woman.
It’s June now, it’s cold here in Toronto. Today, months later, I felt like sitting on the cold floor and crying to ease my pain. I did that. I sat on the chair, looked at the steady pile of setbacks, one failure after another, tears rolled down my cheeks. My every effort to build my life comes crashing down week after week. But now, I don’t wipe my tears off. You know why — I don’t wear mascara any longer. You not only ruined my life. You took away the little pleasures I had in my already fu*ked up life. Wearing mascara is one of them.
Everyone tells me to move on. Sometimes I nod at their suggestion. Sometimes I smile. How do I tell them? I like men. But I don’t trust them now. I love love. But I don’t have the courage to fall into it now. I am so broken if a man would try to fix me, I’m scared I might pierce his heart with my jagged edges. What you did to me — I can’t do it to someone else. I’m broken, not evil.
People say there are 5 stages of grief. We jump from one stage to another. I was angry today. Not at you. At myself. Unlike you, I’m woman enough to own my mistakes. Giving away my life to build a life with you — one of the many mistakes I’ve made. Doubting my self-worth was another. The list is so long if I write about it, it will not be a poem, it will be an odyssey. And I would end up feeling like a Greek tragedy. Some say I already am.
But let me tell you something — from a broken woman to the man who broke her — loving you was not a mistake, it was a bloody sin. I’m paying the price of it with my life.
A version of this was first published here.
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A Company Secretary by profession, Saru found her true calling in writing. She blogs at
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