My thoughts were on the sense of isolation and despair I felt because he loved her instead of me.
They were the culmination of a life spent being told in an ugly kaleidoscope of ways that I was inadequate, inferior, repulsive, selfish, and simply too awful to exist from both the outside world and my home.
This was when I was 15. It took a long time, but things got better. I found life, the love of my life, and a sense of self.
But there is still immense pain from wounds, both new and old, and scars that simply will not heal. Even though the new ones are far less than the old ones, the pain is more intense. Maybe it's the lack of fresh territory upon which to inflict them. Maybe it's the weakness of resolve from age.
I know it is the most selfish thing that I could ever think of, but, if I could do it all over again, I would have pulled the trigger of that gun when I was 15 to spare me the pain of what was to come.
