Mistaken Identity
I’m not upset that you introduced me to
“the love of my life” in my twenties.
I’m hurt that you didn’t stay,
that you walked out when my abuser stepped in.
You let him charm his way between us
and form fraudulent bonds with me,
skewing lines you knew
I would’ve never wanted blurred.
Yet, you voiced no concern.
You never said, “This isn’t what love looks like.”
Instead, you let me believe the lies.
You kept distant.
Remained silent.
Withdrew your friendship.
Allowed fewer and fewer calls,
until unanswered text messages
and dismissed emails became the norm.
You saw me struggle and let me flounder.
Or did you even see me at all,
burying your head in the sand?
Apathetic.
Unattached.
You chose to be unbothered by the effects this person had on my life.
What kind of caring person acts like that?
Your silence made me believe the problem
evolved from my broken past,
that I wasn’t worthy of a healthy relationship
built on honesty…
trust…
love.
So I started believing I deserved
the gas lighting…
the demeaning…
living with twisted realities that made no sense…
all of this happening
while the growing pit in my stomach
warned me of danger lurking
near the edge of darkness.
I became “less than” in someone else’s story
to survive demons behind closed doors.
Every day, the reflection in the mirror
looked less and less like me,
partly because I didn’t have a friend there
telling me, “You’re slipping away.”
But that didn’t faze you, did it?
You were ok allowing me to waste years of my life
believing my spouse’s distorted world views equaled truth,
that his reality had to be mine,
that I wasn’t worth inconvenience
and uncomfortable conversations.
I spent years wondering what I did
for you to abandon me,
for you to treat years of sacred friendship
like nothingness.
You were like the older sister I never had,
my kindred spirit,
my best friend.
And now?
Ironically,
I call you my former teacher…
a story I once read…
a history lesson learned the hard way…
or maybe it’s a lesson I never learned at all.
