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Temporary Therapy.

Times like these are when I drown myself in Colbie Caillat, Lifehouse, and Linkin Park. It's been a while. I, honestly, haven't really missed this.
Here I am, once again, bitching. Despite the personal promise I made to never abuse my LiveJournal, again. I'm not too torn up about going back, though, because it's very therapeutic to talk; even if no one but yourself is there to listen.
I'm heartbroken. But not really. But definitely. It's not a crush. It definitely is pertaining to the opposite sex. It's technically not anything. But it could have been. It could have been everything. And that right there? That's what kills me. The fact that I was right. That he doesn't love me. If anyone were to love me, it would be him. But he doesn't. Which supports my dreadful theory that no one will ever love me. Outrageous, I know, but I mentally go there. I don't want reassurance. Really, I don't. I simply want to post this, so that I can go back, later, and blush at how stupid, dramatic, panicky, childish, etc. I was.
You spend a year devoted to someone, talking to them everyday, for hours and hours, sharing things you've never shared with anyone else, and you get connected. Maybe attached is the right word. Maybe Stockholm Syndrome is the right term. It's not love. I know that. But it's close to it. And maybe, if I wasn't forced to suppress all my feelings, I would be comfortable and happy enough to say, out loud, and with meaning, "I love him."
But I can't. I fucking can't. Because I don't. At least I think I don't. It's different. It's all different. It feels different. And that difference in behavior, and feeling, is the .5% that causes me to continue to utter words of confusion. Words of self reassurance. "I can't", "I don't think", "I shouldn't"... I love the companionship. I love feeling, and being told that I am, beautiful. I love that he's always there to talk to. I love that he looks out for me. But peel these away, and factor in all the times he wasn't there, and all that's left is the compliments that I receive; compliments that I only have to look in the mirror to see. And really, what's in this relationship, this friendship, for me? It's all circumstantial. But don't get me wrong; that is all I really want. Companionship. A friend. A lover. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He wondered aloud, last night. "Sometimes I wonder if I bring you more happiness than pain." I gave the answer, "You make me happy. Which is what hurts me." Then I played off that honest response as spacey texting and talking talk. Even though it's the God honest truth. He hurts me more than not, because he makes me happy, which I then feel guilty about, because I have no right to be made happy by him.
It's a tumultuous relationship. It's fixed me in so many ways. But, take it away, and I break, again, because I've only ever been broken. It's a temporary distraction. A solution to an 18 year problem. It's fun, comforting, and overall, great. But it isn't love.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

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