An open letter to the worst man I’ve ever loved:
As many hours and weary midnights I’ve spent castigating you for your moral failings, I’ve vaporized equal ridicule for myself. How could I have loved you? Even as the calendars change and the distance between our last goodbye grows, I’ve still hated myself for loving you. Whatever crimson flags frantically fluttered from your being, I either ignored or remained unseeing to them. Here is what I have learned in the past several years of reliving the trauma of your layered betrayal: there is no fault in love. The extension of compassion, enveloping another with cultured gentility was not a mistake. Your choices to compromise your own integrity cannot diminish mine. The cyclical dialogues I crafted to minimize the overwhelming love I had for you have finally quieted. I realize that in my attempt to discredit the potent adoration that I held for you, I was undermining The philosophical whimsy of compassion. Your level of deserving does not negate the sacred extension of love, my reaching toward you with genuine benevolence, no, not at all. So, today I do not hesitate to say I loved you. I loved you big time. Instead of dampering my vibrancy, this love, any love emulsifies my connection to this life. You may have been the worst, but you won’t be the last.