The breaking point had been reached. The silence, the tears, the screaming had been played out until all meaning once found in them was lost. I leaned my head against the door, the only tangible representation of the separation existing between us. It was then that I realized that I both loathed and loved that door. The side I was on was safe. Familiar. There existed a certain hope that somehow, things on your side weren't as horrible as I feared. Who knew, maybe my suspiscions were wrong. Maybe you were leaning your head on your side of the door, wondering what exactly went wrong and wanting to make it right.

You didn't answer my knock at first. No matter how I tried to convince myself that it was nothing, I recognized it as a bad omen. You weren't leaning on your side of the door. You were probably sitting with your back to the wall on the other side of the bed. You wanted me there almost less than I wanted to be there. But I couldn't continue the same way. I couldn't live in self-delusion. Again, I knocked, because I had grown weary of the way we were.

The door opened, but I did not come in right away. The air was thick with your fear and I knew then. I knew even then that you had let me down. The questions flowed like blood from an open wound; questions to which my heart could not bear the answers. Where have you been? Why are you behaving like this? What have I done? My fault? How is this my fault? It was you who misled me. How could you tell me this lie and allow me to base my life's greatest decision upon it?

At least, that's what I should have said.

From that point on, my effort would always be half-hearted. Your Judas act had cut deep and you did not possess the tools to mend the hurt. My inward retreat began on that night as I wept into my pillow and tried to erase your confession from my memory. Each subsequent blow over the months to follow forced me to curl tighter into an emotional fetal position until all I could do was search for my way - a way out.

I didn't answer your knock at first. No matter how I tried to convince myself that it was nothing, I knew I would not be returning. I didn't lean on my side of the door. Instead, I packed my belongings into a box while the people who loved me waited outside. You wanted me there almost less than I wanted to be there, but you couldn't bear to lose. I wouldn't continue the same way. I wouldn't live with your self-delusion any longer. My way was leading in an easterly direction and I would not look back.

Try"ing, a.

Adapted to try, or put to severe trial; severe; afflictive; as, a trying occasion or position.


© Webster 1913.

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