This is the message you interrupted. Unedited between then and now. It's softly spoken, for what that's worth.
If these words cause you any pain, then I've sent them to the wrong person.
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This is sincere, but it's based entirely on my limited perspective and the incredibly narrow scope of transparency you've offered me. I could be wrong. I wish to be wrong. And if I'm wrong, I hope you'll tell me and accept my apology and have the grace to understand why I wrote these words and why they would seem so true to me within the only context I have access to. But I also understand that my mind is damaged, and that limits my ability to parse out perfectly sound Socratic or dialectical understandings of reality. So if I'm wrong, I hope you'll help me understand exactly how wrong I am. But I don't think I am. And I think even though these words would have hurt you once upon a time, I'm almost certain you'll find them relieving today. So, congratulations. You win. This letter is my surrender.
I'm happy to continue going to counseling as long as you're willing, but I understand your enthusiasm is for getting a resolution and not for participating in healing.
So I want you to know that every memory you have from the past two years of me telling you the various ways that I would preserve our love for the rest of my life - those memories don't belong to you. I wasn't talking about you. I don't know you, I don't recognize you. Those memories belong to the woman whose stolen face you wear. A woman I loved, who loved me. A woman I called my wife and dreamed of marrying properly as soon as I could carry us across the threshold of our hard times. A woman who was very deeply my best friend. My sun and sky. She would have hated you.
I'm sure that makes you happy, because you've always been clear about how pathetic you found those words, how much you didn't want them to begin with. So you get what you want, yet again.
I can't stand how cruel you are, how uncaring, how unsympathetic, how unaccountable, how unbelievably selfish. Part of me hopes that you're just the result of covid-inflicted brain damage. Either way, there's nothing left of the Marysue I knew. There's nothing left to fight for. I can't pretend my faith isn't just delusion anymore
You killed us both. A woman with a beautiful soul full of love and gentleness, and a loyal man with unmatched determination and endurance. And you did it for such shallow, fleeting pleasures. You unapologetically destroyed rare and precious things because you didn't want to put any effort into keeping them, because you wanted more, because you're insatiable. Because you're empty.
If I ever have the daughter I dreamed of raising with my Marysue, I'm going to name her Camille. And I'll teach her how to nurture all the gentle things I learned from my time spent with that woman, and how to steel herself against all the brutal things I learned from my time spent with you.
So, yeah. Schedule time to call me, and let's work out the details of finalizing a permanent end to this nightmare mockery of what's left of us.