“Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” —Sylvia Plath

The words hurt.

Or, maybe…

The venom of the disease is horrific. It will destroy me if I allow it to.

Or, maybe…

The truth in the words hurts. The reality that I wish was different … but isn’t.

Or, maybe…

The words hurt because they match the actions that (I interpret to) mean I am irrelevant in this relationship. The person I love either too sick or otherwise unable to love me back or show me kindness that is normal between two people who care about one another.

And I keep trying and wanting a “different” answer, keep trying to “force a solution” that lets me find some small happiness in this relationship. But all relationships are partnerships of some sort…