His and Hers.
"Her book was a museum of wounds. Mine is a graveyard"
She talked about her “book” a few times over the years…
She’d mention it. Reference it. Tell me she was writing it.
I don’t know where — tucked away somewhere safe, hidden, incomplete but still worth the weight to her worthy of mention.
The Book She Wrote
A diary, I guess really — pages and pages of hurt and feelings from her past, some more than 15 years ago.
“All the guys who’d wronged her.” she said.
All the men who hurt her.
All the wounds she’d been carrying, cataloging, memorializing.
Every man who’d ever left her — immortalized in her pain.
She’d joke about it sometimes.
Laugh and say, “You made it into my book.”
Like it was funny.
Like being written into someone’s collection of betrayals was a badge of honor.
But she never read it to me.
Never let me see it.
It was hers. Her pain. Her story.
And so I wasn’t allowed in.
thats where it stayed.
a mention, a reminder..
a place i lived in the pages amongst others where she could remember the versions of those she kept a record of.
and could remember to hate them when needed.
The Book I Write
And now, all these years later — here I am.
Healing. By writing my truth.
About her.
In a way of my own.
Not as revenge.
Not to hurt her.
But because this is what she unknowingly taught me:
Pain has to go somewhere.
The wounds that don’t get acknowledged — that don’t get spoken, that don’t get named — they fester.
They rot.
They consume you from the inside out.
She knew that. That’s why she wrote.
That’s why she kept a record of every man who’d hurt her — so she’d never forget, so she’d always have proof she was the victim.
But she never healed.
She just collected.
And I refuse to do that.
Why I Write
I’m not writing this to hold onto the pain.
I’m writing this to release it.
I’m not cataloging her failures so I can throw them in her face.
I’m naming them so I can let them go.
I’m not making her the villain forever.
I’m telling the truth so I can finally be free from it.
That’s the difference between her book and mine:
Hers is a museum of wounds.
Mine is a graveyard.
She wrote to remember.
I’m writing to forget.
Not deny.
But forget in the sense of no longer letting it define me.
Her Wound Became Her Weapon
She stayed stuck in the story of her abandonment.
She nursed it.
Protected it.
Let it become her identity.
And look what it did to her:
Made her incapable of receiving love.
Made her see every man as a potential betrayer.
Made her so terrified of being hurt again that she hurt first.
Her father’s wound became her weapon.
And she wielded it against every man who tried to love her.
Including me.
The Truth I’m Naming
So yes, I’m writing.
I’m writing the book she’ll never read.
The one where I name the abuse, the manipulation, the abandonment.
The one where I say out loud:
“This happened. And it nearly destroyed me. But I’m still here.”
Maybe one day another man will read this and recognize himself.
Maybe my son will, when he’s older.
Or maybe just me — reading it back and remembering:
I made it out of what felt impossible.
And I became whole again.
Her Book. My Lesson.
She wrote her book about all the men who hurt her.
But she never asked:
What if she’s in someone else’s book now?
What if, while she was documenting betrayal, she was becoming the betrayal?
I made it into her book.
But she never realized she was writing herself into mine.
Not as the love story I wanted.
Not as the partner I needed.
But as the lesson I had to learn.
The lesson that unhealed people will destroy you if you let them.
The lesson that you can’t love someone into wholeness.
The lesson that some people are so committed to their pain, they’ll make you the villain just to avoid facing their own.
Closing the Chapter
So I’m writing.
Not to hurt her.
But to honor myself.
To honor the man who loved her with everything he had.
To honor the years I poured into her.
To honor the truth of what happened — because someone needs to tell it.
And when I’m done, I’ll close the book.
Not with bitterness.
Not with hatred.
But with finality.
I’ll walk into the chapter where I’m free.
Where I’m healed.
Where I’m surrounded by people who don’t make me earn love.
The chapter where I’m no longer hers to destroy.
Her Tragedy. My Resurrection.
Yes, I made it into her book.
But she made it into mine too.
The difference is:
I’m going to finish mine.
Close it.
Move on.
While she’s still writing hers — still collecting wounds, still nursing pain.
And maybe that’s the tragedy.
Not that we didn’t work out.
But that she had a man who would’ve walked through fire for her…
and she turned him into another chapter in her book of pain.
The Book Worth Writing
So I’m writing my way out.
And I’m not looking back.
Because the story I’m writing now?
It’s not about her anymore.
It’s about the man I’m becoming.
The father my son needs.
The leader God’s calling me to be.
It’s about resurrection. Not excavation.
And that’s the book worth writing.
— B.L. Deux