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*** Karis' POV***

I can't do this....

If I ever felt bad about myself, it is nothing in comparison to right now. All of those wasted weeks, almost two months I have led Vance to believe that I could fit into his world. The truth is, I am barely human. I don't deserve his world. I do not deserve Vance.

I had an idea that I would be nothing but trouble. Apparently, I still haven't learned to trust my gut. Maybe in time I can learn to listen when I know the answers. That has always been an issue for me. It hasn't changed.

Laying in bed, my stomach is in knots. I'm not scared of Christopher. If anything, I am scared for him. My choices have brought him to his breaking point.

The look of sadness in his eyes was not lost on me. He plead with me for yet another chance. That is not something I am at liberty to give. Christopher must take responsibility for his actions or lack there of. That is something that has been a constant pet peeve for me concerning Chris. He has no accountability. He believes that those around him are at fault for his mistakes. Either they are the root cause or they have somehow inadvertently created a rise in him that justifies his reactions.

Therapy taught me that all of those personality traits are characteristics of a narcissist. In my mind, that is beyond reproach for me. Selfishness is not something that I tolerate well. I expect more from others as well as setting even stricter standards for myself.

Christopher is often one to speak of integrity. He holds that characteristic in high regard. We both have different views on what a man of integrity produces. For me, integrity is defined by doing right even when it is difficult. This covers the spectrum from how you treat people to keeping your word. Chris was very loose in his interpretation. Although his ideal was that he kept his word to the best of his ability; he did not extend that to money. Nor did he extend that to the way he treated people.

On too many occasions to count, he would speak his mind without regard for being right. His excuse was hiding behind a veil of "truth". He believes he is a truth seeker. His integrity was not degraded, in his eyes, when he scoured my bank records during our divorce. He searched through my belongings after I had filed because he thought that the only possible explanation for me leaving was an affair. When no evidence was uncovered to prove his theory, he neither apologized nor dropped the accusations. Instead, my husband decided I was better at lying than he was at exposing the truth. The reality was and is that I just grew tired of living as a roommate as opposed to what I had volunteered to by marrying him. I wanted a companion, a lover and a friend. Chris wanted a warm meal, attention and a drinking buddy.

I could overlook so many flaws in our marriage. However, when the drinking became Christopher's soul focus I was unwilling to watch the tailspin any longer. His quest to have a good time began and ended with alcohol. For the longest time, he was a pleasant drunk. The stumbling was comical because laughter followed the action. He was almost sweeter when intoxicated. To be honest, that's where it all began. After introducing myself to him at a bar, it seemed I only met him while he was under the influence. Late night parties to booty calls, his weekends were filled with booze and me. In those moments he started slipping his hand into mine. He began to caress the side of my face or look at me longingly.

The heat that crept up my skin during those intimate exchanges is why I started to feel hope that we could be a couple. There were moments of sobriety. At first, he was distant. As a matter of fact, he was distant for far longer than I care to admit. Sometimes, we went weeks without speaking. He did his thing while I continued to live a life full of responsibility and goals. I should have noticed the trend. I should have admitted that he was showing his true colors. I just refused to accept that he wasn't the man for me.

In being a responsible person, I knew that I was failing myself. His continuous rejections just made me want to persuade him that I was good enough for him. I had something to prove to myself. I often told Chris that he didn't have to change. That I loved him just the way he was. I did.

The issue with not changing is the inability to grow. While I was growing, reforming, Chris was standing stock still. I excused that. Life happened around us, circumstances arose. In those times of hardship, it was me who changed. Chris came through with just small scars while I harbored deep lesions. I began to resent the fact that he could drink a little more and still manage to hold his composure.

In actuality, Christopher did change. The reality of the situation was that we both were changing, in opposite directions. When Christopher appeared to peak, his drinking became overwhelming. The more that I did not drink or party, the stronger his words became. He started making small comments that rolled off of my back with ease at first. I was all too willing to ignore the way his words tore into me like barbwire aGainst my flesh. The tiny mentions of my weight, depression or lack of enthusiasm for drinking were easily dismissed.

I didn't notice how he hurt me until it was too late. By the time I was aware that he was destroying me slowly, I already hated him and myself. I couldn't look in the mirror to face what I now saw as a hollow shell of myself. I couldn't look at my husband with eyes full of lust and love. Adoration was replaced by resentment, discontent and loathing.

One day I found myself praying for a new life. I just wanted to appreciate the next life since I had done such a piss poor job of excelling in my current one. That epiphany led me to demand change for both myself and Christopher. I felt as though I was being swallowed whole in a sea of depression. My only escape was books and music.

Christopher saw me changing. He commented. He got angry that I couldn't snap out of my cold spells. What he didn't see is that my body and soul were changing faster than I could adapt. The weight gain, sadness and overall dismay had already seeped deep into my bones rendering me pathetic even in my own eyes. All of these things lead to the moment that I took refuge through escape.

In these dark hours of loneliness, I see more clearly than I have before. I set myself up for failure by excusing his actions. I accepted things temporarily that became permanent. It was my responsibility to hold my ground on my own standards. I failed.

Shifting in the bed, the lack of body heat, and vast emptiness on the left side of the bed, reminds me of my current situation. I am angry. I pushed a man that I have feelings for away. I didn't get to fully articulate my thoughts to Christopher either.

Christopher blames lack of communication on our divorce. He isn't entirely wrong. He just isn't right. I spoke. My tears yelled. My silence screamed. I tried my best to convey my needs. My actions spoke so loudly that I often felt I couldn't help but be heard. I was wrong.

The problem is that no amount of speaking can make up for the fact that you have no audience. The wrong person will always find fault in your catalyst to portray your desires. Christopher was the wrong person, for me.

He was not asking me what I needed because he was interested in providing. He wanted to make sure that he gave just enough to seem like he was meeting my minuscule desires. That alone is a narcissistic trait. Chris wanted to make sure that others would side with him in the case that we parted ways.

It worked.

Our friends saw just enough of Christopher's "effort" to believe that he had exhausted his sundries trying to meet my high demands. That type of love is very one sided. It leaves the other person feeling as though they are impossible to love. He didn't fail. He succeeded immensely.

So, where do I go from here?

The easy answer is, just breathe. That's what all of the sympathetic ones say. It's bullshit. That's a fucking cop out.

Breathing means existing. I do not wish to merely exist. I have done that for far too long. What I want is to move forward. How do I get passed the hurt? How do I let someone else into a room that has been sealed tight? I can't just open the door. I don't have the confidence to just burst through the guarded walls.

Everything is such a fucking mess. I don't know how to move forward. I don't want to move back. I am stuck in a space where I feel lonely yet so completely overwhelmed by everything that I have allowed.

I angrily sweep my shaking fingers across my cheekbone. I do not deserve to cry. I have brought all of this on to myself. The truth doesn't stop the steady stream of my pain from soaking my shirt.

I cry and cry. When my tears come down harder, the guilt slams into me full force. Loud wails leave my throat while my chest rises and falls rapidly. My head begins to thump, building pressure. I pray through my trembling lips, desperate to stop myself from spiraling. It doesn't work.

Within minutes, I am clutching my chest where my heart drums against my fingers like a stampede in the dry valleys of Africa. My body begins to shake as a I feel paralyzed by the weight of my anxiety. My head feels so full I just know it will explode.

Before I can stop myself, my cries become louder, screeching out like an endangered feline. The high pierced drone of my own pain causes my head to lash out at me. The migraine begins blinding me, replacing the blurry version of my room with white and black dots.

Nothing is better. Everything is a cacophony of emotion. The vortex of my own guilt swirls around me while every thought I have bounces against my fragile subconscious.

In the late night hours I find myself falling apart like I never knew possible. Not during my first break-up, my first divorce or even after leaving Chris have I ever lost this amount of control. When my grandmother died I found pain unbearable yet, I would easily welcome that level of sorrow over this.

The noise doesn't become quieter, seeming to find a source for it's energy. The tears come profusely with an ample supply of tremors. I lose myself in the despair of all I have endured, fought for and lost.

As I pick the truths from the variation of words, flashbacks and realities; I continuously fuel the panic attack. Having no control over the dark spaces I currently occupy, I succumb. I let it take me to a place where I have never ventured.

The pain washes over me, through me and around me. I consume it, absorb it and breathe it in. Letting everything weigh in on me like I feel as if I deserve, I welcome the helpless feeling of dying a slow and painful death.

The white spots disappear as the darkness saturates my vision. My breathing multiplies allowing no room for oxygen. My head rocks back violently while the stress swallows me whole. I accept the assault until finally, I feel absolutely nothing at all.