I’m glad to know I never really existed in the first place. That this is someone’s hellish dream in which I am just a character, walking, living, breathing, but never really existing as a solid fixture in the plot. An extra.
Thank you for making that even more apparent, Grace.
You made me promise a lot of things when you left :
– I would focus on myself
– I would refrain from getting into any relationships
– I wouldn’t let my depression get the best of me
– We would still be friends
Two months have gone by, and where are we now? We aren’t friends. You saw to that yourself. You don’t keep in touch. Every time I’ve tried to say something, anything, it is met with cold short breaths. Your words like knives digging at my patience, stabbing at my confidence, and ruining any hope I had in love. A concept that now seems so foreign and false to me that I can hardly accept that it exists at all. All my friends “in love” are miserable; so am I.
I’m glad you’re talking shit about me in your underhanded way when all I did was love you. I never yelled, admittedly raised my voice though on the extremely rare occasion that we fought. Yes, I was passive aggressive when you always got your way. But it’s ok. Because it helps me not love you anymore. It helps me see you for who you are. You were selfish, and mean, and spiteful. You were a terrible lover. And you stole. Jesus did you steal. Figurines from peoples houses and thrift stores. Produce from the store or stands. You were unkind, Grace, to me and the people around you. You hated my generosity and my charity, that I would stop and talk to homeless people, give them cigarettes and change, how much I cared for people who didn’t immediately effect me, and how I would drop everything I could to help a friend in need… And you would never admit it. You refused to talk to me about anything going on inside your head. It appears to me that to you, I was just a stepping stone through Portland. A way to survive. That’s how our relationship unveils itself to me now. And I want hate you for it. I want to hate you now.
I’ve spent nights wishing nothing but the worst for you. Unspeakable things that I have never wished on anyone. I’ve sent silent curses into the air for you to never get your childish novella published, that some douche bag you sleep with on a whim during one of your “I want to be a slut” phases knocks you up and leaves you high and dry. But where will that get either of us? No where. Because the truth is, we were both unhappy. We were both turning into people we didn’t want to be. The worst part of it all is that neither of us could either admit it or were willing to talk about it. I don’t know which is which for who, and I guess it doesn’t matter now. It’s over, you’ve moved back to Florida and on to new things, and I’m still here, in Oregon, pulling myself back together, having to redefine who I am after another failed attempt at a lasting relationship. They’re about compromise, and change, and adaptation. At least I can admit that. Looking back on it, all you ever wanted to do was escape, and when circumstances left us in a position where we couldn’t flee Oregon, it was my fault. It was always my fault, and your hands were always fresh and clean. It’s fucking bullshit.
The problem here is really that I’m angry. I’m angry because no matter how much I want to hate you, I can’t. Because there was love between us. At least from me there always will be in some measurement. My only advice to you is to stop being selfish, take other people into consideration before jumping to conclusions or making decisions.
But I doubt you’ll ever really change.