Everything I do has roots in our shared history. You ruined… and saved… my life. This is a gooey, torn, warm letter to you. No matter how hard I try to be mild and placid about this, I end up blowing up into tears or I get flushed… like when you’re driving to a new place in a new city, and you are close to being late for an important meeting or interview. You know? That uncomfortable just-about-to-start-sweating feeling? I was always this ball of emotions. I wore my heart on my sleeve, so to say. That was the thing about you. You were clever, and cautious in love. No matter how much of my emotion I lent you, you would spend it all and leave me broke.
And you were the one. You did some fucked up things to me. I went on anti-depressants because you made me feel like crying, laughing, yelling was bad. I was meant to be like you. A cold, cool, quiet facade. Oh, but I did wish I could be you. The problem was, I came into this world with little grace and a huge sense of embarassment. I couldn’t ever just play off a mistake like you. So, I guess I couldn’t cut it as your girlfriend. I just wasn’t appropriate for the life you want to live. Okay.
Interjecting yourself here and there definitely gets my adrenaline going. Am I still in love with you? I finally feel like I am that “cool” woman that you could have loved… It only took a few failed suicide attempts to give up… Now, I actually don’t care what people see when they look at me, what they feel when they meet me. That shrewish sense of self only came to me after I had been hurt so bad… so bad that I didn’t care about anything. Running sustained me. Repeating “it’s gonna be okay” over and over, for seven miles every day, sprinting, as if this reassured the message. So I do still love you. Like a beat dog. I cannot lose hope that I will gain some approval from you some day.
This is a letter that you would ignore. Others will be bored by it, or call me asking if I’m okay. The truth of the matter is, I just wanted to say it. In a public way… like my heart being broken is a catastrophe worse than any other. But I have to confess it. It pinches the inside of my ribs when I mention your name, and I am not sure if I can ever love anyone as passionately as I did you. It makes me nauseaous looking at my husband sometimes, because I feel guilty for feeling the way I do. I need this documented so that when people see my paintings, and they want an explaination, I can refer to this letter. Every drawing, painting, song, story, gesture, or garment always relates to you. You Fucking Asshole.