#the letter
Me, reading Persuasion for the first time: I don’t understand why there is so much hype around Wentworth
Me, once I get to the scenes with Wentworth in Bath: Ohhhh???
Me, after I read Wentworth’s letter: I get it now
(from my old account, written to me by @notnumbersix)
Original post date 2013
I received this last night from a blogger called notnumbersix.tumblr.com. I don’t know what to say, really, except that I am overwhelmed with gratitude that she shared this. I don’t imagine many writers experience validation like this in their lifetime. Here’s the letter.
October 2013 – Tumblr name: notnumbersix – original letter via submission page
I’ve been trying to write this thank you letter for almost two months now. It started off as a way to say thank you for making me feel not quite so alone and strange; in fact, you could sum up that first letter by reading, “Yadda yadda yadda – you’re the best.” But now the letter has turned into a thank you for changing the course of my life. I admit to being glad I was struggling to write the letter. It comes with a much happier ending now.
I came across your blog a few months ago, when I was searching the internet. I did not venture onto Tumblr until about two months ago, though, when I finally had to admit I needed your words every day. It was a low point in my life, and I found pleasure in never quite knowing what I would find when I opened your blog. Would you be funny? Would you be tackling a serious issue prompted by a question? (Yeah, I’m calling it a question. I admit to being bothered by the fact that it’s called an ask.) Would you post some random cat shot that irritates me to no end? (Because I scroll past those as I couldn’t care less about cats… but then I end up having to go back and look at the damn cat as it was obviously something you thought worthy enough to post. Damn it.) Would you Dom the hell out of someone with your words today? (I love when you do that, and wonder how many people realize you are doing it.) I needed to read what you wrote. I most looked forward to when you would share what was a true piece of your life. It made all the difference in the world to me. In the beginning, it was because you expressed thoughts and feelings that let me know I wasn’t alone. It slowly changed into helping me articulate what I was feeling. (This is when the first draft of this letter started.) Then, one day, now, I can say you helped me change my world.
I’m writing this because I need to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Your words are so powerful; the sarcastic ones make me smile or laugh, and the serious ones consistently make me think. The fact that you exist, at all, is perhaps the most profound. I am not sure my words of gratitude can be as powerful as I hope them to be without sharing a few things with you. I’ll try to make it quick (god help us all).
I am 39 years old. About two years ago I came across a book that changed my life. At least, it changed my understanding of my life. (No, it wasn’t Fifty Shades of Grey.) Honestly, it was better than therapy and more meaningful than prescribed exercises had ever been. It made me realize that I am not actually sick, that there are other people out there like me, and that there were words, labels even, to describe my thoughts and feelings. Profound doesn’t begin to describe the revelation. First reaction? Devour the series. Second reaction? Commence crying in spare time.
For the first time I was able to look back on the thoughts and actions throughout my life and understand what they were. I was able to identify them as something other than wrong. I had never been able to articulate what I was thinking or feeling because I had no experience with it; no frame of reference that was anything other than negative. I looked for guys with intensity. I needed it; was most attracted to it. Unfortunately, the guys I met were intense, sure, but… not safe. My first sexual experience was with someone who told me to get out right afterwards (wasn’t that fun to call my mother to ask for a ride home). I couldn’t believe he really meant to hurt me so badly so I went back to him when he asked. What did he do? He called me to an isolated place and pretended to shoot me with a shotgun (he had a friend hiding in the woods who actually fired). I had a choice then, right? I could try to get away from two boys with guns, or I could walk forward and… see what happened. Guess what I did? (Do you know how fucked up it is that I’m just finally processing this as sexual assault almost 23 years later?) This whole event really set the stage for me. I believed that this is what I deserved. I believed that this is what my life would be. I did not know anything different for the next ten years or so. Mostly crap experiences with boys who only took from me. Don’t get me wrong… many of these boys I had sex with willingly; but they never gave me anything in return. I gave and gave and never experienced the other side of the equation. To me, there was no other side to the equation. This was what was meant to be.
Fast forward to a not-so-consensual experience in college. When I talked to my parents about it, there was no question that what had happened was my fault. (I read that you can relate to this additional betrayal. I’m truly sorry to have this in common with you.) A guy assigned by the college helped me through it, and then after a few months had passed we hooked up (yeah, I know). He graduated the next week (I was a freshman). He found me a few years after I graduated and asked me to visit. I would travel over 2 hours to see him, whenever he called, and the most impactful thing he ever said to me? After we had sex once he said, “I can’t think of a reason for you to stay.” I got lost several times on my way home from Boston that night because I couldn’t see the road. I made some truly shit decisions because I was desperate to feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t invisible.
I never had sex with guys I didn’t love or trust. Problem was, they didn’t care about me. And the bigger problem was… I didn’t know any better. I looked for this unidentifiable thing in all the wrong places. I trusted all the wrong people. I never said no. I thought I deserved this treatment; that this was normal. It never occurred to me that I could have something more. I was looking for something I couldn’t identify, and so couldn’t frame it as something “other.” All I could say at that point was that I was looking for someone who would take care of me.
You have to understand, I never heard the words dominant or submissive before I read this book; only sadist and masochist. As the negative experiences accumulated in my life, I fell into myself. I internalized almost everything, had no one to share with, and pretty much lived inside my head most of the time. I presented as a fully functional adult, adept at my career and independent because I had to be, not because I wanted to be. A huge piece of me was walled off. I did not conceptualize of using the internet to search for something else. What could I have searched for without a name? An unidentifiable feeling?
Then I met the man who would become my husband. I was 27, and he took me on my first date. Yes, the first time a guy ever came to pick me up at my door, who took me out to dinner before we’d ever had sex, who opened my door for me, who held my chair for me while I sat down, was when I was 27 years old. I was dumbfounded. I had never experienced anything like it. I reveled in it. A bit later into our relationship when I told him about some of my earlier experiences, he held me close and tight the whole time. He didn’t push me away. He didn’t let go. He was angry on my behalf. This was stunning to me. I was utterly baffled by his reaction and thrilled at the same time. I was… in love with him.
He helped me realize I did deserve better… that there was better. We got married and had two children. He is my husband, my lover and my best friend. My family is my world; it’s my safe-haven from everything else out there. We fell into a pattern of survival for a while, because two kids and the nonsense that brings can be exhausting and overwhelming. We put them first, and ourselves second. Over time he began to take control of certain things, and I was thrilled to let him. Neither of us thought much of it; it seemed a natural flow to our relationship. But then one wonderful day my husband bought me an iPod for my birthday, and I discovered the electronic bookstore. And shortly after that, I read the series of books that changed my frame of reference again.
It was an epiphany. I told him everything. I unleashed a torrent of pent up enthusiasm and devastation and was finally able to say, “This. This is what I need.” Poor guy was a real trooper. It’s been a long two years.
My husband struggled with the labels. He saw the dark side of BDSM and had no frame of reference for positive. I didn’t either. What I had access to at the time was a formal, BDSM-club-type of reference, and I didn’t know that anyone did anything like what we were already so close to doing. He did not want the protocol-heavy/stylized domination he found on the internet. With our two young children, he struggled to see how this could co-exist in a house where we had to do homework and parent-teacher conferences and vacuum every 15 minutes. We continued our regular life, jazzed up our sex life, but he struggled with identifying what he was already doing with his desire to respect me and meshing all that with his baser desires. During those two years, it was like I could see my version of the promised land, but it was just out of reach.
This is where you come in. I saw your blog on the web. I devoured it. I realized that there was an actual human being, not just a romance book hero, somewhere in the world who loved his wife desperately, respected her strengths and dominated her in such a way as to allow her to grow. I followed your advice and began to talk to him more. I tried to use the words you wrote and I acted the way I thought he would want me to. I tried to be good, but honest. There wasn’t much of a reaction from him; I don’t think he had any idea that I was doing anything related to what I needed. I wasn’t making any progress getting through to him. I was left feeling lost and adrift.
You described perfectly in your blog once what I was facing; you called it a heart-breaking decision. I knew I wasn’t getting everything I needed, but the thought of leaving my family? Leaving my husband that I adored? I loved him, desperately. I just didn’t know how to articulate the missing piece in a way that would make sense to him. I remember clearly one night not so long ago, asking my daughter to brush my hair for me. I just needed a little love, and it was something she liked to do. She said no that night. I was so crushed by the whim of a six year old, that I realized I couldn’t really go on like this without building a wall so high I wouldn’t ever really come out again.
I started writing a thank-you letter to you. If I’m truly honest, it came this close to turning into a hate note… one that I would never send, of course, but… you just personified something I would never have. I was angry, furious really, that I never knew anything about this when I was younger. But, in a clearer moment, I realized that even though you were a total stranger and had absolutely no idea I existed, you were identifying a choice for me. You were framing out the parameters, and giving me the language I needed to understand them. It was a kindness, a respect, that most of the men I actually knew in real life had not given me before. (The horror of that truth will resonate with me forever.) You didn’t even really know you were doing any of this – changing the way I viewed my life. Like I said before, you dommed the hell out of me with words. And so my hate note turned back into a thank you. I would stay with my husband because I love him. I could wall off this part of myself and get a glimpse here and there; I’d been doing it for years. I would read your blog every day like a vampire and siphon off what I could. My needs were not as important as him and the life we’d built.
So, as I’m writing your letter, I realize that I’m slightly more articulate than when I speak. I’m taking the time to choose my words carefully and can move words around to all the right places so that everything makes sense. I realize what I’m writing is what I’ve been trying to tell my husband. But I also realize that if I could pair them with your words, it might form a better picture. One more chance, right? I’m a glutton for punishment, so why not try one more time? I search your blog and re-type everything you wrote that I thought would highlight your style of dominance. (By the way, I’ve decided I could never be a writer, due to my hatred of stopping to insert quotes for dialogue.) I print out the manifesto (**Please tell me you’ve watched the X-files, too, and can hear Charles Nelson Reilly saying the word “manifesto” when he guest-starred as Jose Chung… and then immediately hear the Dead Milkmen singing, “Charles Nelson Reilly, he’s our man…”) and give it to my husband. B promises he’ll read it. Days go by and I realize he’s not reading it. Happily, I knew this would be the case so I’d been working on my letter at the same time. I give that to him. I tell him that I need him to read the letter. I say that I believe it will make more sense if he reads it in conjunction with “the Dom With Pen stuff.”
He reads the letter, and your words. Later that night he tells me that he appreciated the letter and he realized how much it took for me to write it. He said he heard me. Two days later out of the blue he calls me at work and says, “I’ve written some rules.” I slide halfway down my chair. “I’m aroused writing the rules,” he goes on to say. I fall on the floor into a puddle of mush, I’m so happy. That night we talk about the rules. He’s chosen well, adapting what he read from you to our situation, and even picks a few of his own (that was a real surprise). I go completely stupid inside and can barely form a coherent sentence. I just smile at him and tell him I feel high. (And I did, too! Is that the endorphin rush I’ve read about? Whoa.) The moment of truth comes and I follow the rules. I am sitting at his feet while the kids are running around causing chaos. He’s running his hands through my hair. To anyone else this might seem ridiculous, but I’ve never been more aroused in my life. I’ve sat with him like this before, but never got turned on. I realize I am turned on because he told me to do this. I am finally doing something to please him, and he realizes I’m doing it to please him. It’s that missing thing I’ve been trying to describe to him for two years (and myself for even longer). I am totally shocked at my reaction, because until that moment, I didn’t realize I wasn’t broken.
I watch him closely now and realize I am seeing him grow. He is paying attention to whether or not I am following the rules, and last night he said, “Good girl” to me for the first time. Even writing about it now makes my heart skip a beat and stomach fall to the floor. He recognizes the difference in me. He acknowledged that I seem more settled and secure. He is happier than I’ve ever seen him; comfortable and calm. I am seeing and feeling things like never before. We are still the same people, but there is a tether between us that was never there before. When he passes me in the kitchen and pulls me into his arms, I bury my face in his chest and think, “You see me. I matter to you. I’m right where I want to be.”
Your words made this possible for us. They showed my husband that he could dominate and love at the same time. Two simple phrases may have helped the most: you wrote that you weren’t a sadist and your wife wasn’t a masochist. B finally understood that I wasn’t asking him to hurt me. Spank my ass red? Yes, and he’s all for it (watching the smile creep across his face when he mentioned really liking this idea was priceless). But until then he’d only seen the welts and cuts and bruises left days later in the images I’d found online. You also mentioned that it didn’t have to be anything but what we made it. This was a revelation. Our power exchange would be what it needed to be for us, and no one else.
You shared enough of yourself and your feelings about your wife that he and I were able to articulate what we had been reaching for all this time (we’ve been married 10 years, together for 12). Your words made it possible for me to attain something I never thought possible. Your words made it possible for my husband to feel righteous in his desires. To feel free? To be there for each other? To come together like this? It’s indescribable.
I wish that I could buy your books. I wish that I could support you some other way than this letter. It doesn’t seem enough compared to what I gained. The scales are unbalanced. It’s a bit odd for me to share all this with a stranger. I apologize if it’s all a bit too much. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be fully comfortable with the amount of personal sharing that happens on the internet… but in this case, from the depths of my soul, thank you for sharing a piece of yours with me.
Finally, in a bid to offer you something… if you haven’t already used this website, you should check it out. It’s where I do all my gift shopping:www.knockknockstuff.com. I hope one day you’ll put together a BDSM version of the nifty notes and citations.
November 2013 – follow-up via Fan Mail submission
Having submitted this letter some time ago, and not hearing anything, I began to wonder if I screwed it up somehow. I’m new to the technology and likely did something terrifying like submit it to the French consulate. So, I decided to write a follow-up via Fan Mail, in the hopes that you would get that one.
I wrote a Fan Mail note about a weighted blanket. I wrote in the hopes that an idea I had would help to balance the scales a bit more. You’ve written that your wife likes your weight on her, and you’ve also written that you have to be away from home frequently. You said the latter has been tough on your D/s dynamic. I thought you might consider trying a weighted blanket (you can look these up via google search… they come up right away). You could certainly make your own, but those tend to be oddly lumpy (and I doubt you feel like a sack of peas).
In the long, long ago, I was a school psychologist and worked with children with special needs. For the kids who had sensory-based issues, we’d use a weighted blanket to help keep them balanced (emotionally, physically). They feel just like the blanket used at the dentist when you get X-rays. So, I was thinking that if you began to associate the blanket with the sound of your voice, it would help when you’re away (but can still talk to her on the phone).
You’d have to make the association over time, of course. Start with the blanket, your voice close to her, your body weight close to her (not on top, though) or your hand stroking over the blanket. You’d slowly (over a few days) take your weight/hand away but your voice would stay close to her. You might want to consider a key phrase that initiates the use of the blanket (something like, “I’m here for you”), so that it gets her into the right head space. Then eventually you end up so that she associates the weight of the blanket with you and your words – your comfort and care. You will have a physical presence even when you’re not home.
I may be new to submission, but what is BDSM but a really happy B.F. Skinner? Seeking balance, notnumbersix.
December 2013
Do you ever feel like that guy from Indiana Jones whose face melts off? I do. I’m pretty sure I’m one of two things: either a moron who cannot work technology or an impatient ass. I’m uncomfortable with both options (hence, the melting), but I’ve come to the conclusion that I should own it anyway, and so here I am, giving this to you again. If you’ve gotten the letter and the fan mail previously, then I am truly sorry for bothering you again. If you haven’t gotten this before and I screwed it up, then I’ll hope the French are happy with my drama… and blame it on scarring that occurred when I had to make 5 copies of a medical malpractice lawsuit before copiers were automated.
I will also share that things continue to deepen in my marriage. Husband is going supernova and trying all kinds of new things, with deep joy and satisfaction. He tells me how happy he is that I brought this up, and he’s never felt closer to me. Thank you, Dom With Pen. Thank you. Nothing I can say will ever be enough! From, notnumbersix.—
I love this letter so much (especially her clever and playful mind). I feel her, deeply, and always get super emotional when rereading it. There’s so much of myself here, and I hope anyone out there who is dreaming of D/s reads this.
There can be a lot of grief and frustration from not being to give names to your desires and needs. There is a lot out there about BDSM, but you need to know where to look! So many little branches of fetishes and kinks. NNS was lucky to find those books (I believe they were the Masters of the Shadowlands series by Cherise Sinclair - great reads), and to find @dwpreturns who’s words helped her move her desires/needs from fantasy to reality. He’s a peach
What I take from here letter are these:
- Write things down. If you’re having a hard time vocalizing to yourself or your partner, slowing down and writing thoughful letters or journal entries will help.
- Cater to your own needs and relationship. Make it what you need it to be! It’s for you, not anyone else.
- Don’t give up. If NotNumberSix can get through all those horrid encounters and experiences to come out the other end with her husband in such a spectacular manner, so can you.
Commissionsfor @/reisearnor~! ^-^
AshBella from The Letter
———
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A Letter I May Never Send
Full disclosure, I’m currently writing this at 4 am. I suppose if you’re reading this it’s some time in the future when I finally finished getting everything out and decided to actually send it. At the time of writing, it’s mainly me just… needing to scream into the void so to say. So I apologize in advance for how rambly this is going to be. Literally just writing as things come to me.
That being said, I really hardly know what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. So much happened between us. A lot of which we never properly talked about, especially at the end.
I can’t say I necessarily regret that things ended. That would mean saying I regret what I have now. My child means absolutely everything to me and I would never wish her to not exist, regardless what I gave up along the way. I do regret HOW they ended. It’s been over a year since we last spoke as I’m beginning to write this and it still hurts.
There’s a lot of questions I often find myself wishing I could ask.
Does it still hurt you?
Are you like me and have tried to move on, but still feel an ache in your heart some nights when your mind wanders back to us?
Do you prefer to just not think about it at all?
Do you still talk about me? Reminiscing about some fun time we had, or maybe a quiet deep moment we shared?
One of my most vivid memories of you is the first time you held me. Laying on the futon, just goofing off. You saw cuts on my leg and you just rolled over and hugged me from behind. You told me, “you scare the shit out of me.” I don’t know if I’ve ever told you the feelings that came over me that night.
For damn near as long as I could remember I’d felt hollow and empty. Like the shadow of a person. Broken pieces that had been taped together to somewhat resemble a functional human being.
That one hug felt like it both broke me entirely and pulled my pieces back together all at the same time. It was one of only two times in my entire life that I felt really and truly wanted, cared about, seen.
It hurt.
I wanted so badly to just melt into the kind of love you seemed to be offering.
I wanted so badly to also run away and hide from the hurt and pain I was terrified would come along with that type of love.
Guess I did a bit of both?
I remember telling you about how friends I’d had for years turned their backs on me. You said you’d never do that. And you truly never did, even when I turned my back on you multiple times. I’m going to try and avoid sounding guilt trippy in this… we both know what I did and saying I’m sorry over and over again won’t change or fix anything. Lord knows it doesn’t make any pain I caused go away.
There are times I wonder how things might have been different if I’d talked to you more openly. If we would have worked things out, or if we were just meant to eventually drift away from each other. I tell myself often that we just were at different points in life. A big part of me thinks that’s true, but maybe instead of basically being strangers we could have still been a part of each other’s lives in smaller ways if I’d just talked to you.
I did always mean it when I said you were one of my best friends.
At times I think I miss that the most. Not and of the romantic aspects, but everything else.
The way you made me smile and laugh.
How big, warm, and comfortable your hugs always were.
Hell, even the way you used to purposefully get me riled up over something stupid just to hear me rant.
When you’d smile and wiggle your eyebrows. You have probably the sweetest smile on anyone I’ve ever known. I miss seeing it.
Sometimes it’s seemingly stupid shit that’ll make me think of you.
I was listening to Fruits Basket opening/ending songs in the car today and remembered watching with you. Anytime a Sasuke thing comes into Gamestop I still will think, “Oh I should send him a picture of this.” Going up to Shreveport reminds me of the time you went with me to see my psychologist and the waiter at Olive Garden gave us butter.
Sometimes a new game or show will come out and I still get the urge to message you to ramble about it.
I still have your number in my phone. I’ll randomly check Facebook sometimes to see if you unfriended or blocked me.
I’ve never been good at letting go of things. Especially anything that ever gives any kind of pleasure or happiness. Fuck, even when that happiness comes along with pain. Probably why I’ve always clung so tightly to people and things that were bad for me in the end.
Something I’m still working on. And apparently failing.
At one point a few months ago I deleted all the pictures I had of you off of my phone. A part of me regrets it. Probably the part that I literally just said doesn’t like letting go of the past. I guess part of me writing this whole letter is is somewhere in me hoping that somehow it’ll bring some sort of closure.
I don’t ever talk about you. That’s part of what hurts. All these memories of someone who meant the world to me, and I can’t even talk about you. Not about how I still miss you, or about some funny or stupid thing that just happens to remind me of you. At times I feel like I just need to get drunk and just vent/gush about you to someone for a few hours. Get it all out and maybe finally I could actually begin to properly move on emotionally.
Until then, I guess I’ll just keep coming back to this letter anytime I need to say anything. Wonder how long this will end up being. Wonder if you’re going to read it at all.
I’m not sure I would.
I’d probably see it and want to just delete it. Bury down whatever feelings I knew it would cause to creep up that I’d rather not have to face and deal with.
I’d want to delete it, but it would more likely just sit in my inbox, unread. I’d go back and stare at it sometimes, not opening it, but just seeing that it was there.
For me, at least, it would answer the question of “do you still think of me.” For a while that’d probably be enough for me. I’d just cling to that thought, not really wanting to face whatever else was inside.
I’ve never been good at accepting the idea of people I love no longer loving me. It’s something I’ve always preferred to just assume, because confirmation and me fully acknowledging it gave it a sense of permanence that felt like the end of the world.
Probably why I did a lot of what I did with you. Especially at the end. Instead of just telling you how I was feeling I just… stopped.
In some ways it was a way to defend myself. Others a way to protect you from me.
Knowing my own feelings for you and how I am when it comes to those sorts of strong feelings, I knew if I allowed you to remain in my life at all during that time I would never be able to let go.
Granted, I guess me writing this is me still not letting go… but I think I would have destroyed myself trying to hold onto something that was no longer there. I don’t know how long you’d have stayed for it, but the idea of dragging you even further down with me sealed the idea in my head that it was better for both of us if I just walked away.
Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. That was my reasoning at the time. I still feel like it holds water, to some degree. I mean look at me. It’s now 5 am and I’m sat here still writing this letter to you. Not sure where I’m even going with it. I just need to get it all out before I lose my mind, whether you ever end up seeing any of this or not.
I still have some of your stuff. Stuff I got you that you never took home. Stuff you brought over and forgot. I’ve debated asking Ariel to give it to you multiple times. Me clinging to the last remnants of you I guess. Without even pictures anymore it almost feels like if I give that stuff back it’ll be as if you never existed.
Even just sitting here thinking about it now has me on the verge of tears and wanting to message you “hi” just to see if you’d respond. Sound stupid? Maybe. Can still hear the sound of your voice in my head, maybe reassuring me that its not stupid.
Wonder what you would do if we saw each other in passing. Would you pretend to not see me? Would you meet my eyes and just keep walking? Would you smile back if I smiled at you?
I’ve been at work at Gamestop so many times wondering what it would be like if you walked into the store while I was there. Wondering how it’d make me feel. How you would feel to see me there.
I do a lot of wondering. Especially right now. Being alone at night and up at weird hours with a baby leaves me entirely too much time for my mind to wander. Usually to darker parts of my mind I prefer to forget exist.
I was doing good for a long time, you know. I got a tattoo that covers the scars on my one shoulder. I still think about it, though. The urges are still there, especially recently.
I’ve thought about going back on medication. Doctor offered it to me at my two week post-partum appointment because I was showing moderate symptoms of post-partum depression. Couple weeks later during my therapy appointment I was worse and was ranking as severe in both depression and anxiety.
I’ve had more breakdowns in the last month than I have in over a year. The loss of progress itself is depressing.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m writing this letter. Maybe it’s part of why I ran away from you. You reminded me too much of a darker time in my life, despite the fact you were one of the reasons I even got through that time at all.
I just had to stop writing for a minute because my baby spit her pacifier out in her sleep and was fussing. She’ll probably wake up hungry soon.
It’s been over an hour since I started writing. I’m really tired, but it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to tell you. So much more I feel like I want to say knowing this may actually be the last time I have the chance.
So at the time of writing this part its like 11:30 in the morning. I’ve slept. Still tired. Not gonna read through what I already wrote for the sake of keeping it honest.
Can say right now I’m having one of those, “am I really doing this” moments.
Day two of writing this letter. It’s a little after 5 am once again. Saw several posts yesterday about people changing. I often think about how different of a person I am now than when we first met, and even how different I am from when things between us ended. I wonder how different you are now.
Would we even still get along, if somehow things between us were erased and we happened to meet for the first time again?
Weird question maybe. It’s something I’ve wondered before with others I’ve lost contact with or cut out over the years for one reason or another. A couple of times the answer has been yes. Or at least a “sort of” yes. Some people I wasn’t ever close to before I’ve grown extremely close to later on. Others I was close with and now, while we aren’t strangers, we definitely don’t have near as close a friendship as we once did. Some of those lost connections I find myself mourning at times. Others I have sense enough to appreciate the distance.
As of right now I still flip flop a bit on how I feel about you. I miss the friendship we shared, but I question whether I’d actually want it back, if ever given the opportunity.
Acknowledging that I could miss something down to the deepest core of my soul… and yet not necessarily want what I’m missing back… It’s been an extremely hard thing to finally come to terms with.
I once read a post about how people you knew in the past that you no longer see or speak to walk around with a certain version of you in their head forever. Always thought it an interesting idea and wondered what version of me people from before had in their minds and what they’d think of the me now compared to that one.
Another post I see on and off over the years is about people being close and then drifting apart… and just going through life knowing bits and pieces of each other. Knowing a former friends secrets that you still haven’t ever told anyone, or how someone you once knew preferred their eggs cooked.
It’s always been a hard concept for me to believe that I in any way lived on in anyone’s mind.
I read about “emotional impermanence.” Sort of like the idea of object permanence. Where just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it suddenly stopped existing. Emotional impermanence referring to the idea that if someone isn’t actively stating or showing that they like/love me or enjoy company then they must automatically revert to hating me. Or at the very least feeling nothing at all about me.
Sometimes I’m not sure which of those options scares me more.
Hate means there’s at least some value placed on my existence. “Where there is hate, there was once love” is a saying I heard a very long time ago. Hating me at least means I still have some impact on people. That even if I were gone someone would think of me in some way and give some sense of confirmation that I existed.
Been a few days since I’ve written on this at all. It’s almost midnight right now.
Correction… it is now just after midnight cause my baby keeps fussing.
Not even sure why I’m on here right now. Had a really bad day and just in a depressed and venty kinda mood. Probably not the best headspace to be in while writing this, but hey…
I was thinking the other night about something that created a pretty big rift between us. I know I tried talking to you about it many times while we were still together. How you could never seem to properly have sex with me. You used to always tell me it wasn’t my fault. Never got much more of an answer beyond that aside from at the very end when you said something about a porn addiction. Which honestly just made it worse. It just reinforced an idea that had been put in my head long before you came along that I failed at being sexually pleasurable.
The whole thought process wasn’t entirely your fault, of course. Someone years ago put the thought there first, and it had plenty of time to fest and plenty of other experiences to make me believe it more and more over the years. It’s something I struggle really bad with even now. No matter how hard I try, I still can’t shake the subconscious level thinking that I absolutely need to be sexually desired by whoever I’m with at any given time. And if I’m not then my worth just goes completely out the window.
That being said, I also to this day haven’t ever fully forgiven you for blabbing about our sex life to other people. Especially parts of it that were really personal even beyond just being about sex in general. Or the time (times?) I would wake up to you touching me. That both made me feel violated and really shitty because it was like you had no trouble getting aroused when I wasn’t actively involved, but as soon as I even just touched you suddenly it was gone.
I’m currently typing this on a laptop and I just accidentally erased a chunk of text and now I’m even more depressed and frustrated. I really want to just sleep right now. I won’t bother getting into all the reasons I can’t. I’ll just leave this here for now, though. I’m too upset to even bother venting anymore.
Been a bit since I wrote on this. Debated deleting it yesterday. Then I had a dream last night that you died. The feeling of my heart dropping out of my chest felt way too real. It reignited an old fear I used to have about a long distance friend. That he’d die somehow and I’d never know. He’d just stop replying one day and I’d never know what happened to him.
I guess now I have that fear with you. Except we don’t even talk. So I’ll just never know unless someone else decides to tell me.
I wonder if you’d be sad if you found out that I died.
I had another dream about you.
It wasn’t anything crazy.
I saw something I thought you’d like and sent you a picture of it with no context.
You replied as if it were nothing, commenting on whatever it was I had sent.
Left me wondering what you would actually do if that happened.
A Letter I May Never Send
Full disclosure, I’m currently writing this at 4 am. I suppose if you’re reading this it’s some time in the future when I finally finished getting everything out and decided to actually send it. At the time of writing, it’s mainly me just… needing to scream into the void so to say. So I apologize in advance for how rambly this is going to be. Literally just writing as things come to me.
That being said, I really hardly know what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. So much happened between us. A lot of which we never properly talked about, especially at the end.
I can’t say I necessarily regret that things ended. That would mean saying I regret what I have now. My child means absolutely everything to me and I would never wish her to not exist, regardless what I gave up along the way. I do regret HOW they ended. It’s been over a year since we last spoke as I’m beginning to write this and it still hurts.
There’s a lot of questions I often find myself wishing I could ask.
Does it still hurt you?
Are you like me and have tried to move on, but still feel an ache in your heart some nights when your mind wanders back to us?
Do you prefer to just not think about it at all?
Do you still talk about me? Reminiscing about some fun time we had, or maybe a quiet deep moment we shared?
One of my most vivid memories of you is the first time you held me. Laying on the futon, just goofing off. You saw cuts on my leg and you just rolled over and hugged me from behind. You told me, “you scare the shit out of me.” I don’t know if I’ve ever told you the feelings that came over me that night.
For damn near as long as I could remember I’d felt hollow and empty. Like the shadow of a person. Broken pieces that had been taped together to somewhat resemble a functional human being.
That one hug felt like it both broke me entirely and pulled my pieces back together all at the same time. It was one of only two times in my entire life that I felt really and truly wanted, cared about, seen.
It hurt.
I wanted so badly to just melt into the kind of love you seemed to be offering.
I wanted so badly to also run away and hide from the hurt and pain I was terrified would come along with that type of love.
Guess I did a bit of both?
I remember telling you about how friends I’d had for years turned their backs on me. You said you’d never do that. And you truly never did, even when I turned my back on you multiple times. I’m going to try and avoid sounding guilt trippy in this… we both know what I did and saying I’m sorry over and over again won’t change or fix anything. Lord knows it doesn’t make any pain I caused go away.
There are times I wonder how things might have been different if I’d talked to you more openly. If we would have worked things out, or if we were just meant to eventually drift away from each other. I tell myself often that we just were at different points in life. A big part of me thinks that’s true, but maybe instead of basically being strangers we could have still been a part of each other’s lives in smaller ways if I’d just talked to you.
I did always mean it when I said you were one of my best friends.
At times I think I miss that the most. Not and of the romantic aspects, but everything else.
The way you made me smile and laugh.
How big, warm, and comfortable your hugs always were.
Hell, even the way you used to purposefully get me riled up over something stupid just to hear me rant.
When you’d smile and wiggle your eyebrows. You have probably the sweetest smile on anyone I’ve ever known. I miss seeing it.
Sometimes it’s seemingly stupid shit that’ll make me think of you.
I was listening to Fruits Basket opening/ending songs in the car today and remembered watching with you. Anytime a Sasuke thing comes into Gamestop I still will think, “Oh I should send him a picture of this.” Going up to Shreveport reminds me of the time you went with me to see my psychologist and the waiter at Olive Garden gave us butter.
Sometimes a new game or show will come out and I still get the urge to message you to ramble about it.
I still have your number in my phone. I’ll randomly check Facebook sometimes to see if you unfriended or blocked me.
I’ve never been good at letting go of things. Especially anything that ever gives any kind of pleasure or happiness. Fuck, even when that happiness comes along with pain. Probably why I’ve always clung so tightly to people and things that were bad for me in the end.
Something I’m still working on. And apparently failing.
At one point a few months ago I deleted all the pictures I had of you off of my phone. A part of me regrets it. Probably the part that I literally just said doesn’t like letting go of the past. I guess part of me writing this whole letter is is somewhere in me hoping that somehow it’ll bring some sort of closure.
I don’t ever talk about you. That’s part of what hurts. All these memories of someone who meant the world to me, and I can’t even talk about you. Not about how I still miss you, or about some funny or stupid thing that just happens to remind me of you. At times I feel like I just need to get drunk and just vent/gush about you to someone for a few hours. Get it all out and maybe finally I could actually begin to properly move on emotionally.
Until then, I guess I’ll just keep coming back to this letter anytime I need to say anything. Wonder how long this will end up being. Wonder if you’re going to read it at all.
I’m not sure I would.
I’d probably see it and want to just delete it. Bury down whatever feelings I knew it would cause to creep up that I’d rather not have to face and deal with.
I’d want to delete it, but it would more likely just sit in my inbox, unread. I’d go back and stare at it sometimes, not opening it, but just seeing that it was there.
For me, at least, it would answer the question of “do you still think of me.” For a while that’d probably be enough for me. I’d just cling to that thought, not really wanting to face whatever else was inside.
I’ve never been good at accepting the idea of people I love no longer loving me. It’s something I’ve always preferred to just assume, because confirmation and me fully acknowledging it gave it a sense of permanence that felt like the end of the world.
Probably why I did a lot of what I did with you. Especially at the end. Instead of just telling you how I was feeling I just… stopped.
In some ways it was a way to defend myself. Others a way to protect you from me.
Knowing my own feelings for you and how I am when it comes to those sorts of strong feelings, I knew if I allowed you to remain in my life at all during that time I would never be able to let go.
Granted, I guess me writing this is me still not letting go… but I think I would have destroyed myself trying to hold onto something that was no longer there. I don’t know how long you’d have stayed for it, but the idea of dragging you even further down with me sealed the idea in my head that it was better for both of us if I just walked away.
Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. That was my reasoning at the time. I still feel like it holds water, to some degree. I mean look at me. It’s now 5 am and I’m sat here still writing this letter to you. Not sure where I’m even going with it. I just need to get it all out before I lose my mind, whether you ever end up seeing any of this or not.
I still have some of your stuff. Stuff I got you that you never took home. Stuff you brought over and forgot. I’ve debated asking Ariel to give it to you multiple times. Me clinging to the last remnants of you I guess. Without even pictures anymore it almost feels like if I give that stuff back it’ll be as if you never existed.
Even just sitting here thinking about it now has me on the verge of tears and wanting to message you “hi” just to see if you’d respond. Sound stupid? Maybe. Can still hear the sound of your voice in my head, maybe reassuring me that its not stupid.
Wonder what you would do if we saw each other in passing. Would you pretend to not see me? Would you meet my eyes and just keep walking? Would you smile back if I smiled at you?
I’ve been at work at Gamestop so many times wondering what it would be like if you walked into the store while I was there. Wondering how it’d make me feel. How you would feel to see me there.
I do a lot of wondering. Especially right now. Being alone at night and up at weird hours with a baby leaves me entirely too much time for my mind to wander. Usually to darker parts of my mind I prefer to forget exist.
I was doing good for a long time, you know. I got a tattoo that covers the scars on my one shoulder. I still think about it, though. The urges are still there, especially recently.
I’ve thought about going back on medication. Doctor offered it to me at my two week post-partum appointment because I was showing moderate symptoms of post-partum depression. Couple weeks later during my therapy appointment I was worse and was ranking as severe in both depression and anxiety.
I’ve had more breakdowns in the last month than I have in over a year. The loss of progress itself is depressing.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m writing this letter. Maybe it’s part of why I ran away from you. You reminded me too much of a darker time in my life, despite the fact you were one of the reasons I even got through that time at all.
I just had to stop writing for a minute because my baby spit her pacifier out in her sleep and was fussing. She’ll probably wake up hungry soon.
It’s been over an hour since I started writing. I’m really tired, but it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to tell you. So much more I feel like I want to say knowing this may actually be the last time I have the chance.
So at the time of writing this part its like 11:30 in the morning. I’ve slept. Still tired. Not gonna read through what I already wrote for the sake of keeping it honest.
Can say right now I’m having one of those, “am I really doing this” moments.
Day two of writing this letter. It’s a little after 5 am once again. Saw several posts yesterday about people changing. I often think about how different of a person I am now than when we first met, and even how different I am from when things between us ended. I wonder how different you are now.
Would we even still get along, if somehow things between us were erased and we happened to meet for the first time again?
Weird question maybe. It’s something I’ve wondered before with others I’ve lost contact with or cut out over the years for one reason or another. A couple of times the answer has been yes. Or at least a “sort of” yes. Some people I wasn’t ever close to before I’ve grown extremely close to later on. Others I was close with and now, while we aren’t strangers, we definitely don’t have near as close a friendship as we once did. Some of those lost connections I find myself mourning at times. Others I have sense enough to appreciate the distance.
As of right now I still flip flop a bit on how I feel about you. I miss the friendship we shared, but I question whether I’d actually want it back, if ever given the opportunity.
Acknowledging that I could miss something down to the deepest core of my soul… and yet not necessarily want what I’m missing back… It’s been an extremely hard thing to finally come to terms with.
I once read a post about how people you knew in the past that you no longer see or speak to walk around with a certain version of you in their head forever. Always thought it an interesting idea and wondered what version of me people from before had in their minds and what they’d think of the me now compared to that one.
Another post I see on and off over the years is about people being close and then drifting apart… and just going through life knowing bits and pieces of each other. Knowing a former friends secrets that you still haven’t ever told anyone, or how someone you once knew preferred their eggs cooked.
It’s always been a hard concept for me to believe that I in any way lived on in anyone’s mind.
I read about “emotional impermanence.” Sort of like the idea of object permanence. Where just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it suddenly stopped existing. Emotional impermanence referring to the idea that if someone isn’t actively stating or showing that they like/love me or enjoy company then they must automatically revert to hating me. Or at the very least feeling nothing at all about me.
Sometimes I’m not sure which of those options scares me more.
Hate means there’s at least some value placed on my existence. “Where there is hate, there was once love” is a saying I heard a very long time ago. Hating me at least means I still have some impact on people. That even if I were gone someone would think of me in some way and give some sense of confirmation that I existed.
Been a few days since I’ve written on this at all. It’s almost midnight right now.
Correction… it is now just after midnight cause my baby keeps fussing.
Not even sure why I’m on here right now. Had a really bad day and just in a depressed and venty kinda mood. Probably not the best headspace to be in while writing this, but hey…
I was thinking the other night about something that created a pretty big rift between us. I know I tried talking to you about it many times while we were still together. How you could never seem to properly have sex with me. You used to always tell me it wasn’t my fault. Never got much more of an answer beyond that aside from at the very end when you said something about a porn addiction. Which honestly just made it worse. It just reinforced an idea that had been put in my head long before you came along that I failed at being sexually pleasurable.
The whole thought process wasn’t entirely your fault, of course. Someone years ago put the thought there first, and it had plenty of time to fest and plenty of other experiences to make me believe it more and more over the years. It’s something I struggle really bad with even now. No matter how hard I try, I still can’t shake the subconscious level thinking that I absolutely need to be sexually desired by whoever I’m with at any given time. And if I’m not then my worth just goes completely out the window.
That being said, I also to this day haven’t ever fully forgiven you for blabbing about our sex life to other people. Especially parts of it that were really personal even beyond just being about sex in general. Or the time (times?) I would wake up to you touching me. That both made me feel violated and really shitty because it was like you had no trouble getting aroused when I wasn’t actively involved, but as soon as I even just touched you suddenly it was gone.
I’m currently typing this on a laptop and I just accidentally erased a chunk of text and now I’m even more depressed and frustrated. I really want to just sleep right now. I won’t bother getting into all the reasons I can’t. I’ll just leave this here for now, though. I’m too upset to even bother venting anymore.
Been a bit since I wrote on this. Debated deleting it yesterday. Then I had a dream last night that you died. The feeling of my heart dropping out of my chest felt way too real. It reignited an old fear I used to have about a long distance friend. That he’d die somehow and I’d never know. He’d just stop replying one day and I’d never know what happened to him.
I guess now I have that fear with you. Except we don’t even talk. So I’ll just never know unless someone else decides to tell me.
I wonder if you’d be sad if you found out that I died.
A Letter I May Never Send
Full disclosure, I’m currently writing this at 4 am. I suppose if you’re reading this it’s some time in the future when I finally finished getting everything out and decided to actually send it. At the time of writing, it’s mainly me just… needing to scream into the void so to say. So I apologize in advance for how rambly this is going to be. Literally just writing as things come to me.
That being said, I really hardly know what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. So much happened between us. A lot of which we never properly talked about, especially at the end.
I can’t say I necessarily regret that things ended. That would mean saying I regret what I have now. My child means absolutely everything to me and I would never wish her to not exist, regardless what I gave up along the way. I do regret HOW they ended. It’s been over a year since we last spoke as I’m beginning to write this and it still hurts.
There’s a lot of questions I often find myself wishing I could ask.
Does it still hurt you?
Are you like me and have tried to move on, but still feel an ache in your heart some nights when your mind wanders back to us?
Do you prefer to just not think about it at all?
Do you still talk about me? Reminiscing about some fun time we had, or maybe a quiet deep moment we shared?
One of my most vivid memories of you is the first time you held me. Laying on the futon, just goofing off. You saw cuts on my leg and you just rolled over and hugged me from behind. You told me, “you scare the shit out of me.” I don’t know if I’ve ever told you the feelings that came over me that night.
For damn near as long as I could remember I’d felt hollow and empty. Like the shadow of a person. Broken pieces that had been taped together to somewhat resemble a functional human being.
That one hug felt like it both broke me entirely and pulled my pieces back together all at the same time. It was one of only two times in my entire life that I felt really and truly wanted, cared about, seen.
It hurt.
I wanted so badly to just melt into the kind of love you seemed to be offering.
I wanted so badly to also run away and hide from the hurt and pain I was terrified would come along with that type of love.
Guess I did a bit of both?
I remember telling you about how friends I’d had for years turned their backs on me. You said you’d never do that. And you truly never did, even when I turned my back on you multiple times. I’m going to try and avoid sounding guilt trippy in this… we both know what I did and saying I’m sorry over and over again won’t change or fix anything. Lord knows it doesn’t make any pain I caused go away.
There are times I wonder how things might have been different if I’d talked to you more openly. If we would have worked things out, or if we were just meant to eventually drift away from each other. I tell myself often that we just were at different points in life. A big part of me thinks that’s true, but maybe instead of basically being strangers we could have still been a part of each other’s lives in smaller ways if I’d just talked to you.
I did always mean it when I said you were one of my best friends.
At times I think I miss that the most. Not and of the romantic aspects, but everything else.
The way you made me smile and laugh.
How big, warm, and comfortable your hugs always were.
Hell, even the way you used to purposefully get me riled up over something stupid just to hear me rant.
When you’d smile and wiggle your eyebrows. You have probably the sweetest smile on anyone I’ve ever known. I miss seeing it.
Sometimes it’s seemingly stupid shit that’ll make me think of you.
I was listening to Fruits Basket opening/ending songs in the car today and remembered watching with you. Anytime a Sasuke thing comes into Gamestop I still will think, “Oh I should send him a picture of this.” Going up to Shreveport reminds me of the time you went with me to see my psychologist and the waiter at Olive Garden gave us butter.
Sometimes a new game or show will come out and I still get the urge to message you to ramble about it.
I still have your number in my phone. I’ll randomly check Facebook sometimes to see if you unfriended or blocked me.
I’ve never been good at letting go of things. Especially anything that ever gives any kind of pleasure or happiness. Fuck, even when that happiness comes along with pain. Probably why I’ve always clung so tightly to people and things that were bad for me in the end.
Something I’m still working on. And apparently failing.
At one point a few months ago I deleted all the pictures I had of you off of my phone. A part of me regrets it. Probably the part that I literally just said doesn’t like letting go of the past. I guess part of me writing this whole letter is is somewhere in me hoping that somehow it’ll bring some sort of closure.
I don’t ever talk about you. That’s part of what hurts. All these memories of someone who meant the world to me, and I can’t even talk about you. Not about how I still miss you, or about some funny or stupid thing that just happens to remind me of you. At times I feel like I just need to get drunk and just vent/gush about you to someone for a few hours. Get it all out and maybe finally I could actually begin to properly move on emotionally.
Until then, I guess I’ll just keep coming back to this letter anytime I need to say anything. Wonder how long this will end up being. Wonder if you’re going to read it at all.
I’m not sure I would.
I’d probably see it and want to just delete it. Bury down whatever feelings I knew it would cause to creep up that I’d rather not have to face and deal with.
I’d want to delete it, but it would more likely just sit in my inbox, unread. I’d go back and stare at it sometimes, not opening it, but just seeing that it was there.
For me, at least, it would answer the question of “do you still think of me.” For a while that’d probably be enough for me. I’d just cling to that thought, not really wanting to face whatever else was inside.
I’ve never been good at accepting the idea of people I love no longer loving me. It’s something I’ve always preferred to just assume, because confirmation and me fully acknowledging it gave it a sense of permanence that felt like the end of the world.
Probably why I did a lot of what I did with you. Especially at the end. Instead of just telling you how I was feeling I just… stopped.
In some ways it was a way to defend myself. Others a way to protect you from me.
Knowing my own feelings for you and how I am when it comes to those sorts of strong feelings, I knew if I allowed you to remain in my life at all during that time I would never be able to let go.
Granted, I guess me writing this is me still not letting go… but I think I would have destroyed myself trying to hold onto something that was no longer there. I don’t know how long you’d have stayed for it, but the idea of dragging you even further down with me sealed the idea in my head that it was better for both of us if I just walked away.
Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. That was my reasoning at the time. I still feel like it holds water, to some degree. I mean look at me. It’s now 5 am and I’m sat here still writing this letter to you. Not sure where I’m even going with it. I just need to get it all out before I lose my mind, whether you ever end up seeing any of this or not.
I still have some of your stuff. Stuff I got you that you never took home. Stuff you brought over and forgot. I’ve debated asking Ariel to give it to you multiple times. Me clinging to the last remnants of you I guess. Without even pictures anymore it almost feels like if I give that stuff back it’ll be as if you never existed.
Even just sitting here thinking about it now has me on the verge of tears and wanting to message you “hi” just to see if you’d respond. Sound stupid? Maybe. Can still hear the sound of your voice in my head, maybe reassuring me that its not stupid.
Wonder what you would do if we saw each other in passing. Would you pretend to not see me? Would you meet my eyes and just keep walking? Would you smile back if I smiled at you?
I’ve been at work at Gamestop so many times wondering what it would be like if you walked into the store while I was there. Wondering how it’d make me feel. How you would feel to see me there.
I do a lot of wondering. Especially right now. Being alone at night and up at weird hours with a baby leaves me entirely too much time for my mind to wander. Usually to darker parts of my mind I prefer to forget exist.
I was doing good for a long time, you know. I got a tattoo that covers the scars on my one shoulder. I still think about it, though. The urges are still there, especially recently.
I’ve thought about going back on medication. Doctor offered it to me at my two week post-partum appointment because I was showing moderate symptoms of post-partum depression. Couple weeks later during my therapy appointment I was worse and was ranking as severe in both depression and anxiety.
I’ve had more breakdowns in the last month than I have in over a year. The loss of progress itself is depressing.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m writing this letter. Maybe it’s part of why I ran away from you. You reminded me too much of a darker time in my life, despite the fact you were one of the reasons I even got through that time at all.
I just had to stop writing for a minute because my baby spit her pacifier out in her sleep and was fussing. She’ll probably wake up hungry soon.
It’s been over an hour since I started writing. I’m really tired, but it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to tell you. So much more I feel like I want to say knowing this may actually be the last time I have the chance.
So at the time of writing this part its like 11:30 in the morning. I’ve slept. Still tired. Not gonna read through what I already wrote for the sake of keeping it honest.
Can say right now I’m having one of those, “am I really doing this” moments.
Day two of writing this letter. It’s a little after 5 am once again. Saw several posts yesterday about people changing. I often think about how different of a person I am now than when we first met, and even how different I am from when things between us ended. I wonder how different you are now.
Would we even still get along, if somehow things between us were erased and we happened to meet for the first time again?
Weird question maybe. It’s something I’ve wondered before with others I’ve lost contact with or cut out over the years for one reason or another. A couple of times the answer has been yes. Or at least a “sort of” yes. Some people I wasn’t ever close to before I’ve grown extremely close to later on. Others I was close with and now, while we aren’t strangers, we definitely don’t have near as close a friendship as we once did. Some of those lost connections I find myself mourning at times. Others I have sense enough to appreciate the distance.
As of right now I still flip flop a bit on how I feel about you. I miss the friendship we shared, but I question whether I’d actually want it back, if ever given the opportunity.
Acknowledging that I could miss something down to the deepest core of my soul… and yet not necessarily want what I’m missing back… It’s been an extremely hard thing to finally come to terms with.
I once read a post about how people you knew in the past that you no longer see or speak to walk around with a certain version of you in their head forever. Always thought it an interesting idea and wondered what version of me people from before had in their minds and what they’d think of the me now compared to that one.
Another post I see on and off over the years is about people being close and then drifting apart… and just going through life knowing bits and pieces of each other. Knowing a former friends secrets that you still haven’t ever told anyone, or how someone you once knew preferred their eggs cooked.
It’s always been a hard concept for me to believe that I in any way lived on in anyone’s mind.
I read about “emotional impermanence.” Sort of like the idea of object permanence. Where just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it suddenly stopped existing. Emotional impermanence referring to the idea that if someone isn’t actively stating or showing that they like/love me or enjoy company then they must automatically revert to hating me. Or at the very least feeling nothing at all about me.
Sometimes I’m not sure which of those options scares me more.
Hate means there’s at least some value placed on my existence. “Where there is hate, there was once love” is a saying I heard a very long time ago. Hating me at least means I still have some impact on people. That even if I were gone someone would think of me in some way and give some sense of confirmation that I existed.
Been a few days since I’ve written on this at all. It’s almost midnight right now.
Correction… it is now just after midnight cause my baby keeps fussing.
Not even sure why I’m on here right now. Had a really bad day and just in a depressed and venty kinda mood. Probably not the best headspace to be in while writing this, but hey…
I was thinking the other night about something that created a pretty big rift between us. I know I tried talking to you about it many times while we were still together. How you could never seem to properly have sex with me. You used to always tell me it wasn’t my fault. Never got much more of an answer beyond that aside from at the very end when you said something about a porn addiction. Which honestly just made it worse. It just reinforced an idea that had been put in my head long before you came along that I failed at being sexually pleasurable.
The whole thought process wasn’t entirely your fault, of course. Someone years ago put the thought there first, and it had plenty of time to fest and plenty of other experiences to make me believe it more and more over the years. It’s something I struggle really bad with even now. No matter how hard I try, I still can’t shake the subconscious level thinking that I absolutely need to be sexually desired by whoever I’m with at any given time. And if I’m not then my worth just goes completely out the window.
That being said, I also to this day haven’t ever fully forgiven you for blabbing about our sex life to other people. Especially parts of it that were really personal even beyond just being about sex in general. Or the time (times?) I would wake up to you touching me. That both made me feel violated and really shitty because it was like you had no trouble getting aroused when I wasn’t actively involved, but as soon as I even just touched you suddenly it was gone.
I’m currently typing this on a laptop and I just accidentally erased a chunk of text and now I’m even more depressed and frustrated. I really want to just sleep right now. I won’t bother getting into all the reasons I can’t. I’ll just leave this here for now, though. I’m too upset to even bother venting anymore.
A Letter I May Never Send
Full disclosure, I’m currently writing this at 4 am. I suppose if you’re reading this it’s some time in the future when I finally finished getting everything out and decided to actually send it. At the time of writing, it’s mainly me just… needing to scream into the void so to say. So I apologize in advance for how rambly this is going to be. Literally just writing as things come to me.
That being said, I really hardly know what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. So much happened between us. A lot of which we never properly talked about, especially at the end.
I can’t say I necessarily regret that things ended. That would mean saying I regret what I have now. My child means absolutely everything to me and I would never wish her to not exist, regardless what I gave up along the way. I do regret HOW they ended. It’s been over a year since we last spoke as I’m beginning to write this and it still hurts.
There’s a lot of questions I often find myself wishing I could ask.
Does it still hurt you?
Are you like me and have tried to move on, but still feel an ache in your heart some nights when your mind wanders back to us?
Do you prefer to just not think about it at all?
Do you still talk about me? Reminiscing about some fun time we had, or maybe a quiet deep moment we shared?
One of my most vivid memories of you is the first time you held me. Laying on the futon, just goofing off. You saw cuts on my leg and you just rolled over and hugged me from behind. You told me, “you scare the shit out of me.” I don’t know if I’ve ever told you the feelings that came over me that night.
For damn near as long as I could remember I’d felt hollow and empty. Like the shadow of a person. Broken pieces that had been taped together to somewhat resemble a functional human being.
That one hug felt like it both broke me entirely and pulled my pieces back together all at the same time. It was one of only two times in my entire life that I felt really and truly wanted, cared about, seen.
It hurt.
I wanted so badly to just melt into the kind of love you seemed to be offering.
I wanted so badly to also run away and hide from the hurt and pain I was terrified would come along with that type of love.
Guess I did a bit of both?
I remember telling you about how friends I’d had for years turned their backs on me. You said you’d never do that. And you truly never did, even when I turned my back on you multiple times. I’m going to try and avoid sounding guilt trippy in this… we both know what I did and saying I’m sorry over and over again won’t change or fix anything. Lord knows it doesn’t make any pain I caused go away.
There are times I wonder how things might have been different if I’d talked to you more openly. If we would have worked things out, or if we were just meant to eventually drift away from each other. I tell myself often that we just were at different points in life. A big part of me thinks that’s true, but maybe instead of basically being strangers we could have still been a part of each other’s lives in smaller ways if I’d just talked to you.
I did always mean it when I said you were one of my best friends.
At times I think I miss that the most. Not and of the romantic aspects, but everything else.
The way you made me smile and laugh.
How big, warm, and comfortable your hugs always were.
Hell, even the way you used to purposefully get me riled up over something stupid just to hear me rant.
When you’d smile and wiggle your eyebrows. You have probably the sweetest smile on anyone I’ve ever known. I miss seeing it.
Sometimes it’s seemingly stupid shit that’ll make me think of you.
I was listening to Fruits Basket opening/ending songs in the car today and remembered watching with you. Anytime a Sasuke thing comes into Gamestop I still will think, “Oh I should send him a picture of this.” Going up to Shreveport reminds me of the time you went with me to see my psychologist and the waiter at Olive Garden gave us butter.
Sometimes a new game or show will come out and I still get the urge to message you to ramble about it.
I still have your number in my phone. I’ll randomly check Facebook sometimes to see if you unfriended or blocked me.
I’ve never been good at letting go of things. Especially anything that ever gives any kind of pleasure or happiness. Fuck, even when that happiness comes along with pain. Probably why I’ve always clung so tightly to people and things that were bad for me in the end.
Something I’m still working on. And apparently failing.
At one point a few months ago I deleted all the pictures I had of you off of my phone. A part of me regrets it. Probably the part that I literally just said doesn’t like letting go of the past. I guess part of me writing this whole letter is is somewhere in me hoping that somehow it’ll bring some sort of closure.
I don’t ever talk about you. That’s part of what hurts. All these memories of someone who meant the world to me, and I can’t even talk about you. Not about how I still miss you, or about some funny or stupid thing that just happens to remind me of you. At times I feel like I just need to get drunk and just vent/gush about you to someone for a few hours. Get it all out and maybe finally I could actually begin to properly move on emotionally.
Until then, I guess I’ll just keep coming back to this letter anytime I need to say anything. Wonder how long this will end up being. Wonder if you’re going to read it at all.
I’m not sure I would.
I’d probably see it and want to just delete it. Bury down whatever feelings I knew it would cause to creep up that I’d rather not have to face and deal with.
I’d want to delete it, but it would more likely just sit in my inbox, unread. I’d go back and stare at it sometimes, not opening it, but just seeing that it was there.
For me, at least, it would answer the question of “do you still think of me.” For a while that’d probably be enough for me. I’d just cling to that thought, not really wanting to face whatever else was inside.
I’ve never been good at accepting the idea of people I love no longer loving me. It’s something I’ve always preferred to just assume, because confirmation and me fully acknowledging it gave it a sense of permanence that felt like the end of the world.
Probably why I did a lot of what I did with you. Especially at the end. Instead of just telling you how I was feeling I just… stopped.
In some ways it was a way to defend myself. Others a way to protect you from me.
Knowing my own feelings for you and how I am when it comes to those sorts of strong feelings, I knew if I allowed you to remain in my life at all during that time I would never be able to let go.
Granted, I guess me writing this is me still not letting go… but I think I would have destroyed myself trying to hold onto something that was no longer there. I don’t know how long you’d have stayed for it, but the idea of dragging you even further down with me sealed the idea in my head that it was better for both of us if I just walked away.
Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. That was my reasoning at the time. I still feel like it holds water, to some degree. I mean look at me. It’s now 5 am and I’m sat here still writing this letter to you. Not sure where I’m even going with it. I just need to get it all out before I lose my mind, whether you ever end up seeing any of this or not.
I still have some of your stuff. Stuff I got you that you never took home. Stuff you brought over and forgot. I’ve debated asking Ariel to give it to you multiple times. Me clinging to the last remnants of you I guess. Without even pictures anymore it almost feels like if I give that stuff back it’ll be as if you never existed.
Even just sitting here thinking about it now has me on the verge of tears and wanting to message you “hi” just to see if you’d respond. Sound stupid? Maybe. Can still hear the sound of your voice in my head, maybe reassuring me that its not stupid.
Wonder what you would do if we saw each other in passing. Would you pretend to not see me? Would you meet my eyes and just keep walking? Would you smile back if I smiled at you?
I’ve been at work at Gamestop so many times wondering what it would be like if you walked into the store while I was there. Wondering how it’d make me feel. How you would feel to see me there.
I do a lot of wondering. Especially right now. Being alone at night and up at weird hours with a baby leaves me entirely too much time for my mind to wander. Usually to darker parts of my mind I prefer to forget exist.
I was doing good for a long time, you know. I got a tattoo that covers the scars on my one shoulder. I still think about it, though. The urges are still there, especially recently.
I’ve thought about going back on medication. Doctor offered it to me at my two week post-partum appointment because I was showing moderate symptoms of post-partum depression. Couple weeks later during my therapy appointment I was worse and was ranking as severe in both depression and anxiety.
I’ve had more breakdowns in the last month than I have in over a year. The loss of progress itself is depressing.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m writing this letter. Maybe it’s part of why I ran away from you. You reminded me too much of a darker time in my life, despite the fact you were one of the reasons I even got through that time at all.
I just had to stop writing for a minute because my baby spit her pacifier out in her sleep and was fussing. She’ll probably wake up hungry soon.
It’s been over an hour since I started writing. I’m really tired, but it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to tell you. So much more I feel like I want to say knowing this may actually be the last time I have the chance.
So at the time of writing this part its like 11:30 in the morning. I’ve slept. Still tired. Not gonna read through what I already wrote for the sake of keeping it honest.
Can say right now I’m having one of those, “am I really doing this” moments.
Day two of writing this letter. It’s a little after 5 am once again. Saw several posts yesterday about people changing. I often think about how different of a person I am now than when we first met, and even how different I am from when things between us ended. I wonder how different you are now.
Would we even still get along, if somehow things between us were erased and we happened to meet for the first time again?
Weird question maybe. It’s something I’ve wondered before with others I’ve lost contact with or cut out over the years for one reason or another. A couple of times the answer has been yes. Or at least a “sort of” yes. Some people I wasn’t ever close to before I’ve grown extremely close to later on. Others I was close with and now, while we aren’t strangers, we definitely don’t have near as close a friendship as we once did. Some of those lost connections I find myself mourning at times. Others I have sense enough to appreciate the distance.
As of right now I still flip flop a bit on how I feel about you. I miss the friendship we shared, but I question whether I’d actually want it back, if ever given the opportunity.
Acknowledging that I could miss something down to the deepest core of my soul… and yet not necessarily want what I’m missing back… It’s been an extremely hard thing to finally come to terms with.
I once read a post about how people you knew in the past that you no longer see or speak to walk around with a certain version of you in their head forever. Always thought it an interesting idea and wondered what version of me people from before had in their minds and what they’d think of the me now compared to that one.
Another post I see on and off over the years is about people being close and then drifting apart… and just going through life knowing bits and pieces of each other. Knowing a former friends secrets that you still haven’t ever told anyone, or how someone you once knew preferred their eggs cooked.
It’s always been a hard concept for me to believe that I in any way lived on in anyone’s mind.
I read about “emotional impermanence.” Sort of like the idea of object permanence. Where just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it suddenly stopped existing. Emotional impermanence referring to the idea that if someone isn’t actively stating or showing that they like/love me or enjoy company then they must automatically revert to hating me. Or at the very least feeling nothing at all about me.
Sometimes I’m not sure which of those options scares me more.
Hate means there’s at least some value placed on my existence. “Where there is hate, there was once love” is a saying I heard a very long time ago. Hating me at least means I still have some impact on people. That even if I were gone someone would think of me in some way and give some sense of confirmation that I existed.
The Box Tops – The Letter
