First, my disclaimer is that I wrote this a while ago – not long after I got back from Ireland, so everyone who cares can relax. I was in bad shape three months ago, but I’m doing much better now. I won’t pretend like it’s some secret who this is about. Everyone knows. But, I obviously have no shame. I really liked it originally and was pretty proud of myself for getting my feelings down accurately and just getting them out of my body, where they were certainly doing no good. And mostly I liked that I was able to write him as not an asshole, because he wasn’t when I wrote this. (I don’t know what he is now. We don’t really speak.) But since re-reading and editing, I’ve realized it’s directly parallel to a Taylor Swift song and so, it’s lost some credibility. Seriously. It’s still very scary for me to put this out there for the whole world, even after I’m basically all glued back together, but it’s doing me no good keeping it for myself.
I’ve been doing a lot of writing for school lately and am a little sick of my own voice so I thought I’d post something that required no extra work. If you don’t have the time to read this or don’t want to puke because it’s really just awful, just give this a good listen and you’ll be caught up:
If you’re brave enough to make the jump and read my post-breakup pity party and not just listen to it’s summery by the glorious T.Swiz above, here ya go:
When we first met, you came on too strong. You called too often (actually called, not even texted. Called.) and used scary words like “forever”. Our first date was pleasant and you were a gentleman. I’d find out later that after that date, you went directly back to your friends and bragged and bragged which, at the time, in the haze of your affection, made me grin like a genuine fool. But, while you were bragging, I was unsure if I’d even see you again. I hadn’t been swept off my feet, but I had a good enough time and you didn’t seem to judge me while I ate my fajitas like an animal (there is simply no way to eat fajitas with grace). You talked too much about your tattoos and spent too much time showing me pictures on your phone, but you seemed sweetly nervous. Not to mention, me being swept off my feet had never ended well for me in the past, so why not give you another shot? I wasted hours of my friends’ time begging their opinions. I’d had a wall up for so long, but there was a chance that maybe you were sweet enough and cared enough about me for me to consider taking it down. They agreed that you might be. But still, I was unsure.
The night I decided to kiss you for the first time, you held my hand in the bar the whole night. You didn’t know me very well at that point, but if you did, you would have known that PDA freaks me out more than virtually any other thing that couples do. We sat across from my two friends who, little did you know, were out on a secret mission to determine if you were worth my time. While you were in the bathroom, they told me that you definitely were. You had come to my favorite bar for wing night, alone, rather than go to your regular spot with your friends. You came directly from work, just because I was having a bad day and you wanted to be there for me. I got into that car accident that afternoon, remember? I was okay, but you still offered to come help, even if it made you late for work. We had only been on one date and you were willing to do that for me. That’s the kind of thing my dad does for my mom. I was both impressed and flattered by your compassion while simultaneously being terrified of this man who seemed to care so much about me after so little time. I was unsure if I could return those feelings to you at all, let alone after only a week. But, my friends told me you were worth it so I kissed you goodbye outside the bar and it was nice. It had been so long since I kissed anyone who cared about me back. It was new and sweet and maybe I could do this, after all.
Then, first gradually and then all at once, I convinced myself that I loved you. I suspected you loved me too until the day three weeks later when you told me you did and I said it back (but I knew it was coming because you were bad at keeping secrets). The way you asked me to be your girlfriend and the way you told me you loved me, so thoughtful and perfectly planned – in my favorite places, while I was happiest. I became your girlfriend during a hockey game and I found out you loved me at the beach. I was convinced. You knew me and loved me anyway and so, I relaxed and settled in and trusted that it was safe to take the remainder of my wall down. I got to know your friends and family and for the first time in my life, I did things for another person that I didn’t necessarily want to do just because it was you. Knowing you wanted me to be at that awkward-bbq-party-thing at your best friend’s house made me want to be there, despite how terrible it was for me. I told myself over and over again that this was what couples did for each other and sometimes in life, you have to do things you don’t want to do.
And then, just as quickly as I’d gotten comfortable with the idea of being responsible for another human’s feelings, you were distant, which scared me more than anything. The person who once made every effort to make me happy was effortlessly killing me. I could feel what was coming but I wasn’t sure why so I talked myself out of its inevitability. You were the one who had all these plans for us “forever” whereas I barely knew what I was planning to do next weekend. I never asked for any promises. In fact, of the two of us, I was clearly the one afraid of what was happening. None of this made any logical sense and you, more than anyone, know how fond I am of logic. But, you had convinced me that we were real and you weren’t going anywhere so I thought we’d be okay. I believed you because no one who talked about “our kids” and “our house” would so easily run away. But, you were going somewhere. The sweet things you did ended and you seemed to care less and less. But I told myself that you were just going through something and we’d be fine because you said we would be. But then you were gone and I was bruised. I was black and blue from the inside out and couldn’t sleep, even though it was the only thing in the universe I wanted to do. There was no escape. The two to three hours of rest I got each night were dedicated to your face and your smell and then when I was awake every fucking Foursquare check-in was a painful reminder that you were going about your life while I had been reduced to a pile of sobbing blubber that refused to leave the house. The pain was unfamiliar and fucking awful. You were all I had for the last four months and then you just simply weren’t mine anymore and I couldn’t remember how to live without you.
But, somehow, I did. And then somehow, we were “friends” and I was forgiving you and then I left. I left for my great European adventure that I had been talking about unendingly with you only weeks before. You were supposed to be at home missing me and I was supposed to be reassuring you that I’d be home before you realized it and it would go so fast. It was supposed to be an excruciatingly long month apart ended with an immeasurably sweet reunion at the airport upon my return. But instead, you were no longer mine to miss and it would be my parents waiting at the airport instead of you. I had to believe that you weren’t missing me. But then on Skype one night, you told me you were and I had renewed hope that maybe I was coming home to you after all. I bought you the best gift I had ever bought another person and counted the days until I could give it to you. I rushed away my last two weeks in Europe to come home to you.
And that’s, technically, where it ended. I’ve read and rewritten the end a million times a million different ways, but I can’t get it right. Probably because I still don’t like the way it ended in real life. You were never mine again and I know you told me not to say never, but it feels like you’ll never be again. Never the same way it was. You were just gone without any explanation that I could understand and I convince myself every day that it’s okay and I’m better off; that one day, there will be some other man who I won’t have to talk myself into loving. I won’t have to convince myself it’s right. I won’t be scared of how much I love him, how I think of him all day. How he’s the first person I want in the morning and the last person I think of at night. I won’t hate how lame that sounds or how true it is. I’ll just love him for real when I see him and that will be the end and I’ll laugh at how silly I was for crying over you for so long and for wasting so much of my time. Ha, youth. Hopefully there will be. And hopefully, I can talk myself out of you as easily as I talked myself into you. But, I have my doubts.