A Letter to Christopher:

So. 3/27/2012

I've been dying to write this, but that urge is especially present when I'm with you. I attribute this swelling with that stiff, unspoken line that's been drawn between us here; between these two desks. I don't know who put that evil line there, but I'm angry about it. Sometimes—even though I'm clueless as to the factual origin of that line—I direct that anger at you and I hate you. I have to hate you, because there's no other way to protect myself, to protect Hero. From me, mostly. Because if I lose that anger and hate, I'll have to admit and succumb to the loss that's hit me these last months.

I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to let go of that hate. Chalk it up to my paranoid, obsessive fear of loss. From a calculating viewpoint, you could say I've dealt with a lot of loss. And I agree, I have: Johanna, my baby, my parents' involvement, my extended family's support, Hero, Hero again, and best friend after best friend after best friend. People who tolerate, accept, enjoy, and love me are few and far between. You can blame me, my apparent disdain and fear of social interaction or people themselves. Target my depression. Maybe it's all circumstance. But let me tell you something I'll always wonder: do I lose people because of my obscene reluctance of confrontation? Maybe if I'd just opened my fraidy-cat mouth and told these people what was going on in my brain…

Well, anyway, I've been dying to write this—because this all plagues me. It eats away at my brain, sneaks up on me whenever I think I've finally rid myself of it all. Because I don't hate you. I could never. Because I'm not angry at you; I'm angry at myself. Because I screwed up, and I did lose you. You're gone. And I doubt I'll ever get you back. I'm consumed by that loneliness—your absence in my life is brutal, constantly pressing in on my brain. It hurts so bad and I miss you, I just want you near me, to talk to me—the way it was before. Without this fucking line between ups, setting me constantly on edge. I walk on that edge, always afraid that I'm going to screw up even worse, that I'll scare you even further away. Or hurt you. Or remind you again just why you left in the first place.

I'm so torn about if I'll give this to you. I doubt, sincerely doubt, that I ever will. I'm too afraid of progress, or risking embarrassment or failure to improve my situation. Besides, what could come out of it? You're too good a guy. You'd never leave her. And, while I could probably manage to leave Hero, it would be with a fairly weak level of permanence. Maybe I'd never go back to him, but I'd wonder. Maybe you love her more than you loved me, anyway. Maybe I crushed you. Maybe I'm toxic.

So I guess I don't have any set purpose in writing this. Maybe it's just a selfish need to speculate and soul-search, and I'm just more lucid around you. It always felt that way to me. Like my thoughts are more real, more clear…around you.

I guess I'd just like to clarify that any lack of action on my part in losing you is more a result of my fears of confrontation and desires for you to be happy than of any apathy you might think I have. If there's anything I have too much of—especially concerning you—it's feelings. I'm divided. Actively protest that hateful split I can feel stretching between us…or give you the chance to be free of me? …would you the chance I'd be loosely asking for? Do I deserve it?

I'm probably talking myself in circles. Look at me, this crazy, scared, confused, depressed girl, pleading for something she can't even find a way to identify. You are such a better person than I am…you'd read this and assure me it's nothing personal. Or maybe not; I can just as easily imagine that slightly irritated, exasperated tone you use whenever you're explaining something to me that you pity me for. You'd say—with a sigh—that I relinquished any rights or claims I had with any number of the wrongs I've committed against you. I'd probably end the conversation in tears, even more unhappy than before. And that line would just get bigger.