That night you asked me to date him often feels like the beginning of the end. Like I gave up, letting the love of my life go to be taken and hurt. It destroys me to think about it. I think I said yes because I believed nothing could break us, that I could handle it, that we could handle it. I guess I also felt a desire to know myself. I knew life felt weird and thought that if I were to try and figure myself out, you might be jealous. As if loosening my grip would spare this jealousy and make things easier.
Between sexuality, expression, and gender, I was so caught up in figuring myself out that I lost sight of what actually mattered to me, you. I was so distracted. Looking back, I so wish I had looked to you for help in exploring myself. I was just so ignorant, selfish, lustful, and immature. It felt like thatās what college was about, drugs and parties and wild times. Well, I hate college now. I hate that little town. The years, tainted by a sense of betrayal, haunted by memories of watching you walk away in the hands of another person. Watching you break in real time, while I felt like the world was out of my control. Sanity ripped from my stupid fingers, as you begged me to hurt you, as you refused to slow down, as I cried and screamed nightly, whether you spent it with me or not.
Iām still scared. That fear has never left the ridges of my spine. I remember realizing that they were all your friends, the way we hung out and pretended nothing was wrong, even as I cried for help. The way we laughed like it wasnāt the worst time in my life, a breaking point. Iām still afraid. But I canāt even blame you. Somehow, I need it to be innocent, like a big misunderstanding, but I know any explanation wonāt be so kind as to paint us as faultless. Surely it was a Rube Goldberg machine of failures and decisions that couldnāt be undone, that unraveled our existence and bared the soft, twisted fibers that held us together. Actions that left our ropes wearing thin, fraying at the ends and tangling in the wind. Sometimes I just wonder how you feel about it now, whether you have answers for your words and actions that make it a little less confusing.
I guess what hurts most is how all these feelings got buried with the rest, that our only true moment of candor was when we clung to one another in desperation at the end of college, and then moved on, never talking about it. It seems so foolish now, but I think we just wanted to feel normal, to go back. Though I think we buried a bit too much. There was never going back without talking about it. And so we floated forward in silent resentment, hoping that love would one day feel unbreakable again.
Years passed. The silence sufficed. Our new adventures were a welcome distraction. But the ropes were never mended. Our half-built house creaked and cracked under the stress of new challenges. But we muddled on, smoking and smiling.
I suppose I canāt blame you for what you did. I did resent you at the time. My mood and life had been turned upside down by Covid. I had been fired from the only āmeaningfulā work I had been doing, and the weed had stopped helping me subsist and started feeling like its own prison. I retreated into myself. I remember our bed felt so small, sharing it.
Working overnight really killed me, but we needed the money. I didnāt really see you much anymore, and between my sleep schedule and a silent desire to be missed, I stopped sleeping in our bed. But it didnāt work. I just created space as you found another to hold you, as if to facilitate my own replacement again. This was the silent torture I was trying to endure. I was less jealous this time, as I learned our relationship was growing without me. I felt so willing to love, as long as we all cared for each other openly. I truly believed in us, and I remember I almost told them. I almost felt comfortable enough as myself to come out. But it came across as a poor joke, and I was embarrassed instead. But maybe soonā¦
Then I woke to muffled sounds of pleasure, as I slept in our bed for the first time in weeks. Suddenly, the fear rushed back. I felt the old trauma we had buried rise up. I felt so forgotten. So alone in our room again.
I was trapped in that fear. I couldnāt escape the nightmare. I wish I had run away right then, that I had given us the space we needed to reconvene and address the issues appropriately. But I was wrought with grief, and as you hurried to our bedroom door, half clothed, your eyes looked sad and afraid, a look I had hoped I would never see again. I said we needed to talk because I knew deep down that was what we always needed to do, but for some reason never could. I called them, thinking they would be somewhat shaken, but they werenāt.
It was just me alone.
They came over and just held you and calmed you. The way you two clung together made me feel like such an outsider, so replaced.
I wanted to figure it all out, to finally talk through our problems together. I wanted you to hold me like you did long ago, like you would never let go again. I wanted to feel loved again. But I was so afraid, and it happened so quickly. It felt like you skipped to the one question I never wanted to answer. I thought back to the trauma and torture of years past and looked at you, clinging to my replacement. I knew I would hurt you again, that I wasnāt sane enough to muddle through again. The trauma trapped in my mind jumped at simple relief, safety, loneliness.
In that moment, I gave you up.
I remember wanting you to argue, but you didnāt. You let it happen, planned our obsolescence, and walked out with them. I donāt blame you, though.
It came to me a week later, after you all burst into the house, your mother wasting no time to get revenge for the pain and suffering I had inflicted, you scrambling to collect the cats and items of importance, tearing apart the house as if I was going to run away with pieces of our life.
As if you didnāt know that I still loved you.
I still regret my actions. I should have just run away. I should have let you have the apartment and gotten a hotel. But as the police shuffled you all back outside after I cowered in our room, you finally offered some shocking clarity and reminded me of my greatest regret. I had forgotten. I had been overwhelmed when you were brave enough to bring it up years ago. My heart still aches that I hurt you in a drunken stupor, that I could act so awfully and not remember it and continue on, while your fears stewed silently every time I drank. I think back to you asking me to drink less and me waving it off, as I didnāt want to miss out on the fun. What I would give to change that now. How I wish I had prioritized your comfort over my fun. Iām still ashamed.
But suddenly your actions seemed more valid. I could see the pain I had wrought and how they were protecting you from some abuser.
As I explained away the copsā concerns, I have never felt more ashamed. I wanted to apologize right then, but I was scared. It felt like apologizing for hurting you would be shallow, that it would be far too late, that I had already fallen into this neat role as a villain in your life, and you would have an easier time hating me.
Iām sorry. I never meant any of it.
I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me
Ultimately, you changed my life. Youāre part of who I am and Iām grateful for it. I hope that spite doesnāt stain the memories we shared, and that from time to time youāll look back and laugh or cringe at our silly adventure. How I wish it lasted longer. .:. Always and Forever
