Us

Hey, I just wanted to talk to you one last time. Not that it is possible for something like that. I just hope this letter will do. I have been contemplating for months whether or not I should send this. Even if i knew I was going to write it, I am still kind of going with whatever runs through my mind. So, excuse the smudges. Just your typical tears. Remember when we started our whole thing? This “Us” thing. We were so worried about giving it a name we avoided the concept entirely. But rules, now that we had an abundance of. We felt secure surrounded by them. Made each other promise there was safe space between us for any subject we wanted to talk about. Spent nights just listening to each other hum and ponder what solutions would our favorite characters come up with when faced with our imaginary problems. It hurts when I think about how all that changed. Years of friendship, changed into “Us”. Then, all gone. Even when you left, you started with hey. Such a weird way to start that cold, corporate disconnect you called a letter.

At the start, though, I remember you talking about how you saw so many similarities between the two of us. Daydreaming about our future. Remember when I talked to you about how I started going to therapy, deal with the stress that hospital stay dug out of me? Who would have thought you’d use it as an insult the last time we talked to each other. I mean, actually talked. There were a few exchanges the next couple of days but that was just, I do not even know what that was. Dude, I really am messing this letter up, aren’t I? I don’t know if you ever think about our last few days. I do. Even if I did not want to, my brain just keeps scratching that wound constantly. Honestly, it feels infected by my own self-hatred. You know the one, where I keep thinking what I could’ve done better, blaming myself. You know it so well, you used it the last time we talked openly, hurting me as much as you could with the few letter characters that app would allow. But, I’m not writing in that app now. Because, I’m not sure I want you to know what I’m writing, see? I might burn this letter when I’m done with it. I threw away all the others.

After I got sick, you changed. You assumed malice out of every failure of mine. You cried about how your childhood was to blame for every one of yours. Does not scream fair to me, does it? My brain is drawn to two opposites. One side is angry at you, for acting the way you did. I do not even care about “Us”. That just isn’t how you treat a friend, then come back four days later and ask me how I’ve been, talking about your quality of sleep the night before. The other side is sad, that you would ever have a childhood shaping you into the kind of spiteful person you are now. How is it that similar backgrounds offer that different a result. Maybe that’s what compassion is. It only exists in spite of trauma, not in the absence of it. Funny thing is, my friends asked me something I never saw coming. Why are you not angry? We are seeing how she treated you, girl, how are you not angry? I did not know how to respond.

Part of the same we share is the pain, I’ve come to realize. We both were talked down to. Shamed, laughed at, mocked. Betrayed, even. But, where I learned to be patient, you chose lies. Do you remember the day you shared a dark thing that happened to you? You started talking about it so casually, I did not have time to stop you. To tell you that you have already shared that with me. Finally, when I told you, there was anger. I knew, though. I knew if I stopped you midway, you would be mad for being interrupted. After that, you shared an even darker memory, one I never knew. Apparently, that’s just a manipulative tactic to bond or some other crap. Therapist says I probably knew you were not a good friend even then. I just loved you and decided to look away. Even “Us” started all wrong, if you think about it. I’m sure if I asked you, you would tell it differently. And my brain’s default setting is to question itself. I know how easy someone can be wrong, not that you get it. It took our mutual friends talking honestly about you to realize, you lied so casually that it was the same as truth to you. Remember what you said to our friend, the one that does not want to see you anymore? Maybe they will after a while. I probably would. Part of me still wants to, anyway. You told them that we kept “Us” a secret because we both decided to do so, that I would be the one to tell them when I was ready. That lie you said? They knew it was a lie right away. They know if it was up to me, I would have come out with “Us” the same day. Hour even. Because I have self-hatred, but I am not ashamed to spend the time I have with the people I call friends. Get it? That’s another thing I should have seen quicker. Shame for “Us”.

I remember the dreams you made of our future. Dreams are easy, I guess. Living together. You called me a romantic when I said I wasn’t. I was not fishing for a compliment. I just know how my head works. Where others see reasons to be romantic, you know the ones. Flowers, favorite food, beautiful sights. I remain still. My brain might think you would like something, but between deciding to do it and making sure that you don’t actually want something else entirely, it freezes. I’m certain I made mistakes too. Probably kept a fight going, didn’t see your point of view somewhere. There are the smudges again. Crying for all the times I froze, I’m sure you get it.

I keep thinking what I could have done better. My mind knows I am doing better now that you left, but the anxiety remains. Part of it, at least. Is that not weird? I know I wanted to be with you and in the middle of all the life that got in the way, including my recovery, the moment you left I could just breathe again. All the problems in the world waiting for me outside “Us” and it somehow felt easier. Even when you left, my instinct was to tell you I would try again if you were up for it and I did, remember, when you said there was nothing there anymore? That’s our difference. Where I choose connection, you choose to hurt others and cut people off. Saying you don’t need anyone, but we all do. The art we enjoy, the characters we love. The food we love. All of it is made by someone else, never us.

I see what I wrote above and I barely believe it. Even the way I write changes mid sentence. Like I cannot choose who I am when I’m talking to you. Thankfully, no matter how badly I judge myself, there’s easy truths to cling to. You never gave me that safe space we talked about, remember the one? You had your chance to talk. To blame me for every misery of yours. To lean on my therapy. As if it is a sin. Remember when you said you were too mad to listen to me and I could say my piece when you got back? I didn’t though. When you came back, the opposite happened. Said we wouldn’t talk about anything at all, it was all over but, hey, we could still hang out. Just not “Us”. I don’t know of a single friendship that rests on the promise of only one person talking, letting out whatever spiteful thought they have. I guess that’s why it never felt restful to be with you. Easy truth, though. There’s the silver lining.

There’s another, actually. I know what you would cry about, confronted with the same problems like me. Having someone drain your body and soul when you are out of the hospital? Tell you that your symptoms are things that others would kill for? Assume that your weak body and mind is proof that you don’t care, you’re just being too much? I can practically hear your anger. I’ll send this to you, so you can finally know. No, I’ll probably burn it. I started this with anger, I think. Now, I’m just sad. Endings were never my strong suit. Brain keeps gnawing at me. But, between the tears and the limited space, I’m not left with much choice. Funny.

Just like “Us”.