Allow me to begin by pointing out the excruciating difficulty of writing the first line of any serious letter.
I don’t know where this letter will find you; it’s quite possible that it won’t. But I would imagine the gist of the contents will find it’s way to you eventually, so I’ll skip over the niceties.
You’ve given me the impression that you have no idea as to why this is happening, why I’m suddenly avoiding you at all cost. I’m going to put that to rest; I’m weary of carrying the burden of your friendship, and I need release. You will undoubtedly want to debate and apologize for the complaints registered here, and I’d like to firstly assure you any rebuttals will be fruitless. I’ve heard your empty excuses and shallow regrets before, and they will serve you no purpose here.
I want you to know that I tried, Elena, I really did. I tried like hell. Every second spent with you was an effort to make you smile, to help you to notice me that much more, to have my feelings for you reciprocated. I’m not going to lie: I loved you, and in a bad way. So bad, in fact, that I let you walk all over me for almost the entire time that we were together.
I forgave you for everything, each time finding a new way to hopelessly delude myself into thinking it would all fix itself eventually. I let every last thing go; I practically gave you and Jeremy my blessing when left me for him after cheating on me. I didn’t complain when, four months of NO CONTACT later, you randomly showed up at my front door, fucked me, and then didn’t call for another month. I lodged no grievance when you cancelled our plans (plans that YOU had made, by the way) time after time. I’ve still yet to mention the fact that we planned a fancy welcome-home dinner, complete with formal attire and a night of unbridled passion to follow, and we ended up at Cattin’s, where you flirted with everyone in eyeshot. I kept my mouth shut when you borrowed my car to run errands, and then called me three hours after you said you were going to have it back, just to tell me that you were pouring your heart out to some random guy and it’ll just be a little longer.
I even kept my cool when you told me that you’d aborted our child without even having the decency to discuss it with me first. I’m not mad that you got pregnant (though a head’s up would have been nice). Shit happens. I’m not even angry that did the damn thing. I’m upset because you didn’t find it prudent to make me aware of it until after the fact.
But, true to form, I let it all go, each time telling myself this is the last time, this is her final chance. But you’d do it again, and my will inevitably crumbled. I welcomed you back into my good graces as if nothing had happened. In retrospect, I will concede that such benevolence was extremely stupid on my behalf, but I honestly loved spending time with you. Your presence helped me to forget about my anxieties and worries and replaced them with memories and inside jokes that I cherished. It’s inexplicable, but by some mysterious force, simply your proximity to me made me happy. So I forgave and forgot, against the better advice of my friends.
But I’m done forgiving, and I’m done forgetting. You said you worried about me because I’m constantly inebriated. Do you really want to know why that is? It’s a crutch, a coping mechanism to alleviate the emotion you stir within me. I keep trying to forget about you, but you keep antagonizing me, so I turn to drugs. The mere thought of you, even the mentioning of your name causes me physical pain. My brain is unable to reconcile how you make me feel, and at the same time, how shitty you treat me.
To put it concisely, you are harmful to my health, Elena; emotionally, mentally, and probably physically. One can only tolerate your specific form of abuse for so long before being forced to do something about it. I just can’t handle you anymore. You take and take and take, and you never give heed to any of the people around you that you’re hurting. I honestly think you could be one of the most beautiful people on this planet if you could stop thinking of yourself for just three seconds and actually give a shit about the people you “love”.
And let’s visit that for a moment. You’re undoubtedly very talented at manipulating people, especially men. And I’ll be the first to admit that I am exceedingly easy to manipulate. But please, stop telling me that you love me as if it’s going to make me forget everything you’ve done. Love is a feeling, a bond; not a crutch or some magic password for evoking forgiveness. Love trusts; love is honest. Love is faithful. You have shown none of these attributes during our time together. You spit the word like it’s stuck to your tongue now that I want out, but love isn’t just mentioned or professed; it’s expressed through your actions. You’re trying to justify the past by desperately attempting to fix everything, but it’s too late. What was it you said to me? “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t walk to your house and put this letter of apology on your car.” I’ll do you one better: if you really cared, you’d have fixed this months ago, or (just maybe) you’d have kept the situations from getting so fucked in the first place. THAT is what earns my or anyone else’s forgiveness, not pathetic attempts to unfuck things after I’ve finally given up on you.
That being said, I’ll ask again that you stop calling me. I really would appreciate it; even a week-long reprieve would be acceptable. If you cared so goddamn much, you’d respect me need for distance right now. If I decide that you’re worth more of my time, trust me: I’LL call YOU.
Now, my eyelids are heavy, and my wrist and neck are cramped, so I’ll draw this letter to a close. I’ll hope that you at least pretend to take these words to heart; but then again, you never did listen to a word I said.