I wanted to write you a letter for your birthday, but then knew you wouldn’t want that. I tried several times to write something positive. Instead, all I can think to tell you is something generically stated when someone turns 18. ‘You can go to jail now!’ or ‘LEGAALLLL’!; You’d mentally remind me that seventeen is the age of majority in your state. Also, I don’t want to imagine you sleeping with someone more than twice your age or even anyone at all for that matter.
I’ve been writing so many letters to you. At school. At three a.m. when I can’t stop thinking. When I wake up from having yet another dream about you. When I can’t sleep at all. Some I wanted to send. Some I still need to dispose of. Some frivolously angry. Some hopeful. Some only lovers would exchange. But mostly, they all say the same thing in different words…
I love you. I miss you. I need you. I’m so sorry.
When I feel anything, it’s heartache. It’s remorse. It’s this pang in my stomach when I cry too hard. It’s terrible things that I just want to disperse into something else. Something that will help heal. Anything to get by. Anything. Well let me tell you, I’ve got a nicotine addiction now. That’s something. A distraction.
Every day is another look into what we’ve shared and what I’ve lost as a result of my failure. You’d think after really separating from someone you’d know a little more about yourself, maybe even a little more about them after taking so many steps back. (I was more perfect with you.) But I’m just here. I am here and you are there. I created that space.
Perhaps I was not meant to love with this unconditional love that you had felt for me.
These letters are just letters. Words on a page that mean nothing at all knowing they aren’t expressed with the words ‘mine’ and ‘forever’ or phrases in French we’d say to each other countless times. I look over them and wonder if that if you ever read them, if you would smile the same smile before, knowing you were holding something I’ve held. My handwriting. And I become bitter. This is another reason why I have decided not to send them.
The only thing I can say that was truly meaningful in the letters is how grateful I am that you were born.
Placed on earth so carefully, seemingly just for me. I might have believed in a deity then, but instead we called it fate. What is it now? Learning from our mistakes? Bring out the Dr. Seuss and appreciate what we had over though it’s over?
Did I honestly ruin all hopes of starting again with you? Together? If I did, you wouldn’t tell me, though, would you? If you knew.
Now I’m thinking that this whole thing is pointless, another documentation to be erased. But I really wanted to write you something.
I know you need more time. I know I need more time. But time is against me, and I hate counting the minutes that feel like hours without you. I hate having the urge to e-mail and just tell you I love you. I hate having the urge to bitch about how you essentially removed me from your life, even if it was rightfully done. But I’m learning self-control and learning to leave you alone, besides these occasional letters that I know you will read. The ones I might regret later anyways.
I can’t listen to anything but C&C, PFI, or MCS for more than a few minutes. Maybe I’ll be able to name the tracks on every album in chronological order, too. Soon.
If we ever get to talking again, I’ll try my best not to be a bitch. If we don’t get to talking again, well. Happy birthday.