When we were together, I wrote a few letters on here that, for the life of me, I wish I’d sent to you. Or at least bookmarked them, because I’d love to have this open and close with the same pseudonyms I’d chosen for us back then.
I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for having the balls to leave me because god only knows I never would have. I would have been stuck with your sorry ass until the day I fucking died. Or you did. Whichever came first.
I made so many excuses for you for so damn long and you treated me like shit.
I like to think I was a pretty rare girl. Not to sound pretentious or conceited, but honestly, I was a great fucking girlfriend for putting up with your endless bull for almost three years. And I’ll admit, I was absolutely not an angel, but I never once showed you anything less than full support. Even when I didn’t agree with what you were doing. Even when you were busy creating a double standard (like that time you flirted with the new girl in school–but only because she started it–and you eventually left me and dated her; and then you’d turn around and get pissed at me when a boy flirted with me briefly). Even when you spontaneously decided that the solution to our relationship problems was for you to spring on me, “hey btw, I’m gonna go down to the recruitment office with my biffle and enlist with him, okay?” And all I ever told you was, “if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
And that’s all I wanted back. And as a girl in her first relationship (not just “real” relationship, FIRST EVER), that’s a pretty mature way to see things, just fyi.
But that was never your way of thinking. Everything I wanted was a potential hazard to our relationship.
Internship in NYC for ten weeks? No no, that’s too far. Same time zone, but still, too far.
A tattoo on your ribs? No no, I hate tattoos, I mean I GUESS you can, but I just won’t think you’Il be as beautiful.
And a trip to London for a week that you’ve already paid for so that you can be a part of an International performance gala? I suppose I’ll get over it.
You were never happy because I was never completely subordinate.
So thank you. If you hadn’t left me, I would have been tethered to you for life, never doing anything that made me happy, letting you do things that piss me off because how can I tell you no?
I want you to know that I’m fucking ecstatic without you. Not always, of course, because there are days when I miss missing you. I miss the you that I fell in love with. I miss the idea of having someone who (may or may not have) gave a shit about me. I miss the fact that, in that last sentence there is a GLARING grammar issue that has me twitching and a long time ago, you would have found that absolutely adorable.
But I don’t miss the nagging.
I don’t miss the restrictions.
I don’t miss the condescension.
I don’t miss the judgement.
I don’t miss the gaslighting.
I love my life right now.
I have fresh ink (FRESH ink, like, less than three days old fresh). Two new tattoos since you left.
Five new piercings, too. No, not all in my ears, because we know you would have been the most “okay” with those. One right through my face and one in my navel.
And best of all, I’ve got two or three boys I can call…well, right about now, at 1:49am on a Tuesday (Monday night) and they’d be at my apartment in under ten minutes.
Oh yeah, I moved out by the way. Moved in with a guy and a girl I know. Not my best friend, even. People you don’t even know well. People I’ve known for less time than you. Moving in isn’t so scary, love. You just didn’t want to tell me you were stringing me along, and that’s the real reason you didn’t want to move in together.
I have a half a bottle of tequila in my freezer that some day, I consider chugging straight and calling it a night. And I can do that because now you aren’t breathing down my neck about why *I* shouldn’t drink because alcoholism runs in YOUR family.
So thank you for walking out on me.
Let’s be honest, this isn’t exactly a heartfelt “thank you.” Not entirely. But part of it really is. This is that part:
Thank you for, for a time, being my best friend. Thank y–
No. I need to stop that there. Because somehow that part of me that care(d/s) about you still exists. Somehow she still slips through, your best friend, the girl you made dizzy with just a smile. She’s hanging out in the back of my mind and every few months she shows up again, throwing me a dream of us being together. And it sucks. Because I wake up with the fresh memory of your lips on mine. I wake up thinking I was kissing the boy I fell in love with. The boy who looked like Nixon from Framing Hanley, who loved animals and wanted to be a zoologist, the boy who told me he’d been dead set on enlisting, but had always told himself he’d settle down if he found the right girl, and that that girl was me.
That girl needs to fuck off.
Honestly, I want this to be a heartfelt thank you. Because a heartfelt thank you must mean I’m over you. But maybe I’m not. And maybe I never will be. And that breaks me every day that I remember that. The idea that maybe I won’t ever stop thinking about you. But I still owe you a thank you. Because you truly are the person responsible for my happiness right now.
Breaking up with me for the second time (even though it was on the anniversary of our first break up) was the best thing you ever did for me.
I’m free. I’m happy. Thank you.
(No Longer) Your English Major
(there, I remembered one of the pseudonyms)