Opening Up?


I am 23 years old.

What is dating?

When I was 15, my first boyfriend asserted a relationship upon me and I reluctantly obliged.

We dated for a year and a half. He was manipulative, aggressive, and abusive.

My second boyfriend was not my boyfriend. I was 18, he was 21.

I wouldn’t let him too close; we saw eachother for about a month.

He stopped speaking to me abruptly, leaving me in utter confusion.

He left me for a 16 year old girl.

These guys did not get much of a taste of who I am.

They got no deeper than the surface.

Then there was Danny, who was good to me.

He was easy. He was kind. He was shallow.

He didn’t care about the intricasies of my mind and my soul.

He didn’t care about the pain in my past.

He cared about nice dinners and gifts.

He cared about formalities.

He treated me like a princess without ever trying to learn who I truly am.

He lasted 3 years.

I left him in an attempt to free myself of the burden that was keeping him happy.

I couldn’t be myself with him. He expected me to be someone I have never wanted to be.

He could never understand the darkness inside of me.

After leaving him, I was sure I was done looking for companionship, and thats when companionship found me.

I met a boy who seemed fascinated by who and what I am.

He was easy to get along with and we had so much in common.

I was excited by the things he found interesting and I was excited that I was one of them.

Over time, I would reveal things to him that would explain different aspects of me and my life.

I would tell him about the tragedy so he would understand the trauma.

He could never understand, though. At least not without wanting to.

I couldn’t make him care the way I cared about him.

His stories all revealed him to be greater than I ever could have imagined and I think my stories did just the opposite.

It was a secret how truly wonderful he was

It was a secret how truly terrible I am.

The more he knew, the more distant he became.

Finally, I had a breakdown.

He saw the parts of me I never intended to show him.

He was afraid of who I was.

He left.

How, now, might you suggest I go about opening up in the future?

When so many have been satisfied with nothing.

And the few who got any bit of me have thrown it back as they fast as they could.

Now that it seems there is another willing soul

Waiting to hear the stories that unravel my knotted way of being

Should I even bother?

How do you know when its worth it?

To reveal yourself as vulnerable and weak

To let down your defenses

and trust that someone wants a piece of you

for any reason other than

to crush you.


The Truth


Part of me
always knew
That it probably
should’ve been you
It was
too good to be true
Because it was all a lie.

He played
the part
Off to a
good start
But suddenly I
     L  apart
And the truth finally came out.

Years Pass, But Some Things Never Change


I suppose I could take the memory of you and lock it up in a black box and toss it into the darkness.
I can pretend you never reached through the sharp, rugged exterior of my walls and touched the deepest, warmest, most sincere parts of my soul.
I can move forward without looking back at what we lost so soon after we found it.
I can find someone who will hold my hand and whisper secrets into my ear.
I can find someone who wants to wrap me in silver and diamonds and show me off.
I can do anything I want, really, but I can’t go back.
I can’t have your sweet scent or your soft touch ever again.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to my dear friends, the sweet sensations that made my days feel more worthwhile.
I’m afraid to let go of the only hands that held me when I cried, and opened the door to my future only to back out behind me.
I will never have you again, but I’ll be scarred by your memory and I’ll wear it proudly like all the rest.
I only wish I could leave my mark on you as you have on me.
I can only hope that you’ll think of me from time to time and miss me, like I miss you.
I can only hope one day you realize that you loved me, as I loved you, as I still do
and probably always will.

The Awkward Start


and, um, maybe we could
just for a moment or two
I was wondering if you would
but, please, you don’t have to.

perhaps you might take my hand
and, well, I know its a bit soon
but, eventually you could be my man
and we could lay naked under the moon

shoot, don’t mind my clumsy words
I’m letting my mouth run rapidly
sometimes I lack the grace of “girls”
their empty words spin vapidly

don’t be frightened by my jagged edges
the closer you get; the softer they feel
my walls are built high like overgrown hedges
the sweeter you taste; the more i reveal

I promise I won’t get too close
at least not until you want me to
we can talk about the things we like the most
there’s not a thing in the world i would make you do

you see, its just, not that you asked,
but, i just don’t want to be alone
I’m sorry if I’m taking things way too fast
its been a long time since I’ve felt at home.

and there’s something in the way you talk to me
that brings me to a place inside
where all the best feelings like to be
as I sit back to enjoy the ride…

A Story I Never Wanted To Tell…


I had been dating my boyfriend for about 7 months when I found out I was pregnant with his child. I lost my virginity maybe 5 months prior. I didn’t know anything about birth control or safe sex. My mother had never spoken to me about any of it.

My boyfriend wasn’t exactly the most responsible, so he made the decision to veto the condom. If I had known any better, I might actually have said something. Since I had never been in a situation like this before, I was pretty much clueless.

We had been together for a while now, but things weren’t perfect. He was increasingly depressed and I was starting to almost feel afraid of him. A darkness was emerging in his ice blue eyes that I couldn’t quite recognize. I tried to be as affectionate and devoted to him as I could be, while maintaining my sanity.

I was deeply depressed, myself, but that was pushed to the back burner. His issues were more pressing. He was about to turn 19 and his mother wanted him out of the house. He didn’t have much income from his job at CVS. He didn’t have many friends to crash with, so he became vacantly melancholy, dreading the date of his birth.

I threw myself at him, hoping it might be enough to make him smile for a little while. Much to my disappointment, it was not. He was harboring dark feelings inside of him, the kind that eventually erupt in violent outbreaks. When he got frustrated, he began punching himself in the face. It looked really painful, as if someone else were doing it to him.

Here I was, this tiny innocent girl; and there he was, this massive angry man, pounding his fists into his own skull. He could really hurt himself, so I always tried to intervene.

“Please, don’t hurt yourself!” I would cry.

“Back off, I don’t want to hit you.” He would say; infuriated, but not with me.

“Then stop swinging.” I demanded.

“You just don’t understand what its like to feel so angry at yourself,” he confessed, tears welling behind his eyes.

“You’d be surprised.” I offered, restraining the truth from protruding through my lips. He could never know about the baby; he might actually want to keep it.

My family would have completely disowned me. I could never tell them in the first place, I was already the biggest failure on this side of the Mississippi. If I did something really bad, something like this, I could never go back home. I would be exiled. I would kill myself before I let it happen.

I thought, ‘thats it, I can kill myself.’ It seemed like an easy enough solution. I had been wishing for death all along, but now I had a really good reason. My life would never go back to neutral, it would remain negative for the rest of my time here. I would never know happiness if I lived to birth a child at 16.

I kept it inside. The information, not the baby. I was afraid to tell him what was growing inside of me. I felt disgusting. I was ashamed of myself. I was constantly on edge. I told no one, not even my best friend.

It was especially hard because, at the time, a new movie was coming out. The movie was called Juno and all my friends thought I looked *just* like the main character. Even more, she liked the same music as I did and dressed the same way. Of course, she was a pregnant 16 year old. There was a movie about my life and I didn’t even know it.

One day, while sulking in History class, my teacher told us a few cautionary tales. He was informing us of History classes past. Almost every school year for the last 6 or 7 years, he told us, a girl would become pregnant. He told us how he would always let her sit at his desk, because the metal chairs provided were too small. He said all of this with a clear look on his face. It was as if he was talking directly to me.

After class, I lingered for a minute, hoping he would tell me that he knew; he could just tell. I sat, hesitantly, waiting for some clear indicator that I could trust this man with my secret, but no such sign revealed itself. I kept my secret to myself and walked out of the classroom. That night I called my boyfriend to tell him what was going on.

He was sick to his stomach at the news. He hadn’t really considered what we would do if this were to happen. He broke down. I was just glad that I wasn’t in his physical presence, but on the opposite end of the phone receiver.

Due to my absence, I couldn’t tell you what went down between my boyfriend and his mother that night, but the next day he had something urgent to tell me.

“She’s going to help us,” he told me.

“But, how?” I asked; afraid and confused.

“She’s going to say you’re Aoife (his little sister). She will use Aoife’s insurance information and its going to be quick and easy. You’re too young to go in without a parent, so she will pretend you are her daughter.” He told me, explaining the complex plan as if we were planning to rob a bank.

“Are you sure this will work?” I asked, clearly unconvinced.

“Of course it will.” He smiled so sweet, I hardly recognized him. He kissed my forehead; I smiled with relief.

A few days later, my boyfriend’s mother and I walked into the clinic. We filled out some forms, writing the name of this woman’s daughter in place of my own. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking during all of it. I was defiling her little girl’s name. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable; she knew my most shameful secret.

I mostly kept quiet, not wanting to blow my cover. They had to do a quick consultation before administering a pill that would end my troubles. I didn’t think about what the pill was doing to my body. I didn’t acknowledge the side effects. I simply swallowed my pride along with the pharmaceuticals that would end this, once and for all.

I didn’t really feel any different afterwards, just like I had a secret burning in my chest. I was ready to die before this whole situation even emerged. I was really ready to go through with it all when I figured there was no other choice. I had begun accepting my fate and almost looking forward to the relief that was sure to come.

I expected death to be quite blissful; a final resting place. I found the flushing of my insides, though, to be rather volatile.

For seventeen days and nights I curled up in a ball on my bed and cried myself to sleep, hoping the next morning the bleeding would stop. It lasted seventeen days. One day for every year of my life that I had hoped to forget plus one for the decaying embryonic potentiality for life. One for every letter in my name which I had hoped would be printed in the obituaries column by now.

Sorry for dragging this out, but it seemed to be lasting forever in the moment. It was enough to make me totally withdraw from myself. I couldn’t let myself think about what was happening or what any of it meant. I couldn’t feel any of the associated emotions. I was basically a hollow shell.

It was around this time that my boyfriend had crossed over from borderline suicidal to actively attempting to take his own life. Things spiraled downward from there until our falling out on my 17th birthday.

I learned a really hard lesson through all of this, though. It is incredibly important to talk about sex with your kids or siblings. You need to make sure the people you care about are protected and being responsible.

This relationship taught me a lot of other really hard lessons that could have been conveyed through words from my mother or one of my older sisters. I do not resent them for their lack of action or communication, but I strongly suggest you take the time to be sure your young ones are safe.

Just knowing how it works and what you need to do to take care of yourself is enough. If I had known even the basics, I wouldn’t have ended up pregnant and suicidal at 16. Something tells me the suicidal tendencies would’ve been there anyway, but the pregnancy wouldn’t have been.

My mother still doesn’t know about this. No one in my family knows about any of this. I was young and scared. I was convinced I would be outcasted by my family if they knew how awful I really was. I had no idea that they had the power to help me. I was too scared to find out.

Looking back, there are so many people I could have turned to. I’m lucky my boyfriend’s mother was there for me, but that woman hated me. She certainly never looked me in the eye again after that. I think her attitude towards me strongly influenced my feelings about myself.

Had I turned to someone who loved me, they may have had more compassion for me. They just might have felt bad for me. Rather, I faced a woman who never liked me with my darkest secret. I reached out to her for help and she reluctantly guided me through to the other side. I was immensely grateful but completely terrified of what she might say to me.

She never said a thing, much like my own mother. Silence became our mutual understanding of respect on my end and, well, disgust on her’s.

I hope that if, someday, a young girl comes to me for help with something they feel so embarrassed and ashamed about, that I can make them feel better. I hope to remind all young women that there is nothing shameful or embarrassing about what we do. Our bodies are like magic and we need to do what we can to take care of ourselves. I’m not one to say what that is, but I just hope to assure you that its okay, whatever you decide.

Just don’t be ashamed of yourself, ever.

“7 Stages of Grief”


So, I have been dealing with a breakup for the past year and a half. This was the relationship I never thought would end. I loved this boy and I have been grieving the loss of him from my life. I was curious what those stages of grief were, the ones I always hear about on TV and what not. I decided it would be helpful for me to identify which stages I have gone through to see how far I’ve come.

7 Stages of Grief:

  1. SHOCK & DENIAL – It took at least two weeks for me to really take in the fact the our relationship had ended. I was pretty clearly shocked and I wanted to deny it, but it was an undeniable fact that it was over. I was, however, in denial about how over it really was. I held on to hope in my mind that things would rekindle between us for far longer than I should have. I guess part of me holds onto those fantasies, but recognizes how silly they are.
  2. PAIN & GUILT – I felt pain and guilt very immediately and constantly for the entire length of time we have been apart thus far. Up until this point, and I’m sure going forward, I have had a notable pain in my chest, where a heart might normally be located. I felt a lot of guilt for pushing you away and for being the way I was. I knew you deserved so much better and I felt unworthy and ashamed of myself.
  3. ANGER & BARGAINING – Simultaneously, I felt apologetic and guilty for not being able to make us happy and I felt angry and resentful towards you for not loving me. I wanted to rationalize things in my mind but I couldn’t get past the fact that we were falling apart because of me. I knew I was to blame and I was angry with myself for ruining the best thing in my life.
  4. “DEPRESSION”, REFLECTION, LONELINESS – Depression was nothing new for me, but it was certainly intensified by the loss of my closest friend and only love I’ve ever been sure of. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I did wrong and how I could have possibly salvaged our relationship. I have realized a lot of things about myself and about how we functioned. I realize that I was never what you wanted, so there was no way I would ever make you happy. I have since embraced the notion of loneliness. I can easily find guys to have sex with, but that is not what I want to do. I am disgusted by the thought and anytime a guy tries to touch me, it makes me shudder.
  5. THE UPWARD TURN – In a sense, I have seen an upward turn. I have been able to focus on new things like preparing for grad school. I have been engrossed in my new job. I look forward to getting my own apartment when I move back to Boston after a while longer in New York. I have been having a crazy experience in New York. I have been trying to try a lot of new things and experience life. I’m certainly doing better than i was was this time a year ago, but I can’t say I’m totally better yet.
  6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH – I guessI am probably in the midst of this step right now. I have a lot of reconstructing to do in my life with a lot of different relationships. I am sure there is someone, somewhere who loves me, who I love. I am sure that once my life becomes stable, things will fall into place and things will make more sense.
  7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE – I look forward to this stage.

Dear John,


I know that you know most of what I am about to tell you. I simply need to tell you my story so you can see, from my perspective, the role you played in the production of my life. We had limited interactions over the span of 7 months. The day we met, February 18, 2009, was part of the beginning of a most profound year.

I was 17 years old when we met; you had just turned 21. A week earlier, I had been dumped by my good friend and neighbor, Nick. We dated for about a week. It was really stupid and silly and it hurt my feelings. He had come to my house one afternoon to tell me how he thought he liked me but… well, he guessed he was wrong. I was so shocked that he had the audacity to come into my home for the sole reason of dropping a bomb like that.

I had been completely against the idea of having a boyfriend since my ex had made me the piñata at my own birthday party last year. I guess, to be fair, I had a bit of a thing with an old friend from camp during the fall and winter. We weren’t dating, but after losing a close friend, we could relate to one another in a way others couldn’t. We took comfort in the presence of the other, but never exactly connected on our own. Things fizzled out between us and we eventually moved on.

I met Nick in December of 2008. He was cute and dorky but totally off limits. My friend, Molly, had a crush on him and I would never steal him or try, anyway. A few months had passed and Molly and Nick just didn’t work. Molly found a new boyfriend and, apparently, Nick had asked Molly’s permission to pursue me before making any moves. How very polite of such a dapper young gentleman as himself.

January 28, 2009: Nick came to my house during a blizzard to watch cartoons. We both had snow days from school and, since he lived around the corner from me, he could walk on over to hang out. We watched SpongeBob from my bed, not unlike every weekend prior. The only difference was that, this time, none of our other friends could make it. We were finally alone and Nick was secretly plotting the perfect moment to attack. He kissed me at a totally random moment and in somewhat of a panicked jerk of his right arm around my left shoulder. Suddenly, he was laying on top of me. I decided to go with it.

A few days later, Nick would ask me to be his girlfriend and I would accept, but right now, everything seemed like a fairy tale. We bundled ourselves up to brace the storm and trekked over to Nick’s house to walk his dog. We took his Yellow Lab outside to make some yellow snow. I went inside to use the bathroom before she was done doing the same outside. While indoors, Nick’s mom stopped me in the kitchen to warn me that if her son was not good to me, to let her know.

Something told me she knew better than I did, exactly what Nick’s feelings were for me. Later that evening, Nick walked me home through the blizzard and for a few awkward moments, he held my hand. It was cute and uncomfortable. The foundation for our tragically failed relationship, the likes of which would be kept secret from any member of my family.

Days passed and our quasi-relationship took form. We texted each other and held hands while watching movies. It was very juvenile and innocent. Eventually it got boring, I guess, after only a few days the spark had fizzled. I wasn’t the only one who felt it, but I was the only one who wanted to tip toe around it. Nick was very upfront about the fact that this was not what he had in mind. I guess it wasn’t what I had in mind either, but it was a good thing, I thought.

Either way, Nick dumped me and I was sad. Some friends of mine took me out for ice cream, one even bought me a balloon. These are things that make little kids feel better when they get a boo-boo. I was 17 years old and I had been through far worse than this. I was totally fine, just a little disappointed. This was the first time I was willing to make myself vulnerable again after being completely discouraged from doing so.

Nick knocked me back down after helping me up from my set back. He never meant to hurt me, though. He never really meant to date me, either. I think that Nick was confused, as I was, by the comfort we found with each other. There was never a need to impress the other, and all feelings were understood. This was something many guys found unnerving about being with me. I made them feel too comfortable; so comfortable, in fact, that they might let their defenses down.

Nick was not about to be caught with his defenses down. I let him run away without chasing after him. He spent the next few weeks in Eastern Europe on a study tour. I knew we weren’t really right for each other, I guess. We were always meant to be friends; maybe even more than that, just not right now. We were still kids and I was getting ready to go away to college. Instead of dwelling on Nick or Brian, I decided to hastily move on.

A few days later, a friend was having a birthday party. She was inviting various people, most of whom she hardly knew. I was lucky enough to be extended an invite to the shin-dig of the century. It was quite lame, to be perfectly honest. I never drank, so I was completely sober. I liked going to parties regardless of my inability to partake in the festivities most were there to enjoy. I would dance and chat with my intoxicated friends. This night, however, it was just me. I was a random stranger in a sea of drunken young adults. None of my usual friends had made it, I was tempted to call it a night shortly after arriving.

You were the only person over 21 at the time, a favorite contender for most important attendee at the party. When the party began to run dry, you were designated to refill the coolers. Coincidentally, thanks to my coherent state, I was the designated driver to your designated buyer.

We first met as you faithfully handed me the keys to your black Chevy Cavalier. I got into the driver’s seat, turned the keys to hear the roaring of the engine, and began adjusting my seat. You had been sitting with the seat nearly as far back as it could possibly go. You found it hilarious how much of an adjustment I had to make just to see over the steering wheel.

I was mostly unimpressed by your attempts at humor (at my expense…) so I turned on the radio and tried to keep conversation to a minimum. You clumsily mentioned your ex-girlfriend; I starkly implied that at least she’s not a lesbian, referring back to a situation that was going on between a friend and her (now gay) ex-boyfriend. A story that you hadn’t known, until asking for the back-story behind my remark. I told you the story with bare bones, concocting a laugh from the deepest part of your vocal chords.

You sloppily reached across the center consul to turn up the radio when you heard a familiar song. “I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys began playing and I shot a look at you with a judging eye. I was sizing you up; this behavior seemed slightly uncharacteristic of the person I had, so far, constructed in my mind. You sang along haphazardly; I couldn’t help but laugh. You instantly became self conscious, unsure if I thought it was funny or dorky. I assure you it was both.

We drove around town; it was about 10:30pm. We finally found an open liquor store. You ran inside, purchased two 30 racks of Bud Light. Returning to the car in a hurry, you informed me that you really had to pee. I asked if you could go in the liquor store and you told me it was, essentially, too late.

I began driving back towards the party, but the urgency turned into emergency only a few blocks down the road. You insisted that I pull over and let you pee on the side of the road. I complied with your irritating demands and pulled to the side of the West Roxbury Parkway. You exited the passenger seat of your own car and proceeded to urinate upon a tree just to the rear of the driver side door. This was certainly not the most romantic 20 minutes of my life, but I guess we had, at the very least, become well acquainted.

Eventually, we returned to the party, beer in tote. Our return was rejoiced by the drunkards who were, unknowingly, celebrating the birth of one of the worst friends I have ever had the displeasure of knowing in my short life. You took your rightful place as reigning champion of the ruit table. I relocated to the kitchen, downstairs. It had been a long evening and the beer cans were piling up. I decided to lend an anonymous helping hand and started dumping the remnants of backwash and beer from the empty-ish cans and disposing of them in a large plastic bag.

You, apparently, had too much to drink, so you stumbled downstairs to have some privacy in the bathroom. I ignored the sounds of your gagging being drowned out by someone in the bedroom moaning; or should I say screaming?

After a while, you emerged from the bathroom: revived. I watched you make your way to the couch as if no one had been in the room at all. I was waiting for a friend of mine to arrive at the party, either to join in the festivities or take me home: whichever he saw fit. Upon his arrival, the party took an upward swing. A second wind swept through the place like a flash flood. It came and it went within less than an hour, and now everyone was crashing. My friend, Matt, decided to go, but I felt obliged to stay as planned  to help my other friend make it home in the morning. He told me to suit myself and I listened as the car backed out of the drive way. I was leaning over you on the couch, peering out the window as my friend raced into the sunrise. I was thinking about how I wished I had gone home, since everyone here was asleep.

Just then, you reached out an arm, half asleep, as if you had expected my presence. I jerked back, bringing you to a rise. You sat up, sleepy eyed and asked me what I was doing.

“Looking out the window, sorry, I thought you had passed out.” I told you.

“Oh, it’s you, DD,” You professed with a certainty I didn’t expect.

“Yeah,” I laughed at the nickname, “Its me, Debbie Downer.” I joked, knowing what you had meant.

“No, not Debbie,” you frowned, genuinely disappointed.

“I know, I know,” I said, reassuring you that I had not forgotten the nickname you had given me only hours prior. I was the designated driver, ‘DD.’

Your frowning face began to pail and I reached for a garbage can to prop beneath your head. You got sick a couple more times before the sun came up. I helped you up so you could clean out your mouth and when you returned to the couch, to my surprise, you kissed me.

It was unexpected but somehow not unwelcome. I kissed back and, after a few minutes, you led me up stairs. We spent the morning on a mattress on the floor under the ruit table. In the morning, I was sure I’d never hear from you again.

I got up and found my friends in the next room. We laughed about stories we were sharing from the night before. When you wandered in, not long after, you and I got to chatting for the first time since we had met. We discovered overlapping tastes in music, contrary to my previous assumptions based on your rendition of the Backstreet Boys the night before. I was almost intrigued enough to want to see you again, but remembered how badly I wanted not to get pulled into another potentially abusive relationship.

You were cute, alright, I admit that I thought so. We had fun bumping uglies as complete strangers. I thought it would be best to leave it at that. We both had other things going on.

You obtained my phone number through a friend of a friend. You contacted me and invited me to hang out again. I was a little turned off by your enthusiasm, you came on a little strong. Still, I wanted to see you again; so, I did.

We hung out a few times, playing up our inside jokes to avoid any awkwardness. Things were easy and light between us. We would sit in your car for hours, just talking. We got caught up in deeply winding and ramifying conversations that led us down some of the darkest, scariest corridors of the wild jungles of our minds.

I told you all about my past; the many people who had proclaimed their undying love for me, only to perform actions that contradicted their statements entirely. I confessed to wanting to die, I tried to smile to convince you that I was beyond those feelings of self-hatred and hopelessness. I wanted you to see me as I wanted to be, not as I was (broken).

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in the early stages of what would grow to be my family’s greatest battle. My sister was dabbling with drugs, getting closer and closer to the point of no return. I had my back turned towards my family; any struggle that emerged was likely none of my concern. One sister was getting married, one was living with her boyfriend, the third was busy with the beginnings of adulthood. I felt, beyond the shadow of a doubt, like I was the biggest failure my family had faced thus far.

They didn’t know it at the time, but I was ready to say my final farewells. My plan to end my life was put on hold prior to the passing of a dear friend, but was back on track due to a change of heart. However, since meeting you, I had a very different outlook on the future. I didn’t see the world the exact same way I had before meeting you. I thought, perhaps, that was why I met you. I didn’t see it as you being my savior, so much as being a sign that my future held more than a mere tragic death.

I was hopeful that we would develop an actual relationship. It seemed, so far, that we were just fooling around. We went out on “dates,” but more often than not, we found ourselves disheveled in the front seat of the car with various articles of clothing hanging off our bodies. I knew this wasn’t your only motivation for hanging out with me, but I couldn’t help but feel confused about said motives. I really didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be interested in anything more than the physical aspect of the relationship.

One weekend, you went to New York City with your buddies or something. I was minimally kept in the loop, which was more than I expected. At a certain point, you stopped responding to me. Your attitude had shifted and, suddenly, you weren’t the same. Your enthusiasm had drained, you weren’t so sure about us anymore. You slowly drifted off into the distance until you would no longer respond to my text messages. The old you never came back from New York.

I felt so rejected and silly for ever thinking I was ready to start something new with someone I knew so little about. You made excuses about not being ready. You claimed to not be over an ex who had broken your heart. You did a good job of rationalizing your actions to yourself; however, I was less convinced.

Two weeks later, my 18th birthday hovered in the near future. Mutual friends of ours made plans that included both of us. I would see you for the first time since you ended our would-be relationship and I was mostly furious that you had been invited in the first place.

When you showed up and acted like nothing had happened, I was enraged. Our plans got screwed up and, for whatever reason, you were one of the few who decided to stick around for the make-up plans. We saw a movie, I think, then got something to eat. I was irritated that we decided to go through with this elongated version of what I wanted to do (go home).

When the night was over, I complained to my friends that you had shown up weeks after essentially ending things. They admitted to inviting you, not knowing the deal between us. I forgave their insolence upon recognizing the err of their ways. I guess I was grateful that you came, even though we hadn’t been speaking.

Over the next two months we would see each other on the down low. You would often meet me outside of my house or pick me up to drive somewhere quiet and talk. We talked about a lot of things, but one thing I couldn’t bring myself to discuss with you at length was my sister’s growing drug addiction.

Regardless of how irrelevant it was to our relationship, the issue of my sister’s addiction was a growing problem for me. With the passing of time, I gained responsibilities. It started with letting our boss know my sister would be late, then it was letting her know she wouldn’t be able to make it. Soon, my boss expected me to know where she was all the time. I couldn’t handle the expectations others were holding for me. I couldn’t handle keeping tabs on my older sister. She was deliberately lying to me about her whereabouts so no one would know the truth. It was taking a toll on my mental health.

You noticed that I was receding into the perils of depression; a battle I was all too familiar with. You made attempts at reaching out to me, but I dodged your reach. I was able to mask my pending self-destruction long enough to avert attention from myself. I allowed things to remain neutral between us. I wouldn’t make you feel guilty about how much you had hurt me before. We could stay friends, but you couldn’t count on me the same way you used to. That was a level of trust I reserved for people who remained pure in my eyes. You were now tainted by betrayal and abandonment; my two greatest foes.

Months would pass by and we would hardly speak. By the end of July, I would muster up enough teenage angst and courage to swallow my pride and end my life. I would not succeed.

Now, I don’t know what you know about this time in my life, but it was shortly after this horrific event that we met the next time.

That next time would take place at Canobie Lake Park. You were there with your new girlfriend and some of our old mutual friends. I had vacated the realm of communication and slowly, but surely, lost touch with most of my old friends.

You didn’t say hi, you didn’t introduce the new girl. You somewhat acknowledged my presence and we both went on with our lives. Weeks later, I met a new boy who would become my new boyfriend. I would let him take me away to a whole new world full of weed and beer.

You see, you weren’t there that day in July. You were busy with your new life, while I was busy trying to end mine. I was resentful that you could neglect me in my true time of need. I was hardly concerned with anything outside of myself. The pain I was feeling was too strong to allow me to step outside of myself.

My new life swept me away so fast, I didn’t want to look back, afraid I might end up back there just as quick. I was engrossed in my new role as girlfriend. I would make myself look nice to go watch his football games. We would go to parties, I met all kinds of new people. I started college and everything was new and exciting.

While I was away at school, I would hear from you intermittently. You always expressed your regret at letting me go. Something told me these phone calls were conveniently timed with the demise of various relationships you dabbled with. I always felt bad, which was strange considering who broke who’s heart, here.

I had to tell you that I had moved on. It hurt me to say it, at first, but became somewhat routine.

I was with Danny for about 3 years. You called me numerous times during that relationship, asking me how I could forget what I felt before. I told you over and over again that I forgot the same way you did, but I guess that’s not true. It was hard for me to stop thinking about you and push forward with life in the beginning. I wanted to cling to that feeling I had the first few weeks we hung out, but the feeling was fleeting.

I guess, the feeling hadn’t gone away until I realized that you wanted to be with me for your own reasons. You wanted to feel the way I made you feel. You wanted to have what you remembered being so great. Unfortunately, I am not the same person I was when we met. I was like a fresh wound when you found me; tender and susceptible to infection. By now, I had grown a hardened exterior. I was strong and tough. I was never going to be hurt by another person ever again, or so I thought.

Danny hurt me, too. Not physically, no, he hurt my heart in a way I didn’t know possible. He hurt me like every girl has been hurt before. He liked someone else more than me. He wanted to be with other people. There was an ex-girlfriend who was a persisting problem. These were things you liked to imagine would never be a problem for us.

The nice thing about us never having been together, at least not legitimately, is that we get to remember each other exactly as we felt about one another. We didn’t have our mental images of each other completely destroyed by infidelity or secrets being revealed. We were allowed to preserve the perfect version of the other that we always have at the beginning of a relationship. You never saw my darkness in full swing.

Danny didn’t work, and neither did the boy after him. I have exhausted my options thus far and yet, here you are again, without fail, blowing up my phone. You are the only one who never forgot about me, never let me turn into a faint memory. You have maintained communication throughout the years and I truly appreciate that about you.

No one has been so consistent, however, no one has been so annoying, either. Don’t get me wrong, its the good kind of annoying. The kind where you realize there is someone out there who actually cares about you, for whatever reason.

My only concern is that your reasons for loving me are flawed, or that they are not based on me or who I am as a person, but rather on who you think I am or who you want me to be. I feel like you are motivated by what I can offer you much more than what you can offer me.

I don’t expect anything from you, but I do focus more on the contributions I can make to a relationship than the benefits I will receive. I hope this doesn’t feel accusatory, I just hope to shed light on how things feel from my perspective.

I’m sorry I can’t love you right now. I need to hold out for someone who really understands the way I feel and function in the world. I am an emotionally charged person who struggles with an abundance of mental illness. Simultaneously, I hope to work in the field dedicated to treating mental illness.

I have my work cut out for me. I have to love myself before I can ever love you the way you want me to. I would love to keep you as a part of my life, but your expectations for me are towering in comparison to my capabilities. I hope you can understand.


I do love you, just, not the way you want me to.