Lovesick Love Letter 2

Oh, how the cycle continues. Almost to the day. I just returned from the annual trip I was on last time. I don’t know what I feel for you, if I’m being honest. I know the version of you I loved was just a figment of my imagination. Neither of us truly knew the other. But that feeling you wrapped me in whispers to me at night. There is always some feature of you in my fantasies, as much as I hate to admit it. But again, I’ve split you into the figment I loved and the real man you are.  

At least, I think I did. I saw your name pop up in my feed, and I panicked and closed the app. I didn’t know what to do, so I just decided on:

"Hi"

I know I was being stupid, but surely I could control the situation and not get hurt. And then you kept popping up in my feed, and I couldn’t stop myself. It was instinctual, the need to talk to you. It’s been a year what the fuck is wrong with me. I keep picking myself up, hoping to feel that way again. I know that I can feel that now. It’s real. So, I kept picking myself up even when I thought I couldn’t do it again.

I lost my best friend, my mother, my partner, my home, my dog, my whole life in 8 months. I picked myself up each time something else slipped from my grasp. My life was whittled down to me, a truck, and a camper. I moved states. I decided to work on myself to be worth the love I was so desperate for. There were good days and bad. There were quick decisions with darker consequences than I was ready for. But when this was all over, I would be worth this fantasy ‘love’ I crave. This desperation to feel unconditional, unabashed love once in my life. To feel so sure in something. 

And you were there. But I tried to keep you at arm's distance. And then life came out of left field and kicked me good. All of a sudden, one of the last things I had was falling to pieces. I saw the damage and just fell to the ground and cried. It was the last thing I had, the last place I could even call mine, and it seemed ruined out of my budget to repair. The poor park attendant had no idea what to do with this weeping woman. The tiny life raft I had managed to lash together started crumbling under my fingers. I panicked and reached out, trying to ground myself. My ex still doesn’t understand the reality of our situation; my dad can’t understand the emotional toll I can’t hold anymore. So, I reached out to a friend. One that had lost a friend. One I thought could help me. I was sitting on the floor of my RV sobbing uncontrollably.

 “I’m not okay. I need help”

First thing out of my mouth. I needed help, so I was asking like we always complain they didn’t do before the irreversible. So I was here asking. And I was met with hesitation. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe I didn’t make my fear obvious. But we quickly ended the call, and I sat on the steps of my RV with a joint and a bottle of whiskey. 

I wrote it. I’ve never gotten that far before. I’ve picked up the pen to put it back down. I’ve started the first words and stopped. Deleting the admission of weakness in shame. But here I was, typing out instructions. They were simple and short. Not much to do, really. My absence wouldn’t change much. I tried to explain. I tried to make anyone reading understand it wasn’t an end; it was a release. It was a universal correction that was becoming apparent I couldn’t fight. But the need for the letter and explanation was enough to remind me it would hurt people. I don’t want to hurt anyone. So, instead, I hurt. Because that’s easier. 

But for a second, you were there, and I reached. I know I shouldn’t have. I know it’s not your problem. Telling you I was too tired; confessing all my weaknesses was inappropriate. But I was so alone, and for a second, I thought maybe. I apologized and deleted you from my account. I removed anything I could use to contact you. You have my number, and I know I’m looking at my phone too often, hoping I see yours flash across the screen.

I’ll pick myself up again. I’ll do it as best as I can on my own and learn my lesson to be a better person. I’ll keep trying. But every time, it’s harder and harder to pull myself back to my feet. I don’t honestly know how many more I have in me. I don’t want to be a coward or cause pain. But I’m so tired, and everything I touch breaks.