A Million Pieces to Follow

11/28/2017

Dear Self,

One day you’re going to regret writing this down, you know that darn well, and for that I’m sorry in advance. I’m sorry that you’re going to crumble this stupid, probably coffee-stained piece of paper up and throw it out aimlessly in front of you only for it to be forgotten about for years and years and years and years. I’m sorry because on what should be a good day when you finally are able to start a new well-anticipated chapter in your life, you’re going to find it between the crease of the wall and your bookshelf, or maybe in the back of your closet and all of the bad, painful feelings are going to rise back to the surface. I’m sorry that I’m out to ruin you.

The thing is, this is what you were told to do. You were very clearly instructed to write out your feelings to better understand yourself. Apparently it’s supposed to make it much easier to throw this agony back into the past where it belongs and to go on forward without looking back, but I know that it’s not that easy. I can’t trust that it could be. After all, isn’t it physical copies of dumb mistakes and occurrences the exact cause for blackmail. Heading down this pathway, it looks like all I’m doing is blackmailing myself, but it is what it is, isn’t it? You’re not the know-it-all when it comes to your own psychology and making. This is what you were told to do, and as bad of a feeling you have about it, you can’t hold back on doing it.

Is that the people-pleaser in you or not? I don’t know. All we do know here is that I’m hurting. I’ve been trying to act like I’m not, but I am. When people come by with even an ounce of curiosity or the common “how are you?” greeting, it’s instinct to say “okay” or “good” that I don’t even think about it anymore. I guess my goal was to keep up with it for long enough that eventually I’d be able to fool myself into believing it, but if that was the plan it’s not going very well. It’s rather embarrassing if I must admit. I’m grieving. I’m mourning over someone who isn’t even dead. Someone who is very much alive, probably with a leap in her step right now as she walks the sidewalk of her successful life that’ll forever shade mine. Someone who forgot about me.

She broke up with me. I thought we were forever. I thought one day we’d have rings on our fingers to symbolize our love, we’d adopt two children, get a dog and be that family with the white picket fence. I dreamed of a future with this woman, and then suddenly I wasn’t allowed to dream anymore. It all fell apart right in front of my eyes like it was supposed to sting as bad as it possibly could and like it took no interest in going easy on me. Everything was going so well and then out of nowhere it wasn’t. I wasn’t given any time to process it. Quite honestly, I still haven’t.

My dearest ones think I did. Nobody knows that I let myself get torn up by this. How could I? How could I when my mother always told me to only give a person 10% of my heart? It sounded easy to me to keep a grip of myself like that, but when the woman I didn’t know I craved for came along, I lost any sort of ability to do that. I swore, and I still swear that when you love someone there’s no such thing as ten percent. You love with all or you love with nothing and there’s no other way to describe it. There’s no other way to feel, and I’m living proof.

I don’t want to be, but I am. I wander around the aisles at the local store and wait around the shelves with perfume until nobody is there to watch me, and when I’m certain that I’m all alone, I smell every single one that they have in stock until I find the one she used to wear. I’ve filled my bathroom cabinets with lotions, shampoos and even deodorants that remind me of her, and I lay around in bed like I have time to kill, playing the songs that she introduced me to and that will always make me picture her. I’m going mad making myself miserable because these days it’s the only thing I know how to do. It’s as if all I want to do now is sit around and pity myself. I can’t snap out of it. It’s like it’s telling me it’s here to stay until I shrivel up into nothing.

The future doesn’t look very bright anymore. If there was a switch that could turn this around, I’d greatly appreciate it if someone could point me in that direction, but I’m getting to the point that I’m accepting this is how it’s always going to be. There isn’t any other way. It doesn’t ever work out. It ends up biting you in the end, chews you up, and spits you back out when it’s done -- that’s love for you. Before you enter its cave, there should be a sign to issue a warning. It’s dangerous and I’m afraid it's not as worth it as people say it is.

I think I’m stuck at a dead-end. It was an open field, and now it’s a brick wall. How do I get out of here? I can't take it.

-C.R

~

10/12/2021

Dear Self,

How silly you once were. It's moving day today and I found the letter just like you thought I would, but not everything went according to your plan.

You’re happy. You look back on yourself in the past and laugh at how much pain that woman caused you. It won’t be a big deal for very long. You heal. You’re okay now. Better than okay, actually. You have your dream job, a beautiful child, another one on the way, and someone who treats you the way you deserve. Your heart will be mended soon enough,

Everything works out in the end.

-C.R