A Response

Anonymous said...

Just the same; eventually you would left him for someone else just like you've been doing since you first started dating.
September 11, 2010 6:10 AM

An Open Letter to Anyone Whose Heart I May Have Broken:

I’m sorry. No really, I am. You can’t hear my voice shake or see my desperate eyes as I try to convey the full emotionality of the sentiment, but it’s there. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Reasons? I don’t have them. I think I’m just now starting to figure out that I have spent my girlhood in love with the idea of being in love, of falling in love, the act of love; but have not necessarily loved any of you. But see, I didn’t know that at the time. A couple of you I loved, foolishly, because you needed me to, but you weren’t good for me. I’m thinking mostly of my high school days right now. Still, to all the boys who have loved me, there’s something you should know, although I think most of you have suspected or have flat-out known this: The whole time I thought I was loving you, I really had my eye on some ideal or another. A rock star. An actor. A fictional character. The guy in my Algebra class. A professor. A philosopher. A musician. My best friend. I have lived my entire love life with a tragic sense of misdirection. Instead of going for the thing I wanted, no matter how far away or absurd it might seem, I have offered pieces of my heart to, well, whomever happened to be looking at the time. But a lot of you are truly wonderful men and will make great husbands some day. And all of you deserved better. I'm sorry that I was too young and ill-equipped to give it.  I hope you end up very happy and forget all about me.

A couple of you are still exactly where I left you, and will stay there, in stasis, for the rest of your life. Not because of me, mind you. You were like this before me and have stayed so after me. I don’t know what your problem is. But I wish you’d wake up and do something with yourselves. At least one of you will hate me forever. And again, I say. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I wasn’t right for you either, and you know it.


I know what it’s like to love a shadow. To give and give and give and have it taken and taken and taken but never really appreciated. I tried very hard to give my whole heart to the first person I ever loved, no matter how silly or childish that relationship seems to me now. But he wasn’t ready to take it, and so I’ve never really given it away again. (I don’t blame him by the way. Anymore.) I could say the exact same thing about my dad, probably.

Whatever the conditions you loved me under, I wasn’t good enough for you. I’m not good enough for me, at present date, and until I stop operating under the same cliché, Daddy-issue driven assumption, I think I’m just going to stay the hell away from all of you and your kind.

Nothing personal. It’s me, not you. It’s always been me. And I’m not just saying that.

Sincerely,

Tiff.

P.S.: The above is also an excerpt from the book I'm going to write about my Road Trip. I figured out a lot of things about myself out on the road, and my continual habit of, for lack of a better term, fucking over guy after guy emotionally, was one of the things I finally worked through. And I would like to offer yet another apology to anyone who counts themselves amongst the fucked over. I'm human, and this is my human journey. Mistakes have been made, and I am working very hard to correct them and prevent future similar mistakes. I have been hurt, too, and am also working to forgive those who have hurt me. I hope anyone reading this that I may have hurt will try doing the same, whether you feel I deserve it or not. Forgiveness really isn't about the other; it's about yourself. It's about doing what you need to do to reach emotional equilibrium. And letting go of anger and resentment is one of most freeing experiences I have ever had. You should try it. Seriously. Just try it.

P.S.2: Dear "Anonymous" (Don't think I don't know who you are. I know who you are.) You are welcome to reply to this as well. I will read it. And I will consider it. But I will also delete it. This blog is my story. Exclusively mine. If you would like to tell your story, I encourage you to. But please find a separate space in which to do it. Thank you.

1 Week Without

Dear Regina,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider it in all its aspects. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty.

It speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You put the notebook on the empty mattress next to you and thank God again for The Gift.

But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils.

You close your eyes. You sleep. You miss him.

This is how it works.