Dear Boy, I Might Be Crazy

Dear [Boy],

You asked recently if the letter before this one was a “Dear John” letter, and I’ve wondered since then if you had wanted it to be.

Let’s be honest, there is a very good chance that I will never send this letter, that I will just continue accepting things the way they are and forgetting all the pain that I have experienced since I have been with you. That is not to say that all the pain has been bad, but it is to say that I have not been happy on multiple occasions, actually, most of the time since you’ve moved and left me here waiting.

I’m writing this letter to explain how I’m feeling. How I’m really feeling. Not just some watered-down version of how I’m feeling where I underwhelm you with the details and then ultimately blame myself. And that’s the thing. I do that all the time.

I care about you so much that I’m willing to sugarcoat how badly you’ve hurt my feelings by blaming myself for the hurt you’ve caused. I stone myself using rocks you’ve picked, because I don’t want you to see that you're the one hurting me.

I’ve spent my whole life doing that. Letting people walk all over me until I become nothing more than a convenient thing that does nothing more than accommodate. And that’s what I think I’ve become again. You said that you want me to move with you because I “ground” you. You never mentioned love.

I’m there because you feel you can use me. But what do I get in return? Always playing second best to your friends, your career, your wants? I get ignored text messages, a lack of concern, and a feeling that you don’t love me as much as I love you.

And that’s fine. That’s how life is. I’m convenient; I get it. I let you do anything you want, and you throw me a bone when I get upset, but only a half bone, because I’ve already convinced myself that my feelings are invalid, and that I deserve to feel the way I’m feeling.

I don’t. I deserve more than your scraps of time that you unwillingly throw off the table. I deserve to be loved the same amount that I love. I deserve someone who will put in the effort that I’ve overextended. I want that person to be you. But I don’t think I matter that much to you.

[Boy], I know that you still have the pictures of [Other Girl] in your closet. I know that you still have the letters she wrote you. I went through your room, a moment of weakness, I know. But I had to know if you still had those pictures, and when I found the two letters my mind went blank. I thought I was your writer. I thought I was the one who filled pages with my thoughts only meant for you.

I felt upstaged. I felt stupid. And they were so easy to find, those letters. I then searched your room for any evidence that I existed. I had sent you letters before. So, where were they? It took me a lot longer to find them stashed in one of your desk drawers. Still in the envelopes, not delicately laid out with the pictures of your ex-girlfriend’s pretty face.

You don’t have any pictures of me, by the way. I checked. Even on Facebook, the only references that I’m in your life are the pictures I’ve tagged you in and that small line at the top of your profile. I know it’s silly to compare, but you had a picture of you and [Other Girl] as your profile picture only about two months before we met. Why can’t I be that person for you?

Why can’t I be the person you want to stay awake and have pillow talk with? Why am I the video date, without the date and only the fooling around. Why do you fall asleep so soon? As if I’m not worth a conversation afterward. I know that you’re tired, and I know that it’s been a long day, but the more I think about it, the more I think that I’m not worth it to you. Like I said earlier, I’m convenient. I touch you when you need to be touched, and then I need to keep my hands to myself when you’re not in the mood.

There are some days when you don’t even want to hold my hand, or I touch your arm, and you cringe. You say that it doesn’t mean anything, and you just don’t feel like being touched, but I can’t help but wonder if you just don’t want to be touched by me.

By the way, I don’t believe you. I want to, and part of me refuses to blame anyone else but myself, my insecurities and the distance. But you make it so easy not to believe you. It started while you were still here. The little things that you’d say. You’d tell me how your best friend would always cheat on his girlfriends, and it was just something they accepted. You said it so nonchalantly, like it was just something that happens. Then you said how you always have some way to get intimacy when you need it.

Then you moved, things only got worse. At first, I was happy you found out that you had an old friend lived there too. Though, I still remember how you conveniently left out their gender when you first told me you knew someone who lived down there. I also remember how I said, “I’m tempted to ask if it’s a girl or a boy.”

You replied, “Are you going too?”

I replied, “No, because it doesn’t matter.” And you said nothing. I knew then that it was a girl. I just didn’t know why you didn’t tell me then. But I convinced myself it didn't matter.

I know you were lonely when you first got there. But how did it not occur to you that going out with [Other Girl #2], your old friend, alone for dinner and possibly going out for a beer, would not hurt me? You told me she had a boyfriend, but how could he be okay with that, too? You told me you didn’t go out for a beer, that you just got pizza and talked for hours. Okay. Fine. It hurt like hell, and you told me you didn’t even consider the possibility that it sounded like a date.

There are other moments. Moments that could mean nothing, but I can’t stop thinking about them. You told me you get off work at 4:30pm every day, then you call me when driving home. But, [Boy], you call me an hour after 4:30pm. Where are you for that missing hour? I remember when you called me an hour earlier than I expected, and I expressed my shock to you. And do you know what you said?

“Strange, I always get off at this time.”

What do you want me to do? There are hours that go by with no response from you, no specific reasoning why you won’t answer back, not even a closure to the conversation.

You even leave me in the middle of sexy conversations. It makes me feel like a whore. You’ve gotten your fill and so you don’t need to respond. I’ll just be left hanging like an idiot who hung herself by her own celibate rope.

Speaking of sexy texts, I never explained why I asked if you meant to send the “Wanna have sex?” text to me during your lunch break. For one thing, you rarely text me during your lunch break, and for another, when I opened that message I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach so hard that I wanted to double over.

I stared at it for several minutes before I could get the gumption to respond. It wasn’t the text itself that did that. It was something so fundamental that awoke inside me. I knew it couldn’t be for me. My instincts screamed it at the top of their metaphorical lungs. Maybe it was for me, but in that moment, my body told me something was wrong.

I’ve gotten most of my grievances out, and the more that I write this, and the anger seeps in, the more I realize that this is my Dear John letter to you. It’s the Dear John letter that will never be sent. It will never be sent, because I love you more than I can justify my own feelings.

It’s sick and I feel horrible for playing this game with myself. I deserve so much more, and I know I’m settling. But I can’t imagine a world where I don’t belittle myself in order to make you happy. I can only hope that one day I’ll snap to my senses and realize that I am more than this. I am more than what I put into our relationship, and that someone, someday (maybe it will be you), will love me the way I deserve to be loved. I pray it’s you, but it probably won’t be.

I want this invisible version of you to know that I won’t be texting you tomorrow. I won’t be saying “Good morning” like I always do, and I won’t respond when you send it to me. When I’m out of class at 6:30pm, and you want to call, I’ll say no, maybe even ignore the question altogether. I won’t pick up your calls. I won’t be a complete asshole, however. If you ask if I’m alright, I’ll just answer with, “No, but I’m alive.” If you press for more, I’ll either not answer at all or say that I don’t want to talk about it. That will be the end of it.

It sounds like a test, but it’s what I need. There are two things that I will get out of this. I’ll learn how much I truly matter to you, whether you care enough to realize that I am not happy, and you are the cause. I will also be able to experience a day that I can claim was my own. I don’t have to measure my worth and capability by how much I can love you.

I’m also not wearing the promise ring tomorrow. I need to remember what it’s like to be me again. I was independent once. I was strong and shy, but I thrived.

I’m not wearing your shirt to bed. I want to remember that I can sleep on my own without pretending you’re near.

I’m not sleeping with your stuffed giraffe either. I’ve been pathetic and sleeping with him every night because I miss you so much. I’m so much more than that.

I want to know who I was before I met you. I want to be her again, even just for a day. Yes, she had no self-confidence. Yes, she drowned herself in her work. But she was so much more. She was beautiful and happy. When she worked, it was on things that she loved: drawing, writing, singing. I was so much more well-rounded before I met you. I believed in myself. I believed that I could sing, until I was humbled by your musical knowledge. I believed I was smart, until I saw how easy it came to you. I believed I was a writer, until I stopped writing to spend time with you. I believed I was a good friend, until I saw that I spent so much time with you or talking about you that I shut other people out.

Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve actually read a book? Since I’ve sketched? Longer than I ever wanted. I don’t blame you. I blame myself for falling into a trap where I let you become me, into a trap where I can’t feel good enough until you tell me I am good enough.

I want to be pretty again. Tomorrow is my trial run. If it goes well, I may just have to take a leap of faith, and keep running.

I love you, [Boy].

But it’s time I learned.

Sincerely,

Me