Leave Me

Dear Future Self,

You’re welcome. 

I can’t believe I finally did it. Honestly, some days I wonder how I’m still doing it. But things have gotten easier, more peaceful, more serene. I never thought I’d say those words, and even writing them now, I don’t entirely believe this is my new reality. 

Yet here I am, lying on my baby-blue beach towel on my stomach, warm beach sand surrounding me, a bright yellow sun baking my shoulders and back golden-brown. It smells like saltwater and sunscreen with a side of Tequila (margaritas on the beach never tasted better) and even though a group of children no older than ten keep running through waves and throwing buckets of water at each other -- hard enough to splash me -- I can’t stop smiling. My heart never felt fuller.

Please remember this moment. It took you years to get here. 

By now, it’s been three weeks since L and I last spoke. I’m not sure if I can really count that time, considering he was inebriated and incoherent when I picked up the phone at four in the morning. But I’m certain that was his last attempt at reconciliation. Or he just wanted drunk breakup sex.                 

I’m not gonna lie, that night as I lay under my sheets with the phone on my chest, his soft voice emanating through the speaker, I stared at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. (I’m sure you remember, since this was the closest you’d been to falling back into the cycle.) My body craved him. His shattered voice cut my soul. He kept begging for me to pick him up from the bar. Said life without me was miserable. Said he was sorry for every name he ever called me, every wound he ever inflicted. Said he never meant it when he said if I kicked him out, he’d never forgive me. (That night, he forgave me.) Said he still loved me. Said he’d do everything he could to become the man I deserved. 

Every fiber in my being fought to resist saying the words, “Come over, I miss you.” I stared at what used to be his side of the bed, empty and cold, save for the strip of moonlight in his place. I miss you…I still love you… The words scratched at my throat for an escape, so I muted my end of the speaker and spoke those words out loud for my own catharsis. I let out my cries. And I hung up.

Even now, his words twist my stomach. It still hurts. I still love him and probably will for the rest of my life. But he could never be the man I deserved; not after everything. The man I deserved would never inflict this level of pain and expect me to apologize for reacting to the hurt.

Well, no more. I finally did it! I did it. I truly never thought I would. I thought I was weak, spineless, cowardly. Yet after four horrendous, chaotic years, I’m free! The chains that once shackled me to a life that didn’t belong to me no longer hold me captive. I ended the cycle. I broke up with him two months ago, fought six long weeks to get him out, and now that he’s out, it’s been weeks since I’ve heard from him. 

Tonight, I’m finally blocking his number and changing mine. 

I never want to forget this moment: I’m halfway through my second margarita on a beach in Florida visiting my best friend, K. Soon, she’ll be back from her surf lesson and we’ll go to the bars, wear our sluttiest dresses, and dance the night away on as many men or women as we please. I’ll curl my newly-red-dyed hair if it’ll still hold a curl (it’s a little shorter than I planned, but feels amazing) and sing at the top of my lungs. Hell, maybe I’ll apply for a job here, continue staying with K, and never go back home. 

I write all this to remind you, Future Self, of how beautiful your new life is and will be. It’s not perfect right now, I still have loads of therapy to work through in order to release all the trauma, pain, betrayal, and psychological damage L inflicted, but I can only imagine how beautiful your life must be after you continue this forward trajectory. Do you have those babies you always wanted? Are you finally living in a home you and your new, healthy partner built? Do you even have a new partner, or did you choose the alternative and move in with K so you two could travel the next ten years? Did you stop drinking? (I feel like a lot of that was his influence; I’m not drinking as much now, despite this melting margarita next to me.) When was the last time you cried because of someone’s harsh words? When was the last time you flinched because of a slammed door? I imagine you no longer walk on eggshells when you hear keys turning in the door. You never have to question where he is. You never have to question your sanity. You will never forgive someone after infidelity again.

Life is amazing.

On that note, I have to end this with a warning. 

If you feel inclined to read this before the time-stamped open date (five years from now), please jump straight to the next part.

Do not--I repeat--DO NOT--answer any future calls from him, no matter how tempting. Do NOT social media stalk him. Do NOT believe his lies or empty promises. He will NOT change. This is how you became caught in his web of abuse time and time again. Do NOT forget that. 

Do NOT accept any flowers he sends. Do NOT invite him over. Don’t even try getting back at him once all the hurt comes up in therapy and all that’s left is anger. I know myself; I know you. Don’t do it. Revenge will not hurt him, it’ll only fuel the fire that invites him back.

If you do, you know the consequences. You know how charming he is. You know how manipulative he is. You know how naive and forgiving you can be, to a fault. You know how hard I worked to drag myself out of this situation. Don’t let passing time and forgiveness be the key to his reentry and the catalyst to your demise.

I believe in you, future self. Live the life you always dreamed.

Past Self

An overwhelming sense of guilt washes over me and the weight of it pins me to the edge of my lumpy, worn-out mattress. A tear rolls down my cheek. The hundredth, most likely, after the past hour of feeling absolutely inconsolable. I wipe it away but the skin beneath my eyes feels raw from the repeated motion.

Why didn’t I open this sooner? Would it have changed anything? I shouldn’t have folded it up and tucked it away in that shoebox of things I wanted to keep from him. I should have taped it to my mirror and written “Open When Vulnerable” instead of “Open in Five Years.” Not even one year passed before I opened my inbox and found an email from him with the subject line, “I Miss You.” Why did I bother replying? 

I truly felt as though I’d moved on. I went on more dates than I have fingers and hooked up with a few decent suitors with not a single emotional string to restrain me. And I replied to that email with a quick, “As you should,” devoid of emotion, and pressed “Send.” Why didn’t I just delete it? 

One email led to another. He sent the receipts of his own therapy, pictures of the books he’d read with sticky notes marking the parts he wanted me to read. I accepted that book when he left it on my doorstep. I read his notes, kept replying to his emails…until the email contained the link to a video call and I clicked it out of curiosity. 

My past self would hate me. If I could redo the letter to myself, I'd write down every Possible trap he'd lure me into. I'd prepare. I should have changed everything—including my email.

But why did I have to? Why did it have to be on me? Why couldn't he just accept my decision and move on with his life?

I look up from my letter and study the doorway of our room. From here, I have a perfect view of our living room, the ugly purple couches he chose, the scattered gym shoes by the front door, the stack of plates in the sink, even the crushed white powder spread along the counter.

The room weighs a thousand pounds, tension thick as a smoky room. My heart hammers at the thought of him walking back through the front door. It's been three hours since he walked out and slammed the door behind him. Hours since he screamed profanities at me. Hours since he stole my car keys on the way out to ensure I couldn't take my own car and drive off. This time around, this is his house. I can't just make him leave and since I'm on maternity leave, I have no funds to my name.

I fold up the letter I wrote to myself five years ago. I press the edges down with my nails to crease it as sharply as I can and think, at least one thing can return to the way it was before. I rise from the bed, pat down my wrinkled blue skirt, and straighten. 

No one tells you that the most important advice you'll ever receive is the advice from your past self. We know ourselves best, after all. Why couldn't I just listen? 

I put a hand on my stomach. What consequences will I face if I remain here? How many more times will I repeat this cycle if I can't find the strength within myself to fight it?

Keys jingle in the lock. I tuck the letter in the waistband of my skirt and exhale heavily. I grab my phone off the side table and start a new message to my best friend. 

“Babe?” L walks through the door. “I brought you some flowers.”

Quickly, I type, Catching a flight to you tonight. Don't reply. Just mentally wish me luck.

Send.