A Letter That Shall Remain Unmailed – or not. We’ll see

 

Dear Asshole,

 

Here’s the thing. When you decide to message me saying you cannot find me on Instagram, on Facebook, Twitter or have your messages delivered on my phone, it’s because I have blocked you from everything. Except one place.  Alas.

 

Why did I do it?

I did it for me.

You had to do, and did what you had to do, and now it’s my turn.

I need to separate myself from you.

I am done convincing you that what you did was fucked up and utterly hurtful. I just know in every cell of my being that it was.

You will forever have the distinction of breaking my heart like no other.

Your apologies were half baked, and they came after I asked for them. And so they lost even more water. They did nothing to assuage my pain. If anything they were more upsetting because I believe they were insincere.

I was even naive enough, and made myself vulnerable to you again by asking you for your help.

“Help me heal,” I pleaded foolishly.

“I am always here, you know that,” you said.

They were just words. Untrue words.

What you offered me was a watered down version of a friendship that we had.

That is unacceptable to me. It didn’t help. It hurt me more.

You see, now it’s all about me and only me.

Kinda like you were when we were together.

I know you so well that I think you felt the need to be in touch after all this time, not because you had an epiphany that you fucked up royally and were the biggest bastard ever – but because you want to tell me things. You want me to know how wonderful your life is now. I know you want me to know about your new apartment in Brooklyn, your black kitten, your new car. How nice it is to have your brother here with you.

You see, I already know all that.  Not because I spy on you. I just know.

I also know that I was the first person, sometimes the only person you would tell things to. You even told me that you would talk to me when I wasn’t there because you couldn’t wait to share something with me. You pretended I was walking with you as you went to the store, ran errands and waited for when I finished work, and we could talk.

Now you have others to tell those things to.

But wouldn’t it be great to tell Geetika too, I bet you think to yourself.

Yes, that’s what I believe is the motivation behind you trying to find me and getting in touch. Just to let me know what you are doing.

I don’t know if I will ever be ready to allow you back into my life.

All I know is that right now you are not allowed in my life.

It’s not that I haven’t moved on – or that I have any desire to be with you – it’s just that I am not done hurting.

I haven’t forgiven you.

I doubt I ever will.

I gave you more love, more affection, more attention and more life lines than I have any other human.

But what you did, how you did it ,and then how you reacted to my pain was the most despicable behavior possible.

And that is why you didn’t find me on Instagram, Facebook, etc. And you never will.

I know that I am not doing myself any favors by walking around with all this hatred and by not forgiving you.

But since I haven’t been betrayed in this manner before, I don’t have the luxury of tapping into old memories of techniques I may have used in the past to recover.

This is what feels right for now and so this is what I shall do.

I will not stroke your ego any more than I did when we were together, and even when we were not.

I spent the last year and a half asking myself, the universe, why you even came into my life. Because you know, people seem to say with great conviction that everything happens for a reason.

I haven’t found the reason for you yet.

Maybe you came into my life for no reason whatsoever. Maybe you were just an excuse to spend a year in a wasted, fucked up manner.

The world is full of anomalies and useless mutations. Maybe you were just that.

I know why I came into YOUR life on the other hand.

I was your anchor when you had no one to hold you into place.

I probably even made you strong enough to leave the house and meet her, wherever the fuck you met her.

Without my love and encouragement you probably wouldn’t have even been confident enough to woo her, to believe that you could be loved.

I did all that for you. Yes I did.

And what you did, you did at my expense, on my shoulders.

I am certain you did something in your past life – if you believe in that sort of stuff, or you did some amazing deeds in this life that brought me into your life.

You were broken, by your admission.

I made you whole, by your admission.

No good deed goes unpunished. I would tattoo that on my ass if I wasn’t so afraid of needles.

All this makes me sound bitter. I am not. Thankfully, that is not my nature.

But does my mouth get flooded with bile every time I think of you?

Yes it does.

The saddest part of this whole thing is that now I don’t believe one word you ever said to me. I don’t believe that one smile on your lips, was true. Not one touch of yours was a touch of love.

It was a hoax.  Every moment I spent with you was a lie.

That, to me is the grandest tragedy and what I can’t ever forgive.

Wait. I just thought of one good thing that came out of you and me.

I started writing. Writing a lot.

Now I’m writing a book.

Before your dick starts to become hard because you think I am writing a book about you – I am not!

The book is not about you. It is about me.

Are you in the book?

Oh yes you are.

Do you look good in the book?

No you don’t.  You look just like you were.

I tell the truth in the book and so how can I make something look good when it never was good.

I can’t.

Making you look good would make it a piece of fiction.

And so once again I tell you why you can’t find me on any social media or my phone – because I blocked your ass from everywhere.

That’s why.

For now the only question is: do I mail this to you or let you read it in my book when it comes out.

Until I date again!

A Story of Betrayal – Part 1

Hatred is such an awful emotion. It is a burden to walk around with it. It has a dreadful taste that washes over my teeth, front and back, not forgiving a single crevice. The metallic aftertaste is forever on my tongue.

What does one do when one feels this way?

It certainly doesn’t effect the person you have hatred towards. They are just going about their life as though nothing has happened.

Does he ever think about me?

If so – what does he think?

It’s probably a passing thought when he hears a phrase I might have uttered, or walks by a place that we once went to together.

Nothing major.

Two seconds. Three, tops.

And me. The one with the hatred – even though I don’t allow myself to dwell – the thoughts come. Sometimes like a tsunami, sometimes a couple of drops that burn a hole in my stomach, at other times a thin stream that just trickles down the back of my throat.

So what do I do?

I have moved on. I really have.

I am able to feel happiness. I am able to see friends, even go on dates. I have had sex after him and enjoyed it. I can go hours, even days (okay not days) without thinking of him. But the thoughts still come.

So what do I do? How do I turn this around? Make it go away?

I keep asking myself this question, sometimes a hundred times a day.

So far the only way that I have come up with is to tell the story. Write down everything that transpired between us from A to Z.

But what if it doesn’t help? That is my fear.

I suppose I will never know it till I do it.

A fantastical fantasy:

I write the book.

He reads it and admires how well it is written.

Hollywood calls and asks to buy the rights to the story.

A blockbuster, yet meaningful movie is made.

I have to give an acceptance speech at the Oscar’s for the best screenplay, and I am beautiful and grateful, give a gracious speech but mention him where only he knows I am talking of him.

His beer flies out of his nose and he feels the disgusting metallic acid coating his tongue and then his entire mouth. That taste never leaves his mouth. It seeps into his soul. He can never sleep a peaceful sleep again.

THAT WILL HEAL ME FULLY!

While I wait for that to happen, I need to write my story.

But every time I sit down to write it, I am afraid of falling into the abyss that is the memory of him and I.

Were there any happy moments with him?

Sure. Of course there were.

Start with those, I tell myself as my finger hovers over the keyboard or as I click my pen open and close.

But I can’t.

Because each and every happy moment is tainted by what he did.

Now I don’t believe a word he said. I don’t believe in the simplest of gestures he made. When he would move a strand of hair from my cheek and tell me that I have the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

I don’t believe in the tenderness when we would be sitting at the two ends of the couch and he would extend his arm and ask me to come closer. He would pull me to him and I would rest my head on his chest. As he played me music or sang to me, I would look at my reflection on his computer screen, then the reflection of the two of us on the dark TV screen in front of us.

If you were to peek into the window, you would see two people who were the only two people in the world at that moment. Two people who loved each other – well, at least one person who loved the other – but you would never know the truth. I don’t know the truth and I was there.

But he has polluted the memories of those feelings of pure bliss that I felt by what he did and what he said. The hours and hours we were entangled in each other’s arms listening to music or talking. Music was our language. He played me happy songs, romantic songs, silly songs – every song that there ever was.

At times his fingers would caress my chin, down the side of my neck and he would hold my waist tightly, pulling me towards him. That would sometimes turn into kisses, gentle ones and then intense ones. I could tell by the way his body moved that he was turned on. I know I certainly was.

I would often tease him that his ‘tells’ were so easy when he was turned on.

“I am always turned on when I am around you,” he would say taking my hand and walking me to the bedroom or we would just stay there, him gazing into my eyes before his body was on top of mine.

He always gazed deep into my eyes while we made love or just sitting and sipping a glass of wine.

Now, after he has betrayed me in the manner that he has, I wonder what that gaze was about.

“She is such a fool. She thinks I care. She doesn’t know that she is just a convenient fuck.”

I know he didn’t think that I was just a convenient fuck but I sure was convenient.

I was always there.

Always there to share a drink. To share a laugh.

Always there to talk him off the ledge, which I did more times that I care to count.

Always there with kind words. Loving words. Sexy words. Encouraging words. Sensible words.

To be continued…

Until I date again!