Sorry to a Sexy Book Reader

Dear Rob,

I think how I’m feeling right now, this desperate need to talk to you so you can make me feel better or tell me what to do, is precisely why I pushed you away.

It feels like my body is killing me from the inside out. The weight on my chest is suffocating. The anxiety is unbearable.

The things I told you about me, all the horrible thoughts in my head. That I thrust at you as evidence of why I would hurt you, they are all amplified to the extreme.

And I, as selfishly as I predicted, just want to talk to the one person who seems to understand, you.

I’m sick. I’m embarrassed about how I acted with you. All the things I told you and how hard I consistently pushed you away.

I’ve isolated myself from everyone. I desperately want to be alone and long that someone will see how much I’m hurting.

I need you to call me Chica and send me a funny video. But I can’t message you again. It’s not fair. Despite your protest, I’m sure I did hurt you.

The medication changes I told you about make me feel confused and drugged. It's almost like a bad mushroom trip where you purge, cry and realize how badly you’ve messed everything up.

The comparison makes me think about your promise to me, the someday you described. I wish that I could feel that now, but instead, I think I’ve forced you to break that prediction.

I’ve never felt so alone. I’m scared to message or interact with anyone because my fear of rejection is intense. It’s forcing me to say terrible things and make everyone who loves me leave. I’ll push them away before they decide they don’t want me.

Im slowly disappearing. There really wasn’t much substance to my being to begin with.

I guess I don’t have much more to say, except I loved your “Beunos niches hernias estrella amo y besos.”

And I kept your poem. When I read it the first time, it made me feel instantly connected to you. I’ve read it many times since. I wish I could see it on you as a tattoo.

I'll be a tree, if you are its flower,

Or a flower, if you are the dew-

I'll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,

Only to be united with you.

My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,

I shall be a star above on high;

My darling, if you are hell-fire,

To unite us, damned, I shall die.

I guess I’ll make my own grilled cheese and soup. I’ve been told too many times by therapists that only I have control of my life and my actions. But I’ve learned I can’t handle the responsibility of myself.

I do think about dying. I never wanted to allude to that with you. Not after what you have been through, but I think you knew anyway, which is why you put up with my shit.

I went for a run the other day; I spent ninety minutes running, pushing myself as hard as possible to relieve the pressure. It took ninety (90!) minutes to clear my head, and you know exactly what I thought about the entire time.

This letter is not a plea for you to return but an apology from a friend who values what was lost. Thank you for being a part of my life, and I'm sorry for the way I behaved.

All my love

C.

XOXO

A sad girl who majorly fucked up, again.