I’ll preface this by saying that yes, actually, something quite important has changed. I’m not real sure when it happened, but this is the proof.
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On Sun, Mar 14, 2010 at 4:34 AM, <******> wrote:
If you’re receiving this …
I love you … I love you enough for you to be in a circle of people that I’ve I’ve either held onto or searched out. I may be in a weird place … but I want every one of you to know that you are important to me … I’ve sent this in the hopes that you will respond and let me know that you are where I think you are … and that if I really needed to reach out to you through the interwebs I could.
Ah, I remember you. Once upon a time, I waited and waited and waited to hear from you. I remember the feeling of happy waiting. I remember the feeling of how it turned to sad realization that I just wasn’t [adjective] enough to warrant your effort, active effort, demonstrated care; I waited until even I could no longer ignore the evidence that I was nothing more than a convenient crutch or cushion that, no longer needed, had been set in a corner to gather dust until the next spasm.
And now, here you are… again… that limping gait, that pained look, that relieved sag evident as you reach for me, here, in my dusty, musty, all-but-forgotten-except-now-you-have-need corner.
Let you know that I am where you think I am? If I’m parsing that correctly, you’re asking me whether or not I’m willing to be your crutch all over again, knowing full well that all that waits me is another year (or more) in the corner. I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh or whip out the flaying knife and remind you why pissing me off is a very, very bad idea.
I am not angry. Yet. I hope you are well. Truly, I do. But do not write to me as if you think more of me than a tool. I have these days in the corner and they’re much louder in their silence than you can hope to drown out with letters. Remind yourself of what you know about me. Remind yourself of what I gave you freely and with nothing more than the wish for it to be savored. Remind yourself that the only thing I asked, the only thing I ever asked was that you not abandon me to silence and having to worry for what had happened to you.
And then, remind yourself of your choices and how long it has been, and ask yourself — “Do I think this is a pattern she is willing to let repeat?” and let the answer help you understand why I do not expect to hear anything more from you; why hearing more from you would be a very, very poor choice on your part.
I hope life will soon treat you well again. I hope you reach contentment. I hope you find more than you hope, less than you fear, and all that you need.
But there is just no hope left to you that any of it could ever live here.
Be well.
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Once upon a time, not too long ago, actually, I would have cheerfully welcomed this person with open arms. It would never have occurred to me, then, to have anything other than delight to see their words.
Oddly, the feeling I have is not happiness. It’s heavy and it pulls on my ribcage. Don’t get me wrong, being able to send that reply was liberating. Not immediately feeling obligated was nice. Having a moment of pained laughter for the overt level of it was helpful.
While I can give the right response, I still can’t quite manage not to feel sad for chances spent. The echoes still bring the same feeling.
At least I can make better choices for myself. Progress is progress.