I think in that moment you needed to know that it was over. That it had been lost from you for some time and your severe denial had led you to acts of desperation. That that desperation had rendered you resistant to your intuition, muzzled your voice for fear the truth would set you free. It was very bad, and you needed to hear this from someone. That it was okay to let go now. To fall apart and let the fantasy be consumed with rage. Something, after all, would have to burn.
You needed a hand to hold while you punched the universe in the gut. The horror of your ways, surrendering yourself to someone who did not want you. It was hard to say it then, but you needed someone to nod their head in agreement that, yes, you had wasted your time. Precious, irretrievable time that would have been better purposed in your art, in your family, in your dreams. Only you had tricked yourself into believing that he was your art, and your family, and your dreams. Told yourself that all things done in the shape of love were worthy of any possible damages. But that could never have been viable. And when the substance was revealed for what it was, a frail net of misplaced hopes, you clung to him anyway and skinned more than your knees.
After all the devastation, you were left with the abundant and bitter echoes of bad decisions, as that hollow thing crumbled in your soul. The old photos of you smiling after long walks where you spoke of changing the world with your bold, innovative theories on partnership mocked you now. And because you didn’t have anyone there to help you throw them away, you stuffed them in your journal, in a box, in the back of the closet. There, you thought, they’d be safe from memory, but more importantly, salvageable in the event an apology ever came. But far from forgetting, they egged you on from their hiding place, each day causing you to remember more of the parts that weren’t wonderful. An inventory full of regrets, all stemming from one fateful plea: that he would follow through on first impressions, as you were under the impression he had intended to love you.
With that single admission you were free, but you needed someone to help you grieve the loss of a love that was never yours. Something, after all, was being torn apart inside of you. And still, it would be a very long while before you stopped dodging the wrecking ball. But you needed someone to finally yell through the ruckus of a perpetually breaking heart: “YOU ARE YOUR OWN WRECKING BALL!”
Open letters are an experimental methodology of self-healing. All letters are written from me to an undisclosed recipient with whom I need to share something, something usually hard to say to their face. I write these to people from different areas and seasons of my life. Sometimes its for a stranger, sometimes for someone closer, maybe even me. These letters are a part of the Transparencies collection.