This is the letter that I’ve written in various forms. Some I’ve sent in emails; some versions go the way of the recycle bin. The thoughts are filed in my brain. The feelings now part of my soul.
Dear (Insert Name),
Where do I start? I hope you are well, in the way I hope all of humanity is at peace. Oh, who are we kidding? I know you are doing well. Social media tells me so. It’s weird seeing you so happy and light-hearted. I was there during one of the worst times of your life. Not necessarily by choice, but I was there. Or have you forgotten?
Maybe you’re doing the right thing by conveniently forgetting those years. Yes, years. Not a few months, rather years. Believe me… I try to forget. However, I’m left with the reminders. I think I finally threw out your old, well-worn cowboy boots. Or perhaps I buried them in the attic among the boxes of holiday decorations. I still have the weird unicorn art you sent to me from middle-of-nowhere Montana. I enjoy it as a bizarre art piece. Looking at it reminds me of better times, at least between the two of us, back when I thought we would be BFFs forever.
I tried. I swallowed my pride and gave you your space. Yet, in the end, none of that mattered. You made your choice. Over two years now. I thought you would be ready to speak to me again after six months. Not this time. What else can I do but respect your decision?
Just because I accept your wishes, it doesn’t mean the hurt dissipated into the atmosphere. It comes and goes. I’m good at distracting myself when necessary. I have a new job, new people in my life, am celebrating the holidays with as much joy as ever. You used to call me the holiday lady. That made me giggle.
What hurts the most? Not that we are no longer in each other’s lives. I know people come and go in life. For the universe’s sake – I’ve come and gone from many lives! My issues stem from your ability to completely deny that period of your life ever existed. You’ve completely erased me from your history. I gave you shelter and worried about your well-being, when no one else did. Ah yes, I’m the martyr. The invisible martyr.
When I am able to put the hurt aside which, believe it or not, is much easier to do two years on, I feel like a survivor. I’m as independent as ever. I might be good at playing the martyr, but I’m not bitter… well, most of the time. I’m human. I have my moments. When I look at our past, I see someone who survived the kind of heartbreak I wouldn’t wish on anyone. So, thank you for making me stronger. You may float around in my head a little too much, yet you’ll never break me.
And now for the strangest part of all this. I feel vindicated. You were always a potential Trump supporter, even eight years ago. I, of course, was not. You gave me holy hell for being, what was it, a lefty, too liberal? More than one of our arguments stemmed from you watching Alex Jones on my computer, under my roof. Well, look at the state of things now. Guess you were wrong, and I was right. Silly and childish? Perhaps. A vindicated survivor. Thanks again, dude.
So on we go about life, travelling down separate roads, with new people and old friends. I really do wish you well, in a broad sense.
Keep it real.