Letters to a Memory

Dear you,
Perhaps writing these will give me a better form of closure than what I had, though I’m beginning to think that how it ended wasn’t closure at all. This most certainly won’t be the last “letter” I write to you, because my emotions can’t be summarised in one sitting. It would take far longer than that, and it makes it easier that I’m writing it here because there’s no fear attached.

Can I really call it a letter, when you’ll never read it? Even if you do, you’d never realise it was you, or you’d think it was you when it wasn’t. I wouldn’t make it easy for you, simply because I don’t want you to know. I want to speak as freely as I’ll let myself.

I still don’t blame you, despite being told I have every right to, because you broke my heart. You taught me what friendship was like, what it was like to make awful and stupid mistakes, but then what it was to forgive. Then, that all shattered and I was left – but there’s something important that’s missing there. The shattering, the ending, isn’t what should define how you thought of something. The journey to that ending, the things you experience along the way that make you grow as a person, should.

The simple reason I can’t blame you is that I know that it wasn’t your fault. If I were a different person, I would have cut off contact the minute you said those awful words – but I wasn’t. I’m me, and you know that I forgave you a long time ago, because there wasn’t anything to forgive: I fucked up, and you returned that sentiment in kind. I can’t help but think it’s a sort of karma, despite the fact I’m finally admitting I didn’t deserve it. That I wasn’t somehow to blame.

You’d find me pathetic if you saw me now, seeming as I still cry quite a fair bit – not just over you, mind; there are plenty of things – not only from years ago – that make me cry. Strangely, though, whether you find me pathetic or not is something I don’t care much about any more; I hope I’m not lying to myself when I say that, because I’ve done that a lot recently. However, my tears are my own and not yours to shed, and I’ve suppressed them around other people so the only outlet I have is this, and my own thoughts now. How times have changed.

One of the main things that scares me is something ending. The missed opportunities, the things that will never happen, and I can’t breathe from the pain of it sometimes. I realise how small I was in comparison to everything, and it makes me question whether I was worth it to anyone that came before or after you. I miss it, you, everything; it’s comforting that you’d never think to ask because I don’t think that either you or I would want to hear the truth coming out of my mouth.

I don’t think that you ever loved me; I was just deluding myself into thinking I had a chance with that level of emotion. That started a whole spiral of self-worthlessness, something I’m still surrounded by; it can’t go away with the flick of a switch. I think that people underestimate just how little I think of myself now, and no: it isn’t just because of you. In fact, it existed so long before you came along that I wonder if it all started when I realised I couldn’t see like the rest of my classmates could, or if it just grew and grew until it turned into the leech it is today.

You never took anything away from me, and I hope you know that. You turned things into other things, security into paranoia – but no, that wasn’t you; it was my mind that did that. I absolutely can’t blame you for that, because that was far outside your control. You didn’t twist my ideas of who you were, not really – I always knew who you were, and who you are is not and never has been a bad person.

I’m not crying whilst I write this. I’m in control of my emotions, unlike yesterday and the day before, and so many days before that. Finally getting some of this out has helped a little, I suppose.

I’m very removed from the person I was when we were close, because as much as you said that you would always be there, you aren’t. You aren’t here now, and you haven’t been for so long; it’s understandable because I’m pretty sure I irritated you, annoyed you and exasperated you. I certainly did myself. But you broke a promise – one I knew, in the back of my mind, couldn’t be kept – and I find it so difficult to get past that, from an unwavering set of morals I used to have.

I can’t forget what was once so precious to me. If I do, I’ll forget why I can call myself a good person in the first place: because I understand why people did things, and I accept it.

The person who you used to know is still me. There are a few more layers now, a few more walls, but I still cry for help and I still need somebody to hold me together. That somebody isn’t you any more, and will never be again because I know you would never want that. It’s just that I don’t know where I stand with anybody; I’m scared and worried, so that’s why I’m writing this because I want to get some of my hurt out.

I don’t know where you are now, who you are, or if you’re happy. I hope that you are; you deserve to be. I’ve never said that I hated you, not once – though I suppose I hated how you treated everything for a short while, but that feeling’s been reasoned out of me by my own mind. I’ve not felt bitter, even though I joke that I do; life is just life, you are just you and I’ll be the me I want to be at some point.

Hope’s what I cling onto. It’s not like I’m drowning, or like I’m lost; it’s more that I’m trying to find my footing when the rug’s been dragged out from under me. I know you understand that, and I can just imagine you sighing in that way you did before, or laughing as if you were surprised by it. I always found that beautiful.

If, for some reason, you’re reading this, I wonder if you’ll figure out it’s you. To anyone, it might seem obvious, but read between the lines. This “letter” could refer to a myriad of people, and one thing that I can keep to myself is the fact that the only person who truly knows who this is about is me.

Hold onto your morals, okay? Whatever you’re doing, if you’re laughing now or crying, just remember a little segment of the past for a second. You know which one I mean. It’s doubtful that I’ll see you again, or when I do, it won’t be with much significance attached; it might just be a passing word or a nostalgic “Hey, remember the old days?” Do you?

Yes, I remember; sometimes I wish you could forget it. Never let the memory of a girl you used to call a close friend tarnish any memories you might make in the future. Let me just be something old, something safe. I’m content with that.

You were the possibility in the midst of a rainstorm, something that grew with every cloud and kept my tears from becoming an ocean. Now, you’re the echo of that, but you’ll still remain in the back of my thoughts. A reminder: all things come to an end, but you can bloody well find true happiness whilst those things are on their way.

From me πŸ™‚

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