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The Letter As if anyone needed further evidence of my descent into madness, here, slightly edited, is the letter which emerged from the stream-of-consciousness ramble that I posted yesterday. Patrick sent me an invitation to a party he�s throwing, and because I know that I need some time away from him to deal with my emotions without lashing out at him, I declined the invitation without comment. He phoned and asked why, and a nearly hour-long conversation ensued, during which a whole lot of nothing useful was said. So this is the letter that I sent to the man who�s been, basically since we met back in October, my closest friend, and who I�d wager knows me better than anyone else on the planet right now. Yes, I am a fool, and things like this really do sometimes make me think I should be put out of my misery, but hopefully, there�s tomorrow, and hopefully, it won�t need to involve institutionalisation and heavy medication. Dear Patrick, I promised a written statement when I'd managed to collect my thoughts, so here it is. Response is permitted, but neither expected nor required, and if not timely, undesired, as I'm finding this whole situation very fifteen-years-old. I'm very sorry that Monday night's conversation occurred, as I don't believe it accomplished anything constructive. Doubtless, you had no idea what you were in for when you called, and I probably should have obeyed my initial impulse and not answered the phone. Before I go any further, I want to reiterate that I know you've never tried to be anything less than a friend to me since we met, and for that, I am immensely grateful. In you, I've had a confidant with whom I could discuss things I wouldn't with most anyone else, but I realise now that I haven't been totally honest. I will be here, and I apologise in advance for any hurt that may cause. My recent raging did not begin with you, but rather, within me, a response both to what I have failed to do, and to what I perceive the world as having denied me. I meant it, too, last night, when I warned that sometimes, in order to remain my friend, one has to know when to leave me alone with my misery. I do not like to inflict it on other people, but sometimes, I crave and thrive on suffering and cannot find a grain of goodwill within myself; sometimes, my only joy comes from pain. I don't think I believe in anything other than my own rectitude anymore. I am right; therefore, the world must be wrong, and everyone should be as unhappy as I. My fury is chiefly not your fault. But when all I can see is what I hate, I'll find things that enrage me even in those whom I love, and in greater quantity and intensity due to their familiarity and proximity -- thus half of my desire to stay away from you. In some cases, your guesses as to the sources of my offense were close or propelled me toward my own answers, though I doubt they are precisely what you expected. After much soul-searching, here they are. 1. Affection: You are viciously inconsistent with it. While I wrote off the possibility of any serious romantic involvement with you months ago, sometimes the way you look at me is positively torturous, as though there were something there, but on principle, you would refrain from expressing it. It happens often at good-bye. Anytime I cross into your physical sphere, though, the energy there seethes coldly, "Get away from me." And then, there are the friends and acquaintances who still say to me, "He IS your boyfriend, isn't he?" And the more I try to explain in response to their inevitable, "Well, why not?" the more it feels like a lie. Especially when you do all manner of things which do nothing to disperse this impression. You kind-of were, in some ways, the last hope, so on some level, I hate you for the fact that you didn't feel the same interest in me that I did in you, and for my eventual realisation that you couldn't ever be what I want/need, and that you wouldn't even be inclined to try. (I must acknowledge that I likely would have hated us both even more had you swayed me from my pre-existing plan to escape this town.) 2. A's visit: Of course, I have to admit this is a factor. (Yesterday's meltdown may have been at least partially provoked by a cumulation of that aforementioned question ("He IS...isn't he?") from a parishioner whom I encountered on the Green on Saturday, your being nowhere to be found when I went out of my way to stop down there, your absence from mass Sunday morning (not that I really expected you), and your reference to having spent the day lying around.) It isn't the sex; I don't begrudge him that; it's nothing you haven't done with him before, or with me, for that matter, though to a markedly less successful and comfortable degree, in my case, I'm sure. (I'll concur, though, that your duplicity with Elizabeth is a bit questionable. I'm sure you're doing him safely, but a conscious omission, to my mind, is the same as a lie.) Your paying for his airfare, etc. does offend my sensibilities, not because it's any of my business (It isn't.), but because nobody every cared that much about me, and even if they had, I likely wouldn't have let them pay my way. (I'm still a bit stung from the night that you had that hour or so long webcam conversation with him while I was sitting around in your living room pretending, at your request, not to be there. I should've just observed that you were more interested in hanging out over the computer with him and his friends than you were with me and left immediately, but I wanted to sleep with you, so I didn't. My error, obviously.) I'm not particularly fond of people much younger than myself, especially when they seem to have an easier time of it than I. As it is, I fucking work my ass off, and it feels like I reap NO benefits. You also, perhaps most importantly, have this history of relationships, which I do not. (You mentioned last night that you'd never gotten over each other. Why did you break up in the first place? Whatever. I hope whatever conclusion you reach makes you both happy.) Naturally, I feel slighted, used, when people are so consistently interested in being "friends, maybe friends with benefits" with me, but would not dream of considering anything more. And that is ALWAYS the way it is. 3. Finally, Monday night, you used the phrase "robust and passionate," which is typically how I go about anything in which I involve myself. Lately, though, I've felt our friendship has been rather tepid, filled with condescension, patronisation and pity towards me. This perception is, perhaps, exacerbated by your revelation of your ongoing belief that I'm still chasing you on some level. I find the idea that anyone would perceive me that way nauseous, as it smacks of need and weakness, which I find pathetic. Ultimately, I find the way things have turned out between us to be both insulting and embarrassing, and I'm not quite sure how to get past that, as I don't think the memory of that sort of an emotional power dynamic ever really goes away, and that's something of which I don't want my pride to have to be conscious, so it's probably better if I just avoid you. Yes, I believe that people like you better than me, and yes, I guess the part of me that hates me to the core understands it, but doesn�t hate it any less for that. I wonder if it might've been better had we just had sex the first night we met and I ventured nothing. At least that way, I could look at you the same way I view all my other tricks, and I wouldn't be such a fucking recidivistic loser. I suppose the worst thing is that this feels excruciatingly similar to certain situations in my past, and I want to think that I'm older, stronger, better now, and can move through them with more grace and maturity. The very writing of this letter is evidence to the contrary, though. So I'll go out tonight, and I'll be as charming and pleasant as I'm able, and we'll see if it's enough to be a smile with everything else locked away inside and inaccessible; certainly, it hurts and chagrins me much less to be untouchable. r
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