I found this in my email drafts about 10 minutes ago. It’s from over a year ago.
There’s no reason this should see the light of day, ever, except to show that we’re all really the same, and the struggles that we go through — self-doubt and angst, the desire to love and be loved, and especially the neverending fight to understand ourselves.
So, I’m posting it, with some more specific parts removed. Enjoy! Maybe play some Dashboard Confessional while reading.
I hate myself for hurting you. I hate that I started all of this. I hate that I was at first, and for a long time, indifferent to your suffering and mine. I hate that I took you for granted. I hate that I’ll never again feel your face pressed against my face, or feel your arms around me, or forget to turn off my phone so it wouldn’t make noise in the middle of the night and wake you up.
I hate that I have vivid dreams about you and I’m always chasing you and trying to prove that I’m worthy. Of what? A second chance? A third chance? Your time in general? It’s always something ridiculous in the dreams that I’m sure stands for most or all of those things. I dream about you and wake up with this hole inside of me that feels like it’s never going to close. And sometimes I wake up next to someone else and I feel guilty for thinking about you and at the same time guilty for trying to move on, even if it isn’t working very well.
I think about you with someone else and I’m not even angry with you or with whoever that person is. I’m just angry at me because I did this. I still haven’t been able to even look at your facebook picture just to see what your girlfriend looks like. I defriended you on everything. Yet at the same time sometimes I talk to a mutual friend, and it takes every fiber of my being not to say, “I’m fucking destroyed and I want you to tell him that I’m in pain because maybe he’ll still care.”
I’ve only recently begun telling my friends “I’m still in love with (ex).” They think I’m just sad because I’m lonely. (A friend) was the one who encouraged me to break up with you in the first place because I was unhappy, and I don’t think she or I was wrong at the time, but a part of me is angry with her for encouraging me even though she did it out of concern.
I don’t still love you because I’m lonely. I still love you because you’re you. You’re totally insane, but it’s my kind of insane. I miss you. I miss how you smelled and how I seemed to fit perfectly into your arms. I miss how long your arms are and how you always wanted to cuddle. I miss my best friend. I miss emailing you when I see something that reminds me of you. I want to read your silly books that you’re writing. I still want to go live on the beach and edit your science fiction when I retire. I even miss your stupid casual racism that made me mad even though I know you’re really not a racist. I miss you ripping all the covers off me when I slept too late. I miss kissing you and holding your hand as I went to sleep.
I wish I had known what I was giving up. I wish I knew that you loved me as much as you did. I wish I had known that I loved YOU as much as I did! I didn’t know anything. … Now I don’t have you, I don’t know how you are, I don’t even know if you still live here, I don’t know how your dad is doing, I don’t know what you’re doing for holidays. I didn’t want you to be alone for Christmas. I wanted you to be with me. I wanted you with ME. I don’t know why it took me over a year to figure that out.
I think I love you more than I hate myself for doing this, but I’m not entirely sure.