What You Left: A Love Letter

“Saying you’re happy is like saying you’re sorry; it’s nothing that I want to hear.” I stole that from a song I never knew the name of; it made me think of you.

                You asked how I was. How are you doing? You didn’t ask about the hospital. You didn’t ask why. You were vague, because you knew. You were unemotional, because you don’t care anymore—you’re happy, you’re sorry—but you don’t care.

                                I bet you wish I had died.

                                I do too.

                I saw your new girl last week; she didn’t see me. If she did, she didn’t recognize me, which is the same thing. She’s prettier than I am now, but she wasn’t back then. I am ugly now.

                Did you know? Could you feel me breaking when you held me, sense that something inside was about to snap, crumble?

                                Is that why you left?

                I don’t blame this on you, but I used to. The truth is, I was unhappy long before the night you left me, drunk and crying in the kitchen—leaning against a garbage can, the poem I wrote for you still in my pocket, unread.

                No, it wasn’t your fault. It’s chemical, that’s what the doctors say. A problem of chemistry, not character. They keep trying to convince people that mental illness does not come with a stigma. What a joke.

                No, it wasn’t your fault. I’m manic, you see. They say that’s why I loved you too much. That’s all. My brain chemistry got confused—I probably didn’t love you at all. Never did. You probably didn’t love me either.

                I am ugly now—too skinny, they tell me. You see, after you, I felt so much pain. You don’t care. I was breaking. I was addicted to you and so I had withdrawals when you left. It makes sense—it’s not crazy. My body and mind felt your absence and rebelled.

                They say if you’re addicted to one thing, it’s easier to become addicted to other things. This is true. After you I became addicted to other things that would eventually hurt me – funny that we never lose ourselves to good things.

                First, I became addicted to sleep. They tell me this is part of being manic.  I’d spend hours in bed, and when I did finally leave it, I was in a kind of waking dream. I pretended you were dead. In my dreams, we were still together.

                Then I became addicted to crying. I pretended you were dead—I cried. I became ugly – I cried. I called you – 27 times in a row – you never answered – I cried.

                Later, months later, I became addicted to love, in whatever form I could find it. But this was flawed, because no one’s “I love you” sounded like yours. No one’s body felt right within me. I craved you. I cried.

                I became addicted to alcohol and antidepressants. Sometimes this worked, and you left my mind altogether. Other people could love me then. Other times, you were all I could think about, and I pushed away those that would love me. I could not love them while I missed you so entirely.  

                My addictions were all that mattered. I stopped eating again.  I cut my hair. I cut my wrist and my thighs. If I only ate carrots you would love me again.

                I see how crazy I sound. But that’s what happens, when you’re crazy manic crazy. You knew it before I did—I can’t blame you for leaving. But I do.

                I am ugly now, but I wasn’t back then. Before you left, I was beautiful. I think the sadness took away my beauty before the drugs did.

                I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you regret what you made me.

                That’s why it happened. That’s the only reason. It’s your fault. It’s my fault. Everyone’s fault.

                You were cruel. You, the nicest person I ever met, were downright cruel. One day I was your world and the next I was nothing.

                I blamed you. I blamed that petite redhead you used to hang out with. I blamed your stupid friends and the clubs you joined that were more important than I was.

                I am ugly now, because I loved you when I wanted desperately to hate you. I made myself change. Not the haircut, not the weight loss. I willed my face to change—I am ugly now.

                                It is your fault. I blame you.

                                Do you wish I had died?

                                I do.

                                I do.

                                I am ugly now.