EPILOGUE : CONVERSATIONS WITH MYSELF

LAST LETTER TO ELIZABETH EVER, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO SAY?

I don’t know, I’ve said so much. I wish she had said something herself, but now she definitely won't. I wrote twenty something letters, putting my feelings and soul down on paper. I kept writing, and writing, and writing, and I discovered the words that were stuck in my brain, and I led them out, squeezed their juice, sheered their wool. I underwent the painful process of pushing my feelings through a linguistic filter, and produced a pile of dogshit, but it was my dogshit. Actually, they weren't dogshit, they were full of me. I am not dogshit.

I understand that I’m not entitled to an explanation, but god do I want one. I feel like a prehistoric man on the verge of inventing god, seeking a higher order explanation for the world, when the reality is that it’s just cruel. Maybe she's just cruel. She called me selfish at one point during the breakup for how I was behaving during it. Why? How was I selfish? For trying to protect myself after you said you didn't want to be a team anymore? Fuck you, dude. I guess in the game of who loves who more, I won, because I’m the only one who seems to still hurt. I didn’t realize we were playing games. I thought that’s why we were such a perfect fit.

Maybe she is in pain. Maybe she isn't. She won't talk to me, and possibly never will, so I won't know. I can act like I don't care about her pain, I can say that it’s not my priority anymore, but it’s not true. I have such resentment towards her for shutting me out, for treating me like a disposable toy, for not examining every piece of the puzzle before giving up. I don’t know why I still love her. I should hate her. I want to hate her. I wish she would beat me, take her nails and drag them 'cross my face, pull my hair and bend my neck, step on my spine, kick my balls, punch my stomach. I wish she would scream at me, obscenities and slurs and digs against my deepest insecurities, and show me that she's a monster, give me reason to run and hide or fight back. But she doesn't. She just overthinks and hides the storm behind her massive eyes, claiming she's fine. Maybe it’s not a claim, maybe it’s a truth or fact. Maybe I’m an asshole. I know I’m a coward.

She was horrible at communicating. She let her problems lie beneath the surface, constantly trying to keep peace and seek my approval or something. Is she fucking dumb? Doesn't she know that she didn't need my approval? Doesn't she know she would get it anyways? She just let her problems fester and rot until her brain was filled with maggots, gnawing and sucking on the grey matter, in indescribable and undetectable pain, until one day, or two or three, she has some revelation and decides everything is wrong. In a two or three day span, she went home to Sparta, to the trees and the lake, and decided everything was wrong over turkey. And then she broke up over text.

She fucking tormented me. Maybe she doesn't see it that way. Maybe she sees it as her struggle. She can't decide what she wants or is afraid of the change she feels taking place within her. Maybe she wanted me to chase her and prove my love. If she did, she shouldn’t have said "Uusiji, I think we should breakup, and I’m not changing my mind." In every fucking conversation we had after this, those words hung from the rafters, echoed off the bricks in [the hallway next to the elevator], dripped from the melting snow on her shoes, hummed from the engine of her car. I can’t try if I’m told not to, that’s just harassment.

And so, I never once asked her to work it out, to talk through things and fix it. I claimed it was because I respected her decision, but I don’t know now. Was I consumed by pride? Fear of rejection? Why the FUCK didn’t I reach out and let her know I was hers and she was mine and nothing would change that? She was in pain, in doubt, and I proved her right by not trying. I’m so fucking stupid.

WHY DID YOU DO IT?

Attempt suicide? Because I cared more than was healthy. Because she dumped me over text with no warning during finals season, she made playlists and tinder profiles targeted towards me, unsent me messages at one in the morning, unfollowed and followed and blocked and unblocked me and drove me crazy all during winter break, and I still trusted her with my soul the entire time. All my high school friends have moved away from Leesburg, so I was left to sit at home during winter break, isolated and broken. I tried therapy, but it was online. I tried Lexapro, but apparently I’m part of the one percent that gets the extremely suicidal thoughts that they play down in the advertisements.

When I came back from the break, I had scarred over a little; I was prepared for her to be cold, I was prepared to work for it over the course of the semester, maybe even a year. Instead, she makes fart jokes with me during the staff meeting. She offers to drive me home, she asks me out to dinner. I almost cried in front of her. I began preparing to accept her into my heart again as she flirts with me for the rest of the day. I bought another toothbrush and put it next to mine.

At 2pm on the 17th, less than 24 hours later, she took it all back. She didn't want to talk, she didn't want to find anything out. She said that someone could get hurt, as if this wouldn’t already stop my heart. She said that she knew I was mad at her, but that this wouldn't be good for anyone. I should’ve been mad, but I was devastated instead. How could I be mad at the person I love the most, the one person I found that maybe sees my through my eyes and into my soul? I felt everything slipping away; our future, our present, our past. I let it get to me, and it sent me spiraling. I decided five minutes after she hung up that I was killing myself that night. Nothing felt real, I needed to test the simulation and break out. (This next bit works better in the present tense, I apologize to all my previous English teachers for the mid-stream change.)

I polish up my suicide note and letters and go to print them out, only to find the printer low on ink. I am god's greatest clown. In the last few hours of my existence, I find myself fucking with the font size and margins to try and fit them on the few pages of paper I have left. I settle on a format, but now the printer says it needs a new driver. How can I have four years of college and a computer science degree and still not be able to get a printer to work? Fuck Hewlett Packard. As my roommates leave the apartment to watch the basketball game, I ask if they know how to get the printer to work. They are no help. I bundle up in winter gear and bike to [the library], intent on delivering her my final letters. I walk inside, out of breath, nose and ears numb. The girl at the front desk tells me I need to load money into my account to print. Minimum charge 25 dollars. Fuck [the University]. It’s my last hours though, so I go ahead and just pay. I print my letters. Three dollars. Shit, I wanted them double sided. Three more dollars. With my shitty epistolary bundle, I bike to her house. I don’t even need to think about the ride, I’ve been there so many times. My head is empty except for the necessary motor commands: left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg, breathe through the nose, shift gears, left leg, right leg…

As I approach her house, I begin to think that maybe this whole idea is stupid. She seems troubled, maybe manipulated, maybe fucked in the head. I should talk to her and see what’s going on, maybe even profess my love for her, anything instead of killing myself. Normal things. I knock on the front door and receive no answer. All the lights are out, but her car is parked out back. It’s either talk to her or die, so I go across the street and sit down in the snow. I want to wait for her to enter her home so that I don't ambush her outside; I don't want her to feel threatened, she needs to know she’s safe. I look through her darkened window, through which people definitely saw us fuck from the street, and into the room where she drunkenly asked to be my girlfriend and I drunkenly said yes. She took it back later because she thought I didn’t mean it, and I had to pretend like it didn’t hurt. Why did I play it so nonchalant? I almost screamed when she asked, and instead I just said, “yea sure I’d like that.” I sit there for about an hour, trading heat with the snow until it soaks my pants and shoes, until I remember that she's scheduled for work right now. However, the schedule online betrays this, and instead shows that she's been taken off every shift. She quit. She quit? What, why, what the fuck? I think back to the playlist she made a few days ago, literally titled "Songs to Kill Myself To". I try the front door. Unlocked. Up the stairs. Bedroom. Bathroom. Bathtub.­­

No one's there. She hasn't killed herself. My heart won't go down, I’m trespassing now and I’m going to jail and I’m going to be accused of some sexual crime. Wait, no I’m not, I’ll be dead in a few hours. Silver linings everywhere. I put the letters on her bed, and as I turn to leave, I survey the room. She’s changed it, it’s exactly the design I expected, it’s so her. A new bookshelf, identical to the one I would’ve bought her off of craigslist. Art on the walls that mirrors the architecture of her soul. I see her journal, and it tempts me like some kind of fucked up ring. I need it to make sense. I need closure before the curtain. I read it.

She’s detailed her personal philosophies, her interests, her goals, how she wants to live, her challenges, her observations. They’re all mine. I agree with all of them. I want what she wants. I want to give it to her, I want it for myself. How could she say we're not compatible?

By this point, I’ve completely lost it; nothing makes any sense and everything is wrong. I peddle back home, dazed and confused, losing my mind, mumbling. I sit in my bathtub, light a candle, and slice into my wrist with a 12 cent Dorco razor blade. Lengthwise, harder to patch, less nerve and tendon damage. I watch it drip down to my elbow and begin to stain the tub, and I laugh and cry in one long moan. The flow is too slow, though. I realize I’m too cowardly to ever cut deep enough, and so I turn to a trusty bottle of Italian desert liqueur, downing the entire handle in five minutes. It tastes like syrup. Unfortunately, the liquor makes me stupid enough to text her some sappy, self-pitying shit. By the time the cops arrive, I’m fucking wasted. They asked if I tried to kill myself and I compliment them on their sharp intuition. I’m a fucking riot; the entire time the cops are trying to help me, they're suppressing laughter as I deliver joke after joke. I am god's greatest clown, unable to even take my own death seriously. I’m speaking Spanish to my friends and Japanese to the paramedics, and I finally black out as I’m loaded into the ambulance.

It’s somewhat emasculating to fail at suicide. As a man, you feel like you should be able to get things done, like you should know how things work. I had to stay in the mental ward for five days. I was the most lucid person in there; there were manics and schizos and mutes and I was the only one that was in there for a wee little suicide attempt. I spent most of my time learning sudoku and politely refusing to join the group in coloring with crayons and chair zumba. Rest assured, if I ever try again, I will not be going to the mental ward. That’s not a threat, it’s a fact. I don’t want to try again, I’d rather find happiness if possible.

It was insulting to receive the temporary restraining order. The order expired before I was discharged from the hospital, which leads me to believe that she didn’t know and didn’t care to find out where I was. I understand why she issued the order. I trespassed into her house, her room, which is overwhelmingly terrifying as a woman. Sometimes I forget that I’m a man and I get lost in just feeling like me, like a bitch. I can see her never forgiving me for this. However, this also shows me that she doesn’t really know me or my nature. There is literally no safer place in the world for her than when I’m there. Not a goddamn soul could harm her while I’m around, I wouldn’t fucking allow it. I remember driving home once after dropping her off somewhere, and having the thought that she might get hit by a car and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I got so upset that I had to pull over and call her, faking some excuse or another to hear her talk. But I did trespass, and I did rape her journal, and I can’t undo that. In my defense, I thought those would be the last things I would ever do, but seeing as how I’m still here, it’s a pretty weak defense. Now I’ve fucked that up. I regret acting on my panic; I never panic but this meant too much to me. She heard me panicking over the phone, which probably freaked her out and made her retreat more. I regret allowing myself to get to that point.

Looking back, there were so many places to have stopped and fixed this before it got here. I still can’t believe I tried to kill myself, it seems like a fever dream. I should’ve stopped when I realized I couldn’t cut myself deep enough. I should’ve reassessed when I read her journal and realized that we were compatible, and switched to playing the long game even though I can't stand the idea of living a lie. I should’ve hung out with my roommates instead of obsessing and going to her house. I should’ve not called her when she texted me her rejection and just played it cool and let go of my feelings. I should’ve turned her down when she asked me out again and given us more time apart. I should’ve reached over and kissed her deeply and breathed her in when she unbuckled her seatbelt to drop me off. I should’ve held on when she pushed me away the first time, because all signs point to her acting on insecurities and not knowing if it was the right choice, and I should’ve been there to show her that I did care, and she was everything to me, and she was my baby and my god. I should’ve told her not to tease me during No Nut November, that it was important to me to regain control of my sex. I should’ve cancelled our suicide pact and forged a living one instead. I should’ve never given her a reason to doubt me. I wish I knew how to hold on to love.

These things eat me up inside every day, keeping me skinny and starved. I know I’m not a bad person, but I feel like I broke this relationship with my stupid clumsy paws. I feel like I’m living in the timeline where I made the worst choices possible, where I fumbled the one. I know there’s not one “one”, but she was a “one”. I should’ve given every ounce of my energy and breath when the fire was dying. Now it’s just embers, soon to be smoke, and I have no kindling left and my lungs are scarred and burnt and my eyes are bloodshot and swollen. Maybe she fumbled me at first by not trusting me, but I fumbled harder in the end, and now she’s shines green in the distance, across a gulf I filled and cannot fathom how to part.

DO YOU THINK THIS IS PRODUCTIVE, WRITING ABOUT HER?

No. I think it makes me upset. I think writing, for me at least, is like sprinkling dust into a supersaturated solution, or like pushing a blade across a whet stone. Writing doesn't take the trash out, it makes me tear open the bag and finger through the stench and ruin my floors and miss trash day.

I don’t think it'll be productive for her either. She might just throw this letter away. I wouldn’t blame her, but I would hate her. I don't think she gives a fuck, that much is obvious. She didn't want to talk about our problems at all. She gave subtle nods and hints in the form of jokes and asides, but never directly addressed them until they were ablaze and she threw ultimatums at me to put out. I don't even know if she read my other twenty-something letters I gave to her the night I tried to kill myself. I just want something back. I know, I’m not entitled to a response, but I’ve written pages and pages of my most intimate thoughts to her. I regret some of the things I said in the letters, it wasn’t my place to say some of those things. But I haven’t received a word back. Not for my letters, not for my notes on Art of Zen, not anything. I just want to know what she thinks, and not just in a short text message, but on paper, where her words can breathe and flourish and spread their wings to descend upon me and tear my flesh from my bones.

I’m just so hurt. It’s painful being betrayed, its painful being cut off from the one you love, its painful to think she didn't love me, it’s painful to think she might be in pain. It’s painful to think that I loved someone who didn’t really love me, who didn’t care about my feelings. Beyond that, I’m afraid of the other kinds of pain that come later. the pain of being alone, the agony of not having someone who sees every intimate part of you. The excruciating process of starting again, of kindling hope in another's soul to try and build your hearth there. The fear of having to ask another person what their favorite color is, figuring out how they want to be kissed, recounting my insecurities. The fear of it all crashing down again, of feeling this pain again. The last time I had my heart broken, it hurt for a year, and I didn’t even love the girl. I’m scared.

HOW DID SHE HURT YOU?

She loves in fear. She loves in fear of being hurt, so she doesn't really love. I fear that too, it scares me so much, but I want to be sure that my love is real. I wanted to love without fear, my actions and words were pure and honest and imperfect. I don’t know if she ever loved me. I’m uncomfortable being in a relationship, that’s why I was so bad at it. I loved being with her, that’s why I was trying to get better.

I don’t think she empathized with my situation at all. I was just as inexperienced as her in relationships. I was (and still am) going through a critical period in my life where I’m wrapping up university and applying for jobs. I’m trying to figure out how to start the rest of my life, and she still has another year. I had six classes, two jobs, and my first real girlfriend that I loved that semester. I lost ten pounds from not going to the gym, I didn’t have time after trying to juggle everything. I couldn’t smoke weed during that time because I still cared about getting a clearance, and I didn’t drink because I wanted to be present and healthy to handle everything. I’m honestly scared of going bald from stress.

When she rescinded her dinner date, she claimed she wasn't anxious. I called and said, "Hey Elizabeth, I know you get anxious, I don't want this to stress you out, it’s just dinner, it’s not a full commitment." "No. I’m not anxious at all right now." Really? I find it hard to believe that a person who flip flops on massive decisions that fast doesn't have something else pressuring them. There’s simply no way that a person who wasn’t influenced by other circumstances would make this move. This goes far beyond “testing me” or playing games, this can only be explained by her being cruel and uncaring or something more sinister and serious. Is it her anxiety? Has the psychosis returned? Did her roommates, who have some truly horrible coping mechanisms and low opinions of me, convince her that her feelings were wrong?

That’s another thing, she would vent to her roommates when I behaved badly, feel better after venting, and never confront me. I wanted to be confronted. I wanted to be criticized, not softly parented or influenced. Because she only criticized me to her friends, they all saw me as an asshole, and treated me as such. It’s taken me a lot of thinking to realize I’m not an asshole. I’m a good person, and I won’t be convinced otherwise; I’ve spent far too much time believing I was a monster. I’m not a monster. I might not always do the best thing, but I always wanted to do the best by her. If I’m a bad person, then all of everything I’ve ever done is worthless, and I’ll just end it right now.

I would see this on social media as well. I would see some pop-psychology reel pass by, spouting something about how, “if your partner does/doesn’t do X, that’s a sign to end it!”, and I’d see that she liked it. It seems so hypocritical to me that she was so concerned with not being superficial, with not trusting social media, and yet she would let herself be influenced by some blind algorithm that knows nothing about her, that prioritizes engagement over truth or benefit. The pop psychology side of Instagram infuriates me because they violate a rule that therapists won’t: they tell you what to do. A licensed therapist almost never tells you exactly what to do, instead they give you the space and tools to think. This is because they can’t possibly know the entire situation, and it would be unethical to give you blind decrees. This is even more true of your friends, who are wrapped up in their own lives and have their own biases, and especially of random strangers on the internet that an algorithm blindly delivers to you, that can’t possibly know anything about the nuances of anything in your life.

I hurt myself too. I had big expectations, I obsessed when I should've stepped back, I took things for granted and thought things were concrete instead of dynamic. ... It just hurts to have given so much of myself to someone. To show them things you've never shown another soul, thoughts and feelings that you either had locked away or didn't know you had. It hurts to have changed for someone and for them to not appreciate it. It hurts to reach out and be bit. It hurts to have done my best effort while trying to hold my world on my shoulders and having no experience in a relationship and love of this intensity. It hurts to be lied to by my woman about her feelings, even by lies of omission. It cuts deep, deeper than I was able to at least. Haha, suicide joke. I wish I realized how immature she was. The way she handled the breakup was evident of this, all my friends could see how weird she was acting and told me to never speak to her again.

I think the biggest way she hurt me was that she inspired me to love and hope and feel, to open up my armor and try to provide warmth. She asked me to feel something, so I felt everything. And then she ripped out my veins and nervous system, and whether it was intentionally cruel or not, it was selfish. I spent the entire break obsessing over her, which wasn't healthy, but she almost asked me to. She said, "You don't care about me except when I’m physically there." Now I care about her when she's not even my friend anymore. She gave a bunch of bullshit reasons why we broke up as well that she never elaborated on. "Our families are too different." Is this the 1800s? "I feel like I don't know you as well as I should, and neither do you." So ask questions? "We're not that compatible." I sleep on the left side, she sleeps on the right. We’re both lightweights. Sometimes she can't talk and I can't shut the fuck up. We’re both switchy and kinky. We both have distaste for stoicism and the perpetual economic-growth mindsets. We like the same music, broadway, and cheesy movies. We have both seen the depths of isolation, the horrors of the internet, the evils of the ones who built it, maybe me more than her. I can’t understand some of the reasons she gave, they seem hollow and more like thrashing, desperate attempts to wound me and push me away. What’s the real reason? I wish she fucking explained, I wish I made her elaborate on how we’re not compatible and how I make her feel small and how I sexualize women because I’m trying to fix these things, but I have no roadmap. I’m just repeatedly driving off the side of cliff and killing myself while looking for real answers.

She gave other reasons as well, those were more convincing and real, but they only seem like reasons that one reaches through guesswork sitting inside your own head. "You don't care about me when I’m not physically there." Prove it. Prove that I didn't, that I don't, constantly think about you. Prove that I didn't spend all day daydreaming of seeing you again, of building a life with you, of conquering a corner of the world together. Prove that I didn't reduce my courseload for the spring semester because I knew you had a really tough one coming up and I wanted to be there to support you. Prove that I wasn’t arguing with my parents to try and let me go to Jersey, to meet your parents and sister, to discover your origin. Prove that I’m not devastated that I couldn’t prove my worthiness as a boyfriend and make you happy on Christmas, your birthday, and Valentines. Prove that I’m not seeking a high paying career because IVF is fucking expensive and I wanted to buy acres of wilderness for us to bask in. "You sexualize women too much." I thought you were right about this one, but I’ve come back from that a bit. I think I have a sex addiction, but I don't sexualize women. I have very poor control over my sexual impulses, and that’s something I still need to work on. But I don't objectify women.

I feel like I was led on. I feel like I was the test drive to see if she was straight. I feel like I was discarded by a woman who does whatever her friends tell her to do. I feel like I wasn’t considered. I’m upset at myself for feeling this much and falling this hard for someone who wasn’t mature enough for love. Fuck her.

WHAT CAN YOU LEARN FROM THIS EXPERIENCE?

I hate it when people say that everything happens for a reason, because that implies that children deserve to get leukemia and the planet deserves to choke on carbon fumes. I hate it when people say that it all works out in the end, because what that really means is that people eventually settle for less. I know several divorced adults, too old and too fat to date anymore, too isolated and weird to find love again. I believe that there is no guarantee whatsoever that it all works out in the end. You must work it out yourself or die trying.

I think I see how I should've behaved now. You pushed me away because you were scared, and I let your doubt infect and defeat me. I didn't believe in myself, so I didn't advocate for myself. I thought that I shouldn't have to do that in love. When you pushed me away, I should've said, "no my love, I don't think we should break up. I'm the one who will care for you forever until you fade away. I'm the one who will support you, laugh at your jokes, pick your brain and watch you tick. I will always want to know your thoughts, to travel and see the world with you, to fuck you and hold you tight." I wish I said that, looking back there were so many opportunities. I wish I believed in myself enough to make you believe in me. I wish I wasn't a coward. I wish we had more partners before this relationship, so that we could have more practice. I wish you were stronger too, though. I wish you believed in me, I wish you were more honest with your feelings. I wish, I wish, I wish... fucking useless.

I don’t know what I can learn from this because it’s all just so confusing. How do I know what I was doing right if she didn't ever tell me what was wrong until the end? None of the options I’ve come up with sound healthy. Don’t let people in or you'll get hurt. Be more manipulative so that you have control. Hate women for hurting and lying to you. Don't have sex. Don't be honest. Don’t express feelings or be vulnerable. None of these are good options. I guess having more communication is a good lesson, but I tried that here and it didn't work. She either lied to me about her true feelings and nature or cut me off. Is the lesson here in dealing with heartbreak? That doesn't seem useful either, because it won't help me love better in the future. I don’t know what to take away from this other than trauma.

DO YOU WANT SOMETHING FROM HER?

I want her back. I want her to suffer immensely. I want her pity. I want to be petty. I want her to mature. I want her to scream at me and tell me I’m a piece of shit. I want to hear that she loves me. I want to never see her again. I want to wake up beside her and make our family banana pancakes. I want to stroke her hair and scratch her neck.­­­­ I want her to start taking lithium or something. I want her to give me back my goddamn underwear. I want to kill her demon. I want her to show me what I need to fix. I want to build a cabin in the woods with her. I want to fuck her exactly how she wants it, on her belly with my chin tucked into her shoulder or me leaning back with our legs intertwined. I want her to fuck me with her tongue in my ear and her hands on my ass. I want to smoke and trip with her and discover ourselves. I want to know why. I want her to be happy. I want to be forgiven. I want her to face karmic justice. I want her to call me on 8/19/2029 when we know how to handle the world better. I want to randomly bump into her after we’ve found love in different places, and feel the lightning shoot between our skulls as we recognize each other and what could have been. I want to forget her. I want her to write me a letter about her feelings. I want to save her from the world. I want her to save me.

I yearn for things that I cannot possibly have, that cannot exist simultaneously. I want things she's not capable of giving me, that I’m not capable of receiving. I don’t know if I can forgive her for what she's done. I don’t see how I couldn't. Is maturity not wanting these things, or just being fine without them?

I don’t know if she's capable of really truly loving someone, at least not according to the way she treated me. Love is patient. Love is unrelenting. Love is forgiving. Love is apologetic. Love is hard and requires work and communication. Love is changing yourself to find who you want to be. Love is holding her hand so it’s on top. Love is walking slower so she can keep up. Love is making her hot chocolate with your own spice mix in a blender so it foams in the microwave just right, and afterward she calls her mom to tell her it’s the best she’s ever had. Love is honesty. Love is empathy. Love is trust. Love is shutting up when you see her eyes light up with an idea. Love is reading and rereading her poetry and listening and relistening to her guitar recordings. Love is doing the wordle, connections, and mini together. Love is being vulnerable, strip teasing in front of her in ratty and worn out underwear. Love is being both the little and big spoon when she needs you to be. Love is taking care of the bamboo she gave you and the succulents you grew for her, long after she left you. I am still capable of these things.

My friends, family, and doctors tell me that I shouldn’t want her, that someone who would be good for me wouldn’t treat me this way. I don’t know what to think. They tell me I was wrong for going to her house and that trying to kill myself wasn’t an answer. I agree. They’ve read my text messages and letters, and they keep telling me that I’m a good person and I did my best. I don’t know.

I just want to hear from her. I want her to really explain herself, to tell me why. I want to know what really went wrong. I want her to know I’m sorry. I want to know how’s she’s changed. I want to know what has unfolded in her life since me. I want to hear how her day has been.­