(Content note: profanity, feelings, obscene levels of self-indulgence)
Do you remember this view?
I dug that sketch out of storage a couple of weeks ago, from the same box this one was in. I wanted to share it with you–the memory of that moment is rightfully yours, too–but I was hesitant to post it here unexpectedly, just in case seeing it upset you. Just in case you were reading.
Now I wish I’d put it up anyway, since it’s clear you would have seen it and now you never will.1 I realized pretty quickly that, as much as it hurt, trying to reach out again–to defend myself, to share the happy memories you’ve lost, even to apologize–would be pure selfishness. You don’t want or need me; I’m sure you’ll still be just as happy whether we part on good terms or bad, whether you remember the moments that mean so much to me or forget them forever.
But if there’s any place I’m allowed to be selfish, it’s on my own damn blog, and writing has always helped me work through difficult emotions. So even though I know it’s mostly for my own sake, even though I know you’re never going to see this, even though it’s not something I expect my readers to relate to or care about (sorry, folks!), I’m going to try to explain myself anyway. Again.
It’s ironic–even a little funny, I have to admit–that after spending so much time wishing you’d show an interest in my writing, wishing I could share more of myself with you, wishing you would ask me to be vulnerable, when you finally did pay this site a visit you ended up hating2 me for a secret I wasn’t even trying to keep.3 Ironic that after all the times I worried you would think I was a creep for being open and honest, what actually convinced you was a persona I’d acted for the sake of a bad joke–a joke made before we first spoke, before I learned what you’d been through, when I was still struggling to find any trace of you because I’d forgotten how to spell your name. That of all the words I’d written, the only ones you could put your faith in were the ones that caused you pain.
I understand why, of course, and I can’t blame you for it, but it still hurts like hell. I worked harder at being honest and vulnerable with you than I ever have before. I poured my soul into the letter I wrote you–told you things I’d never told anyone else and likely never will–and it seems you couldn’t really believe a word of it. Wouldn’t believe, even if I could or would make you listen, that the sum total of my mistruths to you was four words, written in cowardice, in our very first conversation.
I can’t blame you for it, but I can’t help being angry, either. Angry and sad: at how hesitant you were to believe in my respect and empathy, casting me as a schemer and a liar at a moment’s notice; at how readily you ignored the thousands of words I’d labored to make solid and level, placing all your trust instead in some scraps I’d cobbled together on a lunch break; at how you accused and insulted me while publicly identifying my blog (which is tied to my real name); at how you tried to do so behind my back, shutting me out invisibly, when I would have taken any criticism and left you alone forever if you’d simply said it to my face. Most of all, at how I would have been haunted for who-knows-how-long by the question of why you’d gone back on your promise to be friends, if it wasn’t for one small oversight–one I would have respectfully ignored if I’d been thinking clearly, if I’d been calm instead of confused and panicked, blindly grasping for some sort of hope or at least closure, wondering if maybe it was a fluke or something temporary or nothing to do with me at all. I know I’m not blameless, but I don’t think I deserved any of that, not even close.
But like I said, I can’t blame you. Perhaps I would have deserved it, if I really was the person you think I am.4 It’s not even really you I’m angry with; you were only protecting yourself, after all. I think you’d have been surprised at how little the details of your life would have shocked or upset me. Yes, it’s true I have no first-hand experience with real trauma and probably can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but that doesn’t mean I can’t understand. Your actions really fucking hurt, but I know they came from a place of self-defense, not spite or vengeance or even carelessness. I wish you could have trusted me instead, but if you had to break my heart to take care of yourself, that’s a trade I’ll willingly accept. No, the people I’m really angry with are all the ones who’ve hurt you on purpose–like the manchild I wanted to punch on first sight (a novelty for me), whose uncanny resemblance to my sister’s abusive ex puzzled me until I realized it wasn’t because of his features, it was because of his smug, self-satisfied expression, an expression that told me he’d thought of you as an allowance he was owed instead of a generous gift. He can go rot in hell, and I will be grateful every time I think of you that you were strong and brave enough to break free and build a happy life for yourself in spite of him.
That’s at least one thing I said that I know you do believe, so even though you’ll never read these words, I don’t feel sad saying it again: you deserve happiness. As much as you can possibly stand. Right from the beginning–from the first moment, months ago, when the most belated epiphany in history made me realize that instead of having the idea of you stuck in my head for eternity, I could probably find and talk to the real person again if I just put in some actual effort–the only thing I’ve really wanted was a second chance to make you happy.5 As a friend, lover, writer, fan–the “how” didn’t matter. (Well, okay, it mattered–I had hopes, of course–but it wasn’t important.)
I wish more than I can express with words–and that’s quite a lot, not to brag–that I could have been a source of joy for you instead of ending up “just another one of the jerks who’s hurt you.” Again. I do take comfort, bittersweet as it is, in the knowledge that you don’t need me to be happy, that you were quite happy before I barged in, thank you very much, and you’ll do perfectly well after I’ve faded away. But what breaks my heart more than anything is knowing that after failing this chance so spectacularly, I will probably never get another one.
I have no regrets from these last few months, though. I’ll miss your art dearly; it’s been inspirational. I’ll miss your example, too: your joy, courage, and resilience have been just as inspiring as your art. (I suppose, after all, your art is just an expression of those qualities, isn’t it?) And of course I’ll miss talking with you. I think I’ll even miss the pictures of your pets and houseplants. But all that loss is worth it to have finally met the adult you grew into, a person even more spectacular than I had imagined. I’m sure I’ll even feel proud of myself, eventually: I said everything I needed to say, everything I thought you needed to hear, everything I’d been holding back. I did my best to be brave and bold and open, to say what I was really feeling and thinking instead of curating my words to avoid embarrassment or awkwardness or rejection, and I think I succeeded. I even fell in love–under some of the most embarrassing circumstances I can imagine–and this time I didn’t just write it on a note and bury it in a box. How much of it all to believe, or remember, is up to you.
But whether you believe it or not, you’ve left an indelible mark on my heart and I will never forget a single moment I’ve had with you.
Farewell.
To my readers: if you happen to know who this post is about, please DON’T reach out to them on my behalf! I’m sure y’all know better than that, but just to be clear: not only would it not help, it would also be a violation of their boundaries. Don’t be a dick.
Footnotes! (Because as long as I’m being this self-indulgent, I may as well throw brevity, dignity, and aesthetics out the window too, right?)
- Did you know you’re the first person ever to binge-read my archives? (WordPress stats show “views” and “visitors” seperately; it wasn’t hard to guess.) You’ve been a lot of firsts, for me–it really shouldn’t have surprised me that you made so much more of an impression on me than I made on you. ↩︎
- Added 2025-09-15: In retrospect, calling it “hate” was just flattering myself. I never mattered enough for you to hate me, did I? The most I merited was annoyance and frustration. I was ashamed of how much it stung my ego to learn you’d lost all attachment to me, that I was barely more important than a stranger. I’ve tried to keep myself modest, but I guess we all make mistakes, don’t we? ↩︎
- When I first reached out to you I tried to prepare myself mentally for every outcome I could think of–from “I’m so happy we got back in touch!” all the way to “I hate you, fuck off forever.” Now it feels like I’ve lived through every single one, in succession, from best to worst. Never occured to me to prepare for that. ↩︎
- Added 2025-09-18: I’ve taken better stock of my emotions since I first wrote this letter, and I’ve decided there’s one thing I’d still be mad at you for even if you’d been 100% right about me. Why, oh why did you say I’m a creep and to kindly fuck off, not to me, but to your hundreds of followers on social media?? No matter who you think I am, that really was uncalled-for.
…I still understand, though. After all, the only reason I know you did it is because I was doing things I shouldn’t have done. I can only assume that, like me, you would have done the right thing if your emotions hadn’t gotten the better of you.
(Am I a hypocrite for calling you out on this publicly? Maybe. In my defense, all I can say is: (a) I have maybe a dozen regular readers, not hundreds; (b) I’ve done my best to leave out any information that could conclusively identify you, while you posted your criticisms alongside a screenshot of my blog; and (c) you blocked me, not the other way around. I would be delighted if you somehow read this one day.) ↩︎ - Was there anything you liked reading, before you got to that post? I hope I put at least one more smile on your face before it all came crashing down. ↩︎
In Search of Secrets 