For whatever moments of doubt I have had (or will have again) regarding the genuineness of your professed "emotional attachment" to me, there were equally (and more) moments when I did believe.
Do you know that, for a long time, I kept an open journal entry titled "Reasons To Believe", and that whenever we'd have some bit of conversation, or whenever you would do something that seemed to indicate that I was unique to you, I recorded it in that journal entry?
It seems silly to me now. Childish even.
But what I think you maybe never quite understood was what I was up against. That you were asking me to believe that I was something special to you defied all logic. And not only my own logic. It defied the logic of every friend I confided in. Admittedly, we're talking small numbers here—maybe four individuals, total, who knew the whole story and not just vague snippets. But they were my friends. My close friends. People who knew me. The very people who knew better than any my true value. And yet, even they did not buy that you genuinely cared for me. And so I was fighting not only my own nagging sense of what seemed plausible, but the valued estimations of dear friends as well.
Only two things in the whole world stood in contradiction: your word; and my gut feeling that you were being honest.
And that gut feeling was easily maintained when we were in regular contact. There was constant reinforcement. Every time we spoke I was reassured all over again that whatever it was you felt for me was real, and that you had not caught me up in some malicious game.
But the events of the last two months have made that faith difficult to hold onto. And yet you have seemed surprised—even injured—any time I have expressed skepticism or cynicism. And I can't help but wonder what conclusions anyone would have drawn in my shoes.
We each came back from New Mexico, and I knew I had let my emotions get too involved. I think I might have been alright if I had let the whole thing go then. I remember thinking one evening later that maybe I could scare you off. That maybe if I told you that I was getting in over my head, that you would realize it wasn't a game for me anymore. And that if it was a game for you, you would fall silent and just quietly slip away. And I wanted that to happen, if that was how you felt.
So I gathered liquid courage, and I told you just how much you really got to me—that you could really hurt me. But you did not fall silent, and you did not slip away...
At least, not then.
For me, the confusion came only later. Once you did fall silent. And of course, I knew you said you needed to put some distance between us. And I understood that. But I hadn't expected it to be so easy for you, when it was so hard for me. And even when I asked you how and why it was so easy for you, my beseeching was met with utter silence. There was so much that you left unanswered—even harmless little things. Things that a perfect stranger (let a lone a friend) would have graced with a reply.
Please, tell me you can understand how I might be confused. How it might be easy for me to doubt your intentions after all that has transpired. I do not want you to remember me as a lunatic...
I think, now, that we really are at goodbye.
And if so, please, please, do not remember me this way.
Remember the moaning mummy in Taco Bell, or remember us peeking at one other over the cradle of our arms—shy and uncertain. Or remember how I felt in your hands, or you in mine. Or searching for beer. Remember my jean jacket, or the view from behind, or a flask of vodka in a dry town. Or my smile, or the sunlight on my hair, or your fingers in my hair. Remember anything—anything at all. But do not remember me like this.
It is not who I am. It is not who I was. It is not who I will stay.
I am beautiful, and I am smart. I am happy, and I have my head on straight. I am charming, and lively, and I have entertained the intellects and sensibilities of Nobel, Field and Turing Award winners. I am a positive, stable force in the chaos of this universe, and people remember me because I touch their lives for the better and I leave something good in my wake.
And some day very soon, I will remember these things, and I will be who I am again.
I hope you can forgive me. And that someday you have the opportunity to see me as I should be. And that it washes away all recollection of ugliness...
Original date of composition: 12.17.2008
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