letters i will never send, no. 1
“Anyone whose goal is ‘something higher’ must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.”
One of the very last messages you sent to me was about how you wanted to, and I quote, "punish me.”
You confided in me that you wanted to “beat my naked ass” until it was red and bruised. And then you wanted to fuck me. Because I cheated on you. Because I was young, and dumb, and slutty, and most importantly, very easily manipulated, particularly when alcohol was involved (which was pretty much always because, well…you know the story of how this all started).
And that made you angry! I cheated on you for the very first time, despite the full decade that was peppered with your macho infidelities. You were livid to find out you were not the only one with that power over me. In all the time that we’d known and “cared” for each other, I had never witnessed such unfettered anger from you. To this day, I truly wonder where it entirely came from. Surely that was not just me that incited such fury…
This message from you essentially amounted to a rape fantasy. I knew it then, and I know it now. The worst part? It turned me on immediately.
What does that say about us? About me?
I hate this memory of you, and of “us.” I hate that “our story” has, in due time, turned out so incredibly tainted and toxic. I hate that “our story” can now be chalked up as one of little more than a constant stream of adolescent blunders and treating each other very, very poorly.
The lens through which I allow myself to see you now makes you a different person. In this era of curated lifestyles and social media envy, I feel merited in wondering how accurate this representation is. It’s awful and selfish, but I kind of hope that you’re not so happy. Yes, I know I know, I said I was happy for you (and I am!). But what is “being” happy, anyway? Perhaps I’m just jealous. Jealous as hell, but of her? Of you? No. Or of any one person, really. It still feels as if this is easier for everyone but me….and yet, I cannot exactly describe what “it” is. Adulthood? Relationships? Life? Social Media? No, no, no., and definitely not.
I guess what irks me the most is that still you are the one calling the shots (albeit those shots exist mostly in my head and in my anxiety-riddled dreams). Still, you are the one in power. God knows how long I tried to get away from you, how hard I tried to ignore the pull I felt toward you year, after year, after year (What’s that called again? Oh! Right, a trauma bond).
Still, I must remind myself how you never really wanted me, despite your indications to the contrary (it was not all in my head). You proved that every time you cheated, even when we were too young to be doing any of that at all. Every single time you cheated. And when I cheated, I guess I proved that I didn’t really want you, either.
You never wanted me, so why did I let you have me for so, so, so long? Why did we act like we wanted each other when we clearly did not? Is it masochism? Is this the "vertigo" that Milan Kundera was talking about? That tempting and terrifying voice calling for "something higher," coaxing, beckoning, whispering to us to succumb to the fall?
