Daily Archives: February 23, 2010

un-love letters

My therapist had a suggestion for what I could do with some of these feelings that seem to threaten to drown me at times.  She suggested I write Mr. X two letters (not to send, of course)—one to tell him about the things that I missed about him, and one to tell him about how angry I am.

The angry letter is still waiting to be written.  I think I need to get a strong visual of Mr. X in a powerless state (maybe bound and gagged?) before I can write it.  I even have a hard time telling him off in my mind.  His voice is still so strong in me, that I know what his responses would be, and well, I never was able to win an argument with him.  Apparently I can’t even win one in my imagination.

So the angry letter will have to come another day.  It will come, though, as I have not been able to forget about it.  It won’t leave me alone.  It’s been quite persistent, so I may need to write it just to get it off my back.

The “miss you” letter, though, I was able to write.  I wrote about two pages of “I miss this that and the other.”  I noticed that before I had written a full page, the things I was missing seemed to be tainted.  Mixed up in the memories was a sour taste.  Sure, I miss going on walks with X, but I remember quite a few walks where he took the opportunity to tear me down, one city block at a time.  Sure, I miss remembering things with him, but I do not miss the subjects he would throw back in my face, sometimes “joking,” sometimes not.  I wrote that I miss hearing him tell me I’m beautiful, I’m sexy, but I can’t think about that without remembering the time he told me he wasn’t attracted to me.  When we were in bed, naked.  And then he held it over my head that I couldn’t just forgive and forget.  There are very few pure memories, if any.

I ended up with two pages of “I miss” and six pages of “I do not miss.”

I don’t miss the belittling.

I don’t miss the discounting of my feelings.

I don’t miss how selfish a lover he was.

I don’t miss his moods and unpredictability.

I don’t miss the constant worrying about his precious feelings, about his fragile state of mind.

I don’t miss his neediness.

I don’t miss how I always seemed to be to blame for his unhappiness.

I don’t miss being afraid of his anger.

I don’t miss hiding from everyone what an asshole he could be to me.

The things I miss come in bits and pieces.  They are the little things, the details.

The things I don’t miss are made of wholecloth.  They are the foundation, the walls, the roof.

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