I saw you and adored you from the start. You showed me things I’d never imagined. I felt emotions long dormant, locked away, to keep me safe. You loved me. We loved each other. Or so I thought. We were supposed to marry, to share life, from here on out, for the duration. Three weeks from now, we were to be as one, facing forward, together.

You promised never to leave. You promised the rest of your life. You promised me love, and security, and caring, and tenderness, and passion. You promised your love. You promised a lot of things, *****. You promised never to hurt me. Not on purpose, not on purpose, anyway. I trusted you. In spite of everything, I trusted you.

I had spent years trusting no one. Hiding away. Never letting my guard down. I’ve been hurt too many times. By too many people. Mostly men. Mostly alcoholics. I never intended to allow myself to be vulnerable, again. Never again. I never wanted to let myself feel the feelings, to love openly, unembarrassed. Freely. I planned to stay away from people. I planned to stay strong, but alone. Not vulnerable. Especially not vulnerable. Until I met you.

You.
You.
You.

You were different. You were ‘the one.’ You brought me to life. You awakened a passion in me, a passion heretofore unknown. You taught me to trust, in myself, and in you.

But you lied to me, *****. And in your lies, you hurt me.

All I ever wanted was to love you. To care for you. To support you. To share life with you. To sleep in the warmth of your aroma. To awaken in the strength of your arms. To trust in you, in me, in us. To look forward to the rest of our lives, together.

But you lied to me.

The alcoholism, I could handle. I didn’t know how, but I was willing to do anything to love you and support you. I wrote you my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my love, not to scare or intimidate you, not to overwhelm you, but to support you. To let you know that I was there, here, for you. That my love, my dedication, my commitment to you was unwavering. But you rejected it, saying that wasn’t friendship.

What the fuck?

I thought that’s what love, and marriage, were all about.

You lied to me, *****. And through those lies, you hurt me.

Even in the letters you wrote from **** ********, you lied. You told me you still loved me. You told me it was going to be alright, between you and me, that the alcoholism had nothing to do with me. And in that, you were right. It didn’t. It doesn’t. That problem existed long before I came into your life.

You promised to come home and to make time for me. You promised to explain what had happened. You promised to make amends.

And then, you came home. And you rejected me outright. You betrayed our love, my love, and my compassion and caring for you. You rejected everything I had given you. You threw it back in my face, in anger and resentment, claiming that I had spread rumors about you to people I have never even heard of. That wasn’t me, *****, and your behavior towards me was unfounded and unfair.

And it hurt me.
You hurt me.
******** hurt me.

Morgan wants to go boogie boarding. And so do I, but I don’t go because I am afraid of running into you or her, or both of you.

It isn’t true. And there are no excuses, because I did not do what you have accused me of. I never spoke of you to anyone. Not really. Just superficial things. Like taking a walk or sharing a meal. But, I speak that way of lots of people. Of ****, of ***, and of *******, none of whom I am interested in, or marrying, or in love with. ****, or ***, or *** or ****** come over. We eat together. We talk. But I am not marrying them, either. And somehow, with all of the others, the rumors aren’t spread. All the more reason for me to believe in my heart of hearts that those rumors come from her. I wish you would have chosen to believe me, and to believe in me.

I wish you’d been a promise keeper.

The meaningful stuff, the ‘you’ that I had fallen so deeply in love with, in spite of myself…… I never spoke of that, *****, to anyone other than you. He was mine, mine alone. It seemed that even mentioning him would cause him to disappear. And he disappeared, anyway. Or maybe, he was never real to begin with. Who knows? Who cares? Only me. The believer.

I did not tell my friends that we were still seeing one another. I barely ever mentioned you at all, except in that email to ****, and he is a therapist, a crisis intervention counselor, and lives in Tucson, and would never speak of such things, to anyone. To this day, the three friends that even know of your existence do not know your last name. I did not tell my friends we were getting married. I truly and honestly believe that those rumors, that that manipulative behavior, that all of that negativity came from ********. Ensuring that she would get you back. Ensuring that you would turn your back on me and my feelings. That you would dishonor our commitment to one another, claiming that I did not act out of friendship, and that it was too much for you. Maybe it was too much, *****, but it was pure, and honorable. It was the purest, most genuine love I had ever felt. Neither it nor I deserved to be dishonored. Neither it nor I deserved to be portrayed as something dirty or manipulative or unworthy. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. That was hurtful and unkind.

She told me she wanted you back. She told me that she thought you were going to be your dog. She asked me so many things. And I answered. Stupidly, I answered. In that, you are correct, I did not owe her full disclosure. I did not owe her anything at all. I thought that she was someone else who truly cared about you. But I have come to believe that she only cares about her. That she is the one who, upon seeing us walk the dogs, spread whatever rumors were spread, and/or said something to you about them.

What kind of question is “Do you do porn?” What in the hell does she care what I do? And what did it mean? Do I make porn? Or do I watch porn? Either way, what the hell kind of question is that??!!! I have never, ever, in my entire life, even thought of asking anybody such a question. Who does she think she is, anyway?

Since you last called me, on July 20, two days before my birthday, two days before the day that you wanted to marry me. Or, at least, two days before the day that you said you wanted to marry me. Anyway, ever since then, most of the time, when I take my dogs to the beach, I go out over the dune behind my apartment building. For fear, of seeing you, or of seeing her, and of feeling the dull ache of sadness, the welling up of tears…. For fear of being forced to mourn the loss of you, your love, our relationship, your friendship…. For fear of being forced to confront my own anguish, to face the betrayal… You have hurt me, *****. And, even more, your ‘best friend’ has hurt me.

I do not deserve this. I did not do any of what you have accused me of. Except love you too much, when it was hard to handle. That’s all that I did wrong. I loved you too much, and I believed too much in your words, in your touch, in your kiss. And all of it was lies. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right, *****.

Whatever happened to commitment? Whatever happened to promises? Whatever happened to love and compassion, support and understanding? Whatever happened to the brilliant, gentle soul I fell in love with? Whatever happened to making amends? To explanations? To the rest of our lives?

I made this for you. It was to be one of your birthday/wedding presents.

I will always miss you, *****.

Be well,
Danielle




Title: The Late News
~Merrit Malloy

No, clearly I have been the jerk . . .
To think that I could leave myself on pages
And not be crumpled up and thrown away . . .

I will go away
But not with you
And I leave not because I didn't love you
But . . . because I did . . . Because I did

If there is a competition here
of sadness
or rightness
or who has been the most misunderstood
I concede . . .

because I find it hard to explain my life any longer
I'm tired . . .

And perhaps . . .
I have always been wrong

So . . .
with only compassion for both of us
Some charity
No more faith. . .
or hope

I give up to my weakness
I let it take me

It will not forgive me
And . . . neither will you

Think only of yourself now
of the injustice
because I am a stranger again
A prisoner of freedom
A hitchhiker . . .

I'll pray for you . . .
for us

And with useless love
I will say
unwillingly
Finally
Good-bye