"Self Portrait"

Dear _____,

I’m trying to make up for being silent at our first and last date via pathetic letter.

The night I let you read my journal was very intense. I saw a different side of you--a very serious, broody side. It made me uncomfortable, because as you learned, I'm initially very reserved about sharing my feelings and thoughts.

My journal is my outlet, the way I organize my nutty, obsessive head. I'm constantly changing my mind about everything, because, you were right--I'm a bit of a pushover. I'm really susceptible to influences because since I dropped religion, I've sort of kept myself open to new ideas--too open. The only thing I really guard is my self-honesty, which I keep tight in my journal. To allow someone to read my journal, someone I'm completely infatuated with, put me in a very vulnerable position. Smoking out your kitchen window, knowing you were reading every dirty, delusional thought I'd had in the past month and hearing boisterous laughter from the next room was really painful for me.

I thought it was a mistake until I came back to your room, and you told me the way I saw things was "cute." I guess I should have realized that "cute" was a code word. But I was cozy in bed with you, realizing that you then knew exactly how crazy I am, and not only did you not kick me out, you kissed me! And it wasn’t like the other kisses, the ones that followed when you’d throw me into your bed or shove me against your wall. It felt tender and intimate; there was no violence.

The next day, however, I said goodbye to you, and you didn't get up. You didn't even take your eyes off your computer screen. So, like the previous two weeks, I went home, completely neurotic and out of my mind. Shaking, actually. When we went to dinner, I found it half charming, half disconcerting that you spent a long three minutes trying to find the right table.

But when you told me that you didn't want to continue on with our bizarre, undefined relationship, I was a little relieved. The thing is I really am too immature for a serious relationship. I'm too busy trying to figure myself out. On top of that, I habitually build people up to an intangible fantasy. I don't know how to stop because I get such a serge of emotion from doing so, and I'm an emotion fiend. And it's not as though I always build them up into a perfect fantasy--the fantasies include flaws, but charming flaws.

I think you were right when you said you'd kept me intrigued in a romantic sense by acting mostly disinterested. I'm generally masochistic, in case you hadn't noticed.

After dinner, as soon as you walked me across the street and away from that homeless man and his rant about the “god damn man and the god damn tree,” I was overwhelmed with clarity. The little knots in my stomach were gone. My head wasn't fogged with unfortunate obsession. I'm really glad you told me how you felt when you did and with such a direct and honest approach. Two and a half weeks could have dragged into months of self-medicated stress, until at last my lungs and liver and mind deteriorated to that of the bitter homeless man.

I guess that’s all. Sorry I couldn’t say this at the time.

Sincerely,
______