You’ll see

Dear one,

On my birthday last month you gave me one of the most unique gifts ever. The essay was wonderfully written–and you say it was an entry from your journal that you wrote years ago? Remarkable. I can only aspire to that level of writing in the little-seen blog that I’m keeping. The language was, or course, flawless and it gave me immense pleasure while reading it.

Reading your account of our story was refreshing enough–because you rarely opened up in the brief period that we went out. From our late-night chats over Yahoo Messenger, to the exchange of calls and text messages, up to our first date–which you so-aptly called ‘calamitous’, your essay made me aware of how differently I remembered these events in our history. I can only marvel at the great power of perception over our feelings.

However, reading it also gave rise to a few questions. The first of which was the one I asked you last night. Why did you share this with me? Why now? I asked you if you wanted to talk about it and I was a bit surprised (and let down, I have to admit) when you shrugged your shoulders indifferently and said no. And when you added that you gave it to me just because you wanted to share a record of a moment when you were being very honest with yourself, I felt an unpleasant taste in my mouth. One that couldn’t be washed off by any mediocre explanation.

Because, to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to know the reason–or reasons, why you just upped and disappeared. I mean, after not seeing you for a long time, not anymore. And up to now, I still don’t. When I first saw you again at the conference, I acted in a civil manner towards you because that was the proper thing to do. I had no other reason, or designs. After that, when we would regularly bump into each other in various events and we would exchange pleasantries, I began to entertain the remote possibility that we could be friends.

And so, here we are.

While a part of me is sincerely glad to have witnessed this, umn, revelation… another part of me cannot seem to stop from seething with protest. Reacting to the non-chalance that you demonstrated when I asked you the reason for this disclosure, I feel like you have used me yet again so you can just feel better about yourself.

I guess this is the risk that one faces when he wants to come clean. I can imagine that you wrangled for a long time before finally garnering up the courage to cull this piece from your old journal, print it on some fancy, high-quality crisp paper, wrap it in an elegant envelop, and giving it to me as a birthday present.

I think that any form of disclosure, whether of one’s sexual orientation to parents or an indiscretion to a lover, is never easy. Unburdening one’s self usually comes at a price. Unfortunately in this case, it came at my expense.

Closures, meanwhile, are another, equally–if not more, complicated matter. Because people have different ways of ending things. Some like to do it with a bang: a fight, a shouting march, and angry departures. While others let things fade away like forgotten photographs, substituting absence for explanation, implications for notifications. Still others would rather hear it straight for the horse’s mouth, wary from reading between the lines and making assumptions.

My dear, if you have taken the time to know me when we were together, you would have known and understood that I fall in the third category. That I end things that way because that’s the same way I like it to be done to me. When you left me the way you did, I felt terrible pain. One that was only dulled by time and lately, soothed by the possibility of friendship. But pondering on your words and actions, I realize that nothing has changed.

You will always need me, perhaps, to put some meaning in your life. Because of this, you will always use me, whether you are aware of that fact or not. And, by doing this, you will always hurt me. Again and again. And at some point it has to stop. Because you have to learn to look beyond yourself and your desires; how others are affected by your intense drive to meet these needs.

I always try not to burn bridges; but for you I might have to make an exception. When you are finally alone with your thoughts (drink in hand–I imagine), know that in spite of everything that has happened…

I wish you well.