Someone to Talk To

Dear Johnny,
I’m on the verge. I saw your picture, one where you actually look happy. Not that fake pasted pose that screams, “Look! Look! I’m perfectly content, happy even.” I can’t stop the tears from welling, you know how you can feel it behind your eyes and can see shadow droplets in your periphery? That is me…all the time.
I read how in email and text, we use punctuation differently. When used to electronically communicate, an ellipse is used for something, a feeling or thought,  that cannot be put into words. Those ellipse marks are almost the complete contents of your messages to me. And I thought, “What is it you’re not saying?”
So often I can’t breathe and I live out potential scenarios where we might be folding the laundry or listening to a song, and I realize I’m fantasizing about someone who doesn’t exist because I don’t know you…not really. I remember our one actual conversation a few years ago and how you said you missed me and wanted to talk to me but you didn’t know what else to say, that we should just try to forget. Your incredulous tone when you said, “But you’re married.” I knew it then. My only hope was to not be married, and I’m not sure how to solve that problem because it’s so much more complicated than that.
And I hate change and I hate hurting people. I spend my life trying not to hurt people. And then I send you letters that hurt you. It’s no coincidence that you always found trouble right after I contacted you, almost every time. You self-destruct for some reason. I want to believe it’s because you love me and the thought of living without me makes you make bad choices. But maybe it’s because I make you angry so you lash out. I hope it’s neither because I can’t stand to be the source of your pain. I wonder if you know you’re the source of mine. I’ve even come up with ways to punish myself for thinking about you too much–aversion therapy of sorts–but it never works. I am broken and hopelessly in love with the you I imagine, with the you I talked to two years ago, with the you I see online every day. I see how much you are the same and I crave to know your differences. I just wish I had someone to talk to. I am alone with this and the readers who so diligently support my blood-stained posts. I am alone in this…

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