First and foremost, I’d like to apologize for referring to you as my “boyfriend” in the title. “Letter to a Man that I Slept with for Nearly Four Years and Refused to Call Me His Girlfriend” just didn’t hold the same appeal. Admittedly, I’m surprised you haven’t materialized from thin air to correct my egregious mistake. Perhaps people really can change after all.

There are many versions of this letter that have been crumpled up, backspaced, and shoved into drawers. They no longer physically exist, but the particularly brutal lines are a permanent fixture in my mind. They read like temper tantrums. In some sense, they were. I desperately needed so much that you weren’t providing and I thought I didn’t have the language to ask for. The frustration crashed onto the page like a spoiled toddler knocking down building blocks. Every hyperbole was calling out for your attention.

It’s clear now that I always had the language to ask for the love that I needed. There never was a communication barrier between us. I simply did not have the power to approach you with any concerns. I’ve alway been eager to please, even when it compromises my own needs. It’s certainly no accident that my timid nature always awarded you the upper hand. You designed this relationship to benefit you, and it started long before I was privy to the fact that it was even happening.

I used to believe that our attraction was as inevitable as it was powerful. How could I have known that you had actually manufactured it? You covered your tracks neatly with flirtation I had never received before. I was falling in love for the first time while you were interviewing the next victim in your game. Every interaction was calculated to satisfy you while maintaining my inferior position.

You were able to successfully pursue me in this manner because I did not have any foresight to your games. I was too young to be able to anticipate the lesson you were about to teach me. At only eighteen years old, I was reaching the end of my parents’ catastrophic divorce that had lasted the better part of my childhood. There were no healthy examples of what a relationship should be at my disposal. Every love I had ever been exposed to firsthand was painful and unfulfilling. My only chance of escaping it all were the warnings of concerned friends which held no weight against your addictive personality. You asked me not to tell anyone we were together and now I can understand why. You were 29 years old and able to see my educational deficits and use them to your advantage.

Because I had no viable comparison, you were able to fool me into thinking that the bare minimum was asking for too much. All I needed was consistency that you would not even attempt to provide. We would speak regularly for a few months, then you’d disappear when any conversation alluded to a subject deeper than what we were doing that day. Each time you miraculously returned you had a declaration of affection more grandiose than the previous time. Looking back, I see that it was more formulaic than anything else. You put enough slack in my leash so that you could move at will, but kept it tight enough so that I didn’t even consider running away. Still, I remember every single grand gesture you made when you returned. I screenshotted them for the lonely days where you slipped away again.

“It’s Christmas and well I wanted to make sure you knew I was thinking about you.”

You sent me this message the last time I allowed you to randomly reappear into my life. For sentimental reasons, it also happens to be my favorite one. At this point we had been sporadically in and out of each other’s lives for almost three years. This message was the only time you had ever reached out to first me on a holiday or special occasion. It was the closest I had ever felt to you. I spent every birthday we were together wishing you’d acknowledge its existence, and was disappointed for four consecutive birthdays. Those sixteen words were the best Christmas present you could have ever given me. I woke up the next day thinking I had dreamt it.

My expectations were truly always that low. I never asked to be showered in diamonds. I didn’t demand love sonnets or legal commitments. My life was tumultuous and I only wished for one solid, unmoving piece. I needed you to hold my hand when the funeral director read out a list of publications to publish my grandfather’s obituary. You lived right down the street from the funeral home, but I didn’t want to bother you. I needed you to answer the phone after I saw my sister’s melanoma scar for the first time. You were only a text away, but I would feel embarrassed if I dumped my anxieties into a message and you ignored it. I needed you to make sure I didn’t have to sleep alone in my furnitureless, empty childhood home. You wouldn’t have come if you knew I was upset, so I didn’t bother to ask directly. I needed you to be solid ground, but I fell through the cracks any time I thought about reaching out for support.

Any “help” you provided was out of place and offered with a hint of condescension. In these rare moments you felt like a parent as opposed to a partner. It felt like you were attempting to mold me into the person you felt that I should be while ignoring the person I was actually becoming. You were too far away to see me as a different person from the eighteen year old girl you met. During these times it felt like you needed to prop yourself up as a savior. Maybe this advice was your way of forgiving yourself for torturing me for years without my explicit, informed consent. Nevertheless I pushed back on your strange pieces of advice with valid concerns, and you would easily dismiss me because I was just “too young to understand”. Then, more than likely, you would disappear into the void for some weeks again. 

I excused you for your inconsistency because I never made my expectations abundantly clear. It’s my fault that I never spelled it out. Closed mouths don’t get fed, after all. I allowed you to treat me that way, I can’t be upset that you never figured it out.

But how could I ask to be treated better without coming off as demanding? I was conditioned to understand that I couldn’t. 

At some point, exhausted and running low on options, I decided that you were testing me. That was seemingly the only logical reason you kept popping in and out. You weren’t ready to put a deposit down on me and call me your girlfriend. But! If I kept the faith and met your growing disappointments with forgiveness, someday you would repay me. Someday, you would wake up and realize that I was the one who did everything right. I’m the one that stuck around regardless of what you put me through. Any praise or attention you ever showed me felt like a passing test grade. I was addicted to your approval, convinced that if I earned enough points you would treat me the way I secretly deserved.

That obviously never happened, and I realize now that I shouldn’t have wanted that even if it was a possibility. All that hard work and patience for what? To end up being the only sucker in the world that would accept some guy’s manipulation at worst and pure laziness at best? You would think that all the Jane Austen I’ve consumed would have taught me better than to wish for that.

Still, I could never seem to find my footing to escape. How was it so easy for you to periodically leave? Each time I seemed to sneak away I found myself sucked back in before I was even able to draw breath. Each time you broke me I wondered how I managed to put myself in this same position again. Finally, with distance, I can see how you were able to silently creep back in. Whenever I got comfortable without you, you would reach out with a friendly tone to maintain your connection to me. I thought it was innocent, and even mature of us to maintain a subtle friendship. But it was truly only your access to me. When things became uncomfortable I would crawl back into the safety of your manipulations.

As cruel as it all seems, I have to believe that you didn’t intend to cause that much damage. I can accept that you understood I would be hurt, but I can’t believe you planned the extent of the hurt that you cause. It just got out of hand too quickly for you to manage. You couldn’t have imagined the days that bled into months and years that I spent exhaustively examining and trying to diagnose the theoretical “us”. You didn’t mean to waste four years of my life on purpose. I choose to believe that because I need you to have a redeemable quality so that I don’t feel so stupid for allowing you this much space in my mind.It was easy for you because you never were forced to face the consequences of your actions. You were able to walk away from the destruction you caused and forget about it. I, unfortunately, was not offered the same luxury.

Despite your intention, I have thus far spent the entirety of my adulthood consumed by you. I talked about you to my ceiling fan, to my showerhead, and to every single traffic light on my commute.

But where did those conversations lead me?

Nowhere.

After all our years together, I was stranded in the middle of a desert with no map or sense of direction. I could recite any basic fact about you like an oddly specific encyclopedia, but I could still never directly name your intentions. Your mind and motives are as elusive to me now as they were when I was eighteen. I used to try to decode your text messages like they were less interesting Chaucer pieces. Everything you ever said to me was a puzzle with no edge pieces. I tried my damndest to piece it together, but I often walked away discouraged and empty-handed. I asked serious questions playfully to avoid scaring you into your mysterious hole, but they always hit a dead end.What are we? Where is this going? Why are you doing this to me? Eventually, I had to stop asking. I understand now that avoiding these inquiries was possibly the greatest kindness you could have ever offered me. Now, far removed from the enigma of what was and wasn’t, I still don’t think I would want to know what the object of your game was. I’ve grown far away from you but I have yet to become indestructible.  

Looking back on our “relationship” it’s easy to identify the moments where I should have known better or listened to my intuition. I made so many excuses for you in my heart, but my brain always knew better. My thinking I should leave wouldn’t suffice for my heart. I had to know I was done before I could wrap it up.

There is only one moment I have that I can reflect on where I knew I should have left and still chose not to.

We had an argument that I can’t remember the specific details of. I remember not thinking much of it at all. We argued like this all the time. I don’t know why, but I decided to tell my mom about it. She had been visiting for Thanksgiving and we were driving back from catching up over dinner. I rarely talked about you to my family, but for some reason I did on this particular day. Maybe it was because I had too many Long Islands, or maybe I was just destined to have this conversation.

After a long, relieving rant I looked over at her. Her mouth hung open as if I had just confessed to a brutual murder. Her blue eyes went glassy with tears as we sat in the silence. She eventually gathered the courage to say:

“What have I done so wrong in my life that makes you think it’s okay to be treated like that?”

I couldn’t reply. I never did.

The silence filled the car. The rest of our conversation is a tearful blur. She told me a story about my aunt to change the subject, but my mind was elsewhere for the remainder of our time together. I carry the weight of that question to this very day.  I felt, and still feel, so guilty for putting her in a position to feel that way. How could I let her take more responsibility for your actions?

You and I were together another year after I had that conversation with her. I never mentioned your name to her again. How could I? 

I eventually had to leave the same way you did. I ignored your messages, but left my read receipts on so you’d know I was choosing to ignore them. That’s probably not the healthiest or cleanest way to end things, and I’m truly sorry for that. It’s the way it had to be done, though. I felt that any explanation would allow you the space to recapture me. At this point, I could not afford to risk that happening again. Also...I hate to admit it, but it felt good to treat you the way that you had treated me for so long.

I try not to be so harsh with myself for not leaving earlier. Everything is different in retrospect. In the moment, the opportunities to leave appeared as opportunities for you to grow and change. You never did, and I forgive you for that. I hope you’re doing well and that you reflect on our time together as fondly as you are able to. But more importantly, I forgive myself. I recognize now that my choice to be with you was hardly a choice at all. You manipulated the situation enough to keep me trapped in your vortex. It would be unfair to hold myself responsible  for falling victim to your tricks.

Everything is a matter of perspective, and I could not have gained this perspective if I had not suffered through our entire four years. You were as painful as you were necessary. Your cruel lessons faded to scars that eventually became the wisdom I’m now left with.

That being said, I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped trying to reach out and see how I’m doing. Despite your best efforts, I’m fine.