I’m the type of gal who knows what it is I want in life; in love, personal growth, career-wise. I’m the type of gal who has a Midwest heart with a West Coast spirit; a carefree, vibrant soul with a good head on my shoulders, and ambitions that I chase with all my heart.
Never in my life did I think I would find myself in this situation — falling for mister fuckboy, the wrong boy, the one who couldn’t honestly give two shits about anything at all. It took me one too many apologies, one too many drunk phone calls, one too many chances to put my foot down and say no more.
So, mister fuckboy, here is my open letter to you:
From the very beginning, you made me believe you genuinely cared, that you genuinely wanted me to be apart of your life. You were always so stubborn, yet you managed to find enough courage and trust to open your heart to me and let me in. Every detail you shared about your past and why you are the way you are made me fall for you even more, even when I didn’t want it to.
You touched me and held me like I was unashamedly and completely yours. You made me feel wanted and safe. You made me want to be vulnerable and break down the walls I have built so high for so many years. You really did make me feel like I was changing your life for the better. You were so good to me, until you weren’t.
Your actions compared to your words made me question my worth, made me question everything about myself. You always left me wondering, even when I asked so clearly for an honest answer. You tip-toed around everything, always leaving me questioning myself, my humanity, my faith. You made me feel like a fool, like I really was so much less than, because deep in my heart I knew I deserved so much more than mediocre; so much more than temporary.
I gave you every opportunity to get out of this, to go be single, yet you continued to crawl right back into my arms every chance you got. I knew more than you did at the time that you needed to get this out of your system, to be single and figure yourself out before getting involved with anyone. Yet you continued to come to me again, and again, and again. You made me believe this could work, that just maybe the guy I was falling for was falling for me back.
You took advantage of my kind and loving heart. You saw how fragile I was, and just when my walls came crashing down to let you in, you fucked me over. You didn’t care about my life or anything in it. You only cared about yourself and the way I was falling for you. You were temporarily happy with me because you saw how much I cared. You enjoyed feeling wanted by someone who was willing to give their heart to you, yet you received more satisfaction from playing games than reciprocating. You enjoyed the fact that I was falling for potential, so that you could always keep one foot in and one foot out, ready to jump ship at any moment.
You made me feel like an object, not a human being worthy of being loved. You made me believe that just maybe I could have a special, all-consuming love, but you proved me wrong one too many times.
You left my heart bruised and weak just when it was finally starting to become strong and whole. You made me take significant steps back instead of optimistically moving forward. You convinced me just enough that I was unloveable, that just maybe there was something wrong with me. But you were wrong; you were always wrong.
So, fuckboy, here is my open letter to you: you made me realize that you don’t deserve my time, my energy, my love, or my compassion, and you sure as hell don’t deserve my heart. You made me realize more than ever, that I am worthy; that I am enough; that I am so much more.
So, thank you, mister fuckboy, for not choosing me. Because not choosing me allowed me to choose myself again.