Here’s The Apology Letter I’m Never Going To Send You

I’m sorry.

Seven letters, three syllables, two words. Lather, rinse, repeat until you cannot bear them any longer. Hear them, digest them, chew on them, spit them out, mock them, ignore them, do whatever you want with them.

Because no matter your choice, they’re still yours.

I’m sorry.

Truly.

Really.

No bullshit.

I’m sorry for all of it.

For all of the essays, for all of the blame, for all of the screaming I did into the proverbial void. I’m sorry for the silences I should have filled, and for the noise I made that was unnecessary. I’m sorry for the times when I could’ve dialed your number, could have begged you to be there, could have just asked you nicely, and instead did nothing. I’m sorry for when I did act, and I acted badly. I’m sorry for when I let the liquor call the shots instead of being level, being better, being myself.

I’m sorry for not being the person you thought I was.

Do you know how difficult it is for me to love people? I know; the roles in that are often reversed. So often it’s the complicated girl saying, “I know how difficult I am to love.” And I am. I’m messy and bitchy and loud and demanding and difficult, difficult, difficult. But I’m me. And even if no else does,

I love me.

But I don’t often love others. I keep them at a distance. I judge them. I don’t open up the front door all the way and refuse to let them inside. I keep “what ifs” and “maybes” and “almosts” in between us because something with space is easier to handle than something with hard, solid edges.

But I loved you. 

Really. I did.

And not in a fluffy, lace-trimmed, symmetrical, perfectly photgraphable way. I didn’t love you because it was expected. Because it was asked. Because it was easy.

I loved you because I chose to.

Every day, I chose to love you.

And so this is me, saying I’m sorry for not upholding my end of the bargain. 

I said I’d love you no matter what, and somewhere along the lines, I lost it. Yes, I lost us. Yes, I lost you. But I also lost the part of me that loved you so, so, so, so much.

And that, my dear, made me behave really badly. Really vindictively. Really irrationally. Really unforgivably.

So. I’m trying.

I’m trying to dust off the parts of me that I haven’t touched in forever, have ignored for too long, and remember. Instead of focusing on the places where I needed to be stitched up to heal, I’m focusing on the fact that there’s barely a scar. Instead of spitting, “Well he did this,” I’m trying to say more levelly, “But he loved like this.” Instead of placing blame, I’m trying to present both sides.

Instead of saying, “I hate you,” I’m trying find where, “I remember I loved you,” fits in its place.

So this. This is what I’ll say.

I’m sorry.

Seven letters, three syllables, two words. I’ll repeat them until they start to sound like mushy, incoherent words and not a complete, full thought-out sentence. I’ll keep saying them until they stop feeling foreign, and instead roll off the tongue effortlessly. I’ll say them until I’m blue in the face, out of breath, sick of hearing myself sounding like an apologetic record over and over and over again.

I’ll keep saying those words until you hear them, and actually believe them.

Because I am.

I’m sorry.

I am…