It's Never a Good Way to Start a Story

We met each other at our lowest point. Anxious and desperate for attention and love, desperate for acceptance and recognition.

And it's never a good way to start a story.

We used to lift up each other: that's what the both of us need, right? I am sad, you'll comfort me, you are sad, I'll comfort me.

I noticed your desperation for recognition the moment I saw you in class. Trying so hard to impress—to prove that you are better than your classmates who wouldn't pay attention to class. To prove that you are better than them because you could teach them, because you could write shit on the board because you raised your hand when question asked, because you will explain shit even though no one asks and willing to listen.

Or probably so I thought. I never actually know.

I recognized your desperation and I decided to feed your ego. I will pay attention to you, I will give you feedback, and I will ask questions. I will also take your useless offer for notes in an unimportant class that doesn't even have an exam. I will. Because I could empathize with the desperation.

It's never a good way to start a story.

You liked poetry. Never knew that. Never cared before. But I could understand the appeal; poetry is often melancholic. And it's so fitting with your desperate mind. You are sad all the time. It fits you.

When depression took away my ability to lift up a pen, it put a pen between your fingers and whispered you melancholic rhymes.

I didn't understand the first time you sent me a poem. No context. Just a poem. I don't even remember what that was about. Didn't even read that because it was written in Archaic English. I didn't even send you a reply.

At some point I fed you so much ego to make you think I am interested. And I probably am.

And people started talking.

It was uncomfortable but I am an expert in playing dumb and not taking a clue. I have a doctorate in not caring.

But it gets louder and louder. And you get more and more obvious.

And it's exhausting. I didn't have fun at all.

Talking to you is building a wall pretending I can't hear people talking. Talking to you is playing dumb until you have had enough and said it with your own lips.

Truth to be told, I was over thrilled. Who won't? I don't think someone who doesn't have anyone in mind would not be over thrilled.

But I know boundaries (and later I realized that apparently you don't). I can't reply to you with anything.

And I thought we were friends until you pushed me to say what my heart was telling me.

What if I told you that February afternoon that my heart has been screaming, "SINNER!" for so long?

But I didn't say that and instead said, "Ah, yes, maybe same"

I just don't want to lose a friend. I am desperate. Really desperate.

And it's never a good way to start a story.

I don't know what you think about me after that.

I thought of you as a friend. From October, to November and to December. Nothing more. A friend. A friend that my heart desperately tried to scream out to me to get out of. But I was desperate.

The first January that we spent together as friends made me realize that I don't care that much if I lose this connection. I don't care if I lose all of these connections.

January was full of desperation. But it was also full of revelation. I found myself, kinda, I became happier.

January was the month that for the first time our conversation got shorter and shorter.

And I don't really mind.

January turned to July.

The year has turned really sour. I really want to cut everyone off. But I could only do that with you. Because you are away and we never exactly spent time physically. You are easier to get away from.

July to December were the months I realized how pathetic you are.

I have tried to get up from my mud. Wasn't exactly successful, but I did.

I tried to stand up on my own. I'd walk if I couldn't walk and I'd crawl if I couldn't walk. And I will do it on my own.

And you didn't.

You've been too dependent on my ego feedings. You tried to find comfort in my fake warmth. And I am sick of pretending no more. I am not compassionate, I am not caring, I am not everything you thought I was.

But I was still a desperate little shit. I was not fully healed and you are there adding troubles to my problems. My time alone had me realizing that you are the one holding me back.

To think about you, your sensitive feelings, your mouth that keeps spreading rumors everywhere about us, your whines and cries. That was the shit that was holding me back the entire time.

I got up. I stood on my own feet. I moved on.

And you are there, stuck. Thinking that being more pathetic would probably make me look in your direction.

You are wrong. So wrong.

I should tell you that it's never a good way to start a story.

It was January again when I made up my mind.

I cut you off almost completely—some strings are still attached from the words you spread to the world. But I stopped responding to your texts.

And I should tell you that my life has been better ever since. My life has been better ever since I decided that I won't care about you anymore.

And unlike you, I don't need to say that to everyone.

My lips are sealed from the mutual friends we had.

No one needs to hear how at the end you only sent me messages about how cruel the world is to you and how my disagreement makes you irrationally get worked up and get mad at me. No one needs to hear how you are trying to stick yourself in misery just so that you get a tiny bit of attention. No one needs to hear how you keep telling everyone whenever you get low blood pressure to get their empathy (it's not even that bad, I have one myself). No one needs to hear how you told me you wanted to jump off the 3rd floor for whatever reaction you wished you get from me. No one needs to hear how you stopped me on the street just to say, "I got sick again because of you" just because I told you I think what we are doing is not right. No one needs to hear how you made your friend deliver me a letter—a hateful letter—of how I made you get sick again because I told you I am afraid of God. No one needs to hear how you only sent me pathetic, desperate, gaslighting messages after I gave you a second chance.

No one.

At least they don't need to know the details.

No one needs to hear all of that. But no one will also be able to give you any advice for that, so I will:

It's never a good way to start a story.

I hate you.

I hate you with every bone I have in my body. For the manipulative, gaslighting act you did to me. For trapping me in people's talks. I hate you. I hate you so much.

But I also hope that you will feel better about yourself. So much better that you won't feel it is necessary to be pathetic and desperate to make someone look your way. So much better that you would be able to stand on your own feet. So much better that losing someone wouldn't make you put your head on their foot just for a wish they'd stay.

Because no one else needs to go through what I have gone through. No one.

Because it's exhausting and damaging. Hurting. You made me fall apart along with you.

And I hope.

I will never fall for anyone with the same trap and tricks like you.