Love Letters to a Friend: Part 1

an unfinished series of letters to my former favorite person

Prologue:

Finally, after years, inspiration had hit. I had started my first piece in years, now titled “Someone Should Invent a Love Bombing That Never Ends,” about my new best friend. We had such great chemistry together, I wanted to write about it and eventually work together creatively, the girls and the gays would eat us up. He was leaving Taiwan soon, and he didn’t have any plans for his future career. So I orchestrated one (he did not ask me to btw. One thing I’ve learned is that I absolutely love too hard.)

Already at this point, 3 months into the friendship, we had had some pretty big ruptures, but we had also been quick to repair, discuss, and learn more about each other as a unit and as individuals. I had been questioning his intentions the whole time, asking if he was planning on staying in my life. Our love felt too good to be true. We had both attempted to sabotage our connection. Starting arguments, pushing the other away. We recognized that we were both doing this to test whether this friendship was real. We had both been left and abandoned so often in our lives. Life had taught us that we don’t get to keep anything or anyone good.

In the next few pieces of writing that are coming, it’s going to show a pretty awful side of him. I will state that, although I don’t love him anymore, I do not believe he is a terrible person, just a traumatized one. I’m sharing his actions as they felt to me and the impact they had on me. My purpose as a writer is to understand myself more, not to vilify others. I am not naive; I know some of his actions were wrong. My purpose in writing is not to demonize him, and I promise, I have lots of writing analyzing myself and my behavior, I will be exposing myself, and to a much greater extent. Where I’m at currently is that the blame when it comes to abusive behavior in our relationship is that it’s pretty equal, although perpetrated very differently.

I definitely started the cycle of us triggering each other; I did it in mid-July. At some point, I’ll write about it. I say this because I want it to be clear that he and I had discussed that we were trying to form a secure attachment. Secure attachment isn’t the absence of rupture but the presence of repair. We were really fucking great at both of these. One of our favorite pastimes was quoting and mimicking things we had said in arguments. Rereading texts and listening to voice notes sent when we were triggered and finding them hilarious after repair. One of our favorite things about each other was that even mid-breakdown we can crack a joke. Also, he had shown grace, love and understanding in the face of me freaking the fuck out on him multiple times. We had a saying, “high risk, high reward.” That both of us were a lot to fucking handle. That there would be a lot of bad, but there would be so much good. We had agreed to attempt unconditional care and love. To choose each other, the good and the terrible.

So, back to my plan. I decided to start documenting our friendship in a completely honest and transparent way. Well, showing my side of it at least. And if it got traction and interest at some point, then I could bring him in. We could create content together. I knew there would be fights, but I was sure that there would always be repairs. I also very much felt I owed him. He had withstood some pretty horrific behavior of mine. He promised he would continue to do so, and I promised him the same. I would keep choosing him, I wouldn’t give up, I wouldn’t abandon him.

I started this series, “Love Letters to a Friend,” as my in-the-moment musing and ruminations on our friendship and our love. Our relationship wasn’t platonic, but it wasn’t romantic either. We were absolutely more than just friends. He is also maybe the gayest man I’ve ever met, but regardless, even though we never had sex, we did have aspects of a physical relationship. I wanted to share what it felt like being in a trauma informed, non-traditional queer relationship. I thought he and I would figure out a new way of doing things as partners. Partners who had sexual relationships with others, in the future, even romantic relationships with others, but we would remain a unit.

The series started with 2 love letters, and then I experienced one of the biggest heartbreaks of my life. Until very recently, I thought I couldn’t share any of these pieces because the story didn’t progress as I’d intended. But my most recent writings are mostly me examining myself, my attachment issues, my triggers, my behavior, and my mental health as a direct response to this relationship. This isn’t the first time I’ve been sent this lesson, and this time I am going to learn. So, I’ve decided I should release these writings to help give context to the subsequent breakdown in mental health I was going to experience.

9/3/24 - The First Love Letter

Goodness, you’ve been in rare form this week. On Sunday I started work on my first piece about us, “Boundary Stomping Sluts.” (published as “Someone Should Invent a Love Bombing That Never Ends”) I shared it with you. The last sentence for now is where I declared our mutual love for each other. You declared it profound. You said you were unsurprised by my talent because you knew I could write like this. This isn’t the first time you’ve openly and frankly complimented my talents. You do so, so matter–of-factly like you are stating hard, cold truths, not your opinion.

Last weekend you came over. We saw each other in person for the first time since we met. (Later, I’ll write about what an ordeal THAT was) You had told me that you show your love in actions. And boy, did you. I felt awkward at first. You didn’t. I avoided eye contact, and you looked directly into mine. Soon, your legs were on mine on the couch as I examined your knee tattoos. Soon we were in my bed. The laughter, oh my god, the laughter. The ease of our physical intimacy. Things got spicy. We explored each other. Soft featherlike touches, to bites. We both delighted in the bruises your mouth left on my body.

The love. The way you watched me. Always finding a way to touch me. Hours laying intertwined. Trauma dumping, laughing, eating. Our first in person fight. You handled it so well. I started sabotaging again. Triggered by one too many small acts of love. That evening when you left and the next day showing me grace. Staying on the phone as I spiraled into self loathing. I told you that I started the argument because I don’t deserve to be loved like this. You assured me that I do. You forgave me, again, told me you understood. I carried on. You told me that I was being a masochist. I said I needed to get off the phone because I needed to process. A few hours later you checked on me. You got me out of my paralysis. “Stand up, drink water, turn on music, leave your fucking house.” Once I did as you commanded and was outside, you checked if you had been too harsh. I assured you that you hadn’t, it was exactly what I needed. I was wallowing, in silence on my couch. I hadn’t eaten or drank all day. I can’t believe you still love me after seeing me when I’m like this. My love for you beats in me like a second pulse.