Dear Stephen,
Sometimes when I think about you I feel a bubble of the attraction and affection I had for you. Other times I wish I had succeeded in killing myself so that I wouldn't have to think about you anymore. That may seem very drastic, partially because it is. I should've never gone with you. I knew it was wrong from the beginning. I knew it wouldn't last.
I wanted to want you. I wanted you to want me. It was stupid and ridiculously impetuous of me.
Eight years my senior, a convicted child molester, on probation for said child molestation, divorced, need I go on? You were all kinds of wrong; for me and in general. You made me crazy though, crazy aroused and crazy "in love." I drew blood while we were broken up, because I couldn't take the explosion of feelings bursting out of me.
I listened to those dark lyrics in those Kelly Clarkson songs because they fit "us."
Can you believe it has been seven years? Can you believe that I was willing to marry you?
Shall we start from the beginning of our "relationship?" Shall we discuss all the signs and warnings that I ignored?
Meeting you was the highlight of my month. I was on the verge of seventeen and so ready to fall in love. In truth, I had already fallen "in love" so many times I wasn't even sure what it meant anymore ("I'm hesitant to say I'm in love... How many times have I said that about other guys?" Journal entry May 30th, 2005). Here you are probably saying "We hadn't even met in May." Which is true, but you see my point. I was thinking that line of thought long before you and I met. Also, I have "conveniently" misplaced the journal that holds all my entries about you. Actually it is rather inconvenient, because I wish I could tell you all that I was thinking, better than I can right now. I'm rambling now.
I met you and you seemed so smart and practically perfect in every way. I adored your grandmother and your uncle. It seemed only natural that I adore you too. And you seemed so interested in me. You seemed to genuinely like me. Not just because of my overtly large bosoms or naivete. We talked and you said you could give me an orgasm from a foot massage (or was that later?).
I remember telling you that I didn't want to leave (church that is) because I had to go and see my grandparents and my grandmother hated me. I told you I was afraid she was going to say something cruel about my weight (which she usually did). I gave you an emotional opening. After I let you in that far, it was easy to let you in ever farther.
It wasn't even love, Stephen. I ran into your arms because I was missing someone else desperately. I was missing a guy friend that I could never admit to liking, even though I adored him. He was the reason I wrote that journal entry about love. You were my rebound in almost every sense of the phrase. It was infatuation and the desire to be in a relationship with someone I knew I shouldn't be.
You stalked me. You belittled me. You whistled for me, as though I were a dog, in front of my mother. You touched me inappropriately. And, worst of all, I let you. I let you touch me in places I knew I shouldn't be touched. I let you do things I shouldn't have. I let you get me tangled up in so many messes I thought I'd never escape.
I was addicted. I was addicted to your kiss, even though it tasted like cigarettes. I was addicted to your touch, even though it made me sick to my stomach. I was addicted to the attention you gave me. Or didn't give me, depending on your mood. I was addicted to the drama it caused when I was with you. Because everyone said it was a bad idea.
Did you know that the pastor's wife actually took me out to "discuss" you? She bought me lunch, took me on a drive and explained to me that you weren't the best idea for a boyfriend. She tried to be gentle and kind. It only made me rebel. It only made me want you more. Everything anyone said about you, I ignored. I pretended not to hear or, worse, defended you.
You made subtle threats and some not so subtle actions. Getting mixed up in the gang was the worst. I still freak out if a car is behind me for more than a block. I'm so glad we don't live where we used to. Having just gotten home from school and fixing an afternoon snack, seeing a random car at the end of the driveway, the windows tinted. Just sitting. They never came down the drive. Just sat there, watching the house. Always when you knew I'd be home alone. That was the worst part. The feeling of being unsafe and not being able to tell anyone because I was afraid of you.
Too much to contain in one letter to you, Stephen, so I suppose this is all for now.
I hope I never see you again.
Sarai
Sometimes when I think about you I feel a bubble of the attraction and affection I had for you. Other times I wish I had succeeded in killing myself so that I wouldn't have to think about you anymore. That may seem very drastic, partially because it is. I should've never gone with you. I knew it was wrong from the beginning. I knew it wouldn't last.
I wanted to want you. I wanted you to want me. It was stupid and ridiculously impetuous of me.
Eight years my senior, a convicted child molester, on probation for said child molestation, divorced, need I go on? You were all kinds of wrong; for me and in general. You made me crazy though, crazy aroused and crazy "in love." I drew blood while we were broken up, because I couldn't take the explosion of feelings bursting out of me.
I listened to those dark lyrics in those Kelly Clarkson songs because they fit "us."
Can you believe it has been seven years? Can you believe that I was willing to marry you?
Shall we start from the beginning of our "relationship?" Shall we discuss all the signs and warnings that I ignored?
Meeting you was the highlight of my month. I was on the verge of seventeen and so ready to fall in love. In truth, I had already fallen "in love" so many times I wasn't even sure what it meant anymore ("I'm hesitant to say I'm in love... How many times have I said that about other guys?" Journal entry May 30th, 2005). Here you are probably saying "We hadn't even met in May." Which is true, but you see my point. I was thinking that line of thought long before you and I met. Also, I have "conveniently" misplaced the journal that holds all my entries about you. Actually it is rather inconvenient, because I wish I could tell you all that I was thinking, better than I can right now. I'm rambling now.
I met you and you seemed so smart and practically perfect in every way. I adored your grandmother and your uncle. It seemed only natural that I adore you too. And you seemed so interested in me. You seemed to genuinely like me. Not just because of my overtly large bosoms or naivete. We talked and you said you could give me an orgasm from a foot massage (or was that later?).
I remember telling you that I didn't want to leave (church that is) because I had to go and see my grandparents and my grandmother hated me. I told you I was afraid she was going to say something cruel about my weight (which she usually did). I gave you an emotional opening. After I let you in that far, it was easy to let you in ever farther.
It wasn't even love, Stephen. I ran into your arms because I was missing someone else desperately. I was missing a guy friend that I could never admit to liking, even though I adored him. He was the reason I wrote that journal entry about love. You were my rebound in almost every sense of the phrase. It was infatuation and the desire to be in a relationship with someone I knew I shouldn't be.
You stalked me. You belittled me. You whistled for me, as though I were a dog, in front of my mother. You touched me inappropriately. And, worst of all, I let you. I let you touch me in places I knew I shouldn't be touched. I let you do things I shouldn't have. I let you get me tangled up in so many messes I thought I'd never escape.
I was addicted. I was addicted to your kiss, even though it tasted like cigarettes. I was addicted to your touch, even though it made me sick to my stomach. I was addicted to the attention you gave me. Or didn't give me, depending on your mood. I was addicted to the drama it caused when I was with you. Because everyone said it was a bad idea.
Did you know that the pastor's wife actually took me out to "discuss" you? She bought me lunch, took me on a drive and explained to me that you weren't the best idea for a boyfriend. She tried to be gentle and kind. It only made me rebel. It only made me want you more. Everything anyone said about you, I ignored. I pretended not to hear or, worse, defended you.
You made subtle threats and some not so subtle actions. Getting mixed up in the gang was the worst. I still freak out if a car is behind me for more than a block. I'm so glad we don't live where we used to. Having just gotten home from school and fixing an afternoon snack, seeing a random car at the end of the driveway, the windows tinted. Just sitting. They never came down the drive. Just sat there, watching the house. Always when you knew I'd be home alone. That was the worst part. The feeling of being unsafe and not being able to tell anyone because I was afraid of you.
Too much to contain in one letter to you, Stephen, so I suppose this is all for now.
I hope I never see you again.
Sarai
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