Dear _____,
And there you were.
The most perfect combination of charisma, mystery, and bad news. It was the start of what would be the best and worst months of my life. The best being when you would call me "yours." The worst being when, well, you wouldn't call me at all. It's been a while now since we've talked and it took me a while to move on. But I have a few things to say to you.
No, I am not going to say "thank you." You were a total scumbag.
But you taught me that I can't make up excuses for other people's bullsh*t. My friends would tell me how crappy it was that you blew me off and I would make up excuses for you: "He had a really busy week, I'm sure he will text me soon," "He probably fell asleep," or the "Oh he has a fraternity thing tonight, I think."
You can't keep trying to look for the good in someone when there honestly isn't any.
I love someone now who loves me the same. I owe that to you. I sat for months hating myself and trying to figure out what was wrong with me until I found out that it wasn't me; it was you. I analyzed everything I did, from how long I waited to text you back, to how I looked in a skin-tight dress. You would go AWOL — I wouldn't hear from you for weeks — and then you would pop back into my life when it was convenient for you.
You had this ever-so-charming way of texting me at 1:15 a.m., but never at 1:15 p.m. — when I would text you.
Even with the sweet nothings I whispered to you on Friday nights out, or the less-than-productive study dates I would initiate, I felt like I wasn't being let into your life. It occurred to me one night as I sat around feeling crappy because we decided not to talk anymore, that I am awesome. I deserve to be loved. I love myself. I didn't need you to reaffirm my state of mind.
You made every single Taylor Swift song become the most relatable thing ever, and eventually my anthems.
You taught me that even intelligent people can be psychotic. You danced around the idea of dating me, ditched me, but then would text me out of the blue telling me you loved me. You'd call me pet names and then you'd call me mean names. You'd be honest, or so I thought. And then you'd lie. You lie like a penny in the parking lot at the grocery store—I can thank the Band Perry for the one.
I cried into my best friend's lap when I found out you went home with someone.
I loved you. I do not deny that. But I slowly learned that you didn't really love me. You liked the idea of me. The idea of chasing me around. But you never thought twice when it came to your actions. You didn't love me. Because you don't do those things to the person you love.
You really made me question ever falling for a guy in college again. When I met the person I love, I hesitated to date him.
But because of you, I appreciate every little thing the person I am with does now. If I hadn't been with you, I wouldn't appreciate someone wanting to see me every day and texting me back within the hour. You make me appreciate the fact that someone knows exactly what they want; there isn't some hot-and-cold, bipolar, do-I-want-her-or-not thought process. He wants to hear about my problems, he wants to get breakfast with me, and he wants to be there to celebrate my successes. I don't ever worry about him going to the bars with his boys. He doesn't make me cry — unless we are watching "Modern Family" together.
You make me appreciate someone apologizing and admitting they were wrong.
You make me appreciate myself.
Thank you for letting me go,
My self-loving, beautiful, worthy self
