(Read Part I here, and Part II here.)

After the incident, you had posted on my Facebook wall, slandering my name and reminding me that I was a selfish person who thought the world revolved around me. I didn’t even try to defend myself, but I didn’t have to — my friends came to my rescue, reassuring me of my goodness and kindness, insisting you were lying. They didn’t even know who you were — that didn’t matter to them. It only mattered that someone was insulting me and hurting me and they were not going to let that happen.

I realized something then, something that both empowered me and scared me. I had escaped your direct control, but you were still able to affect my life through your own sphere of control — you could spread lies to those who cared about me, you could cut me off from my friends at my old campus, you could do everything possible to tarnish the image of who people thought I was and instead feed them rotten ideas about who you wanted them to believe I was. You couldn’t control me anymore, but you could still control who my friends saw me as.

Luckily, that didn’t work. Your memory is still something that hovers around me and I’m worried people think differently of me because of what you said, but I know that my friends are better than that. I have worked hard to find myself a new life, a healthier life, a safe life, a life full of people who love me for my passion, my empathy, my enthusiasm, my faults, my failures, and all the quirks that make up who I am.

You messaged me, a few weeks ago, for the first time in months. You sent me a short message and an article detailing how I let my mental illness turn me into a monster. I don’t remember much of your message — I had deleted it after quickly, anxiously, skimming it — but I do remember the last line. You had said you still cared about me, that you still loved me and wanted to help me.

The thought of you still in my life haunted me the rest of the day, and distracted me from my first day of classes, my dance audition, and even when I was hanging out with my friends that night. I couldn’t enjoy myself, I couldn’t live my life, and that’s when I knew that you were lying.

You didn’t care about me. Maybe you had at one point, but you didn’t anymore. How could you claim to still love me if you had said what you said about me, attempted to turn my friends against me, and told me I didn’t deserve to have people who cared about me?

That night, I did everything I could to block you, to do all the things I should’ve done months ago. I blocked you on social media, officially took your number from my phone, deleted pictures of you — all these things that I should’ve done but was too scared to in case I realized I was wrong, in case we somehow made amends, in case you apologized.

I know there’s nothing left for us now. I know we could never be together again without you burying me alive with guilt, without you dragging me down with you and away from my loved ones, without both of us wasting our time. I’m out of your life, and you had better stay out of mine, because I’m not going back.

I am stronger now, coming out of this, than I was even before I met you on that campus tour. So, I guess, thanks for that? Thanks for giving me the strength to leave. You’ve made me lose friends, but you’ve also led me to truer friends I know I can trust. And thank you for giving me a story—a story I can share with the world to help those who are being hurt like you hurt me. Thank you for giving me the courage to leave your arms and find true comfort for myself.

And for everyone who hasn't been told this enough: you are strong, you are capable, and somewhere, there is always someone who loves you. Stay safe, stay proud.