I’m sorry for what I have done.
That is the first sentence I wrote in my journal, dating July 2014, after we decided to ‘take a break’ for the millionth time. Do you see how I continually blame myself? This, of course, was before I knew the truth about you.
We never dated, so that makes us a bit different from most narcissistic relationships. You called yourself a ‘friend’—that is, you contacted me because you loved my creativity, and so you wanted me to share my ideas with you. See, the notion of ‘starving artist’ does not limit itself to mere food, but rather, attention just as well. You gave it…I craved it…and you fed me full.
In the beginning, you could not get enough of me—our emails, sometimes up to a dozen times per day—and LONG, mind you—not to mention our six to eight hour Skype convos. You wanted to know everything about me. I was witty, wonderful and I could do no wrong.
Then, after enough time, you claimed you were feeling ‘unemotive’. That’s your word. I stopped hearing from you. I came to learn you lied about your real name for the first two years I knew you. This was strange, but always, I assumed the best of you.
We bonded through our love of literature. You admired my work and wanted to read everything I had ever written. Yet little did I know that you were studying me, poring over my words and mirroring everything I believed to be true.
Then, you stopped reading altogether. Four years went by and still you refused to engage, claiming you were ‘too depressed.’ You accused me of ‘not understanding’ your dilemma, which you refused to disclose or explain. When I asked why, you claimed I was ‘untrustworthy’. Yet you were the one lying.
Dearest shithead, one can only be understanding to a point. Four years and you can’t even read one of my manuscripts, despite my begging you? You know how I value your opinion. Please, just do this for me. You were the one who claimed to love my work in the first place. But still you refused. You only engage in what is convenient for you.
Imagine Mozart, after having completed one of his many great operas, and him sharing it with you. I imagine you’d regard Don Giovanni as an accomplishment akin to winning a game at checkers. This is your way of downplaying accomplishments. You can’t stand it when the attention is not on you.
I told you that I felt romantic feelings for you (when in retrospect it was really your validation I craved, but never mind that) and yet for seven years you neglected to inform me that you were homosexual, with your Twitter pics full of cocks and balls and men’s hairy asses. And that I had to find out second hand, via your Twitter, after seven years of supposed ‘friendship’, left me gutted. I felt helpless and hollow.
Then, upon my asking why you never just told me you were gay when you had no problem telling the world, despite the fact that you knew how I felt for so long, your response was, ‘I am not going to tell you for your convenience’.
So…honesty is a convenience, according to you. Our friendship was never real—as one cannot build a friendship out of lies and deceit. Remember I once had to define the words friendship and trust for you? Pathetic.
Ultimately, you knew that I’d no longer pine for you, were I to know the truth. Always so secretive! My clarity never mattered to you. Immature. Delusional. Those are some of the nicer words you called me. But never was the problem with you. You claimed you were ‘a prize to be won.’
You are a total poseur. Those with an intellectual vigor, who claim to care about art and literature, don’t spend hours Tweeting about the latest Hollywood gossip. Not to mention I saw those pics of you reading all those celeb trash bios. Yet I thought you were ‘too depressed’ to read?
I didn’t know what a narcissist was until I met you. I thought it was just a Kardashian who posed with duck lips and was a bit more self-centered than most. (You would know what a Kardashian is, as you Tweet about them enough.) I didn’t realize the way narcissists, in their inability to empathize, could colonize. That’s right, colonize—and you colonized me completely. My fault is that I let it happen. I did let it happen. So in ending, I must return to my earlier words—the ones I used to begin this letter—the ones I wrote in my journal of July 2014.
I’m sorry for what I have done.
Not sorry to you, mind you. But sorry to me. Those words are for me. I am sorry I let you conquer me so completely. I am sorry I let myself be lost in you. I have since learned I am everything without you and I am nothing with you.
I prefer to be everything. You are nothing. Well…a turd perhaps. Eat shit, you manipulative, lying, pathetic pustule of a man.
Haha. I win. But the prize sure as fuck isn’t you.