Confessions: Now this’d be an ugly Death

Eternally sorry for the pain I’ve caused, I want nothing more than for you to be secure in a happy and fulfilling life.

No more hiding, I present the hard (to deliver) truth:

You may have noticed a tone change in my letters. Pages 1-4 (the first letter I sent) were, if I remember correctly, an admission of defeat: that it was I who lost myself, us, and you. I wanted, and still want, to assure you that you aren’t to blame, that you were so patient with me, that you put in such an inspiring amount of effort to try to fix me. It was one week after this that I began my suicide. 

The next letter I wrote, Pages 5+6, attempted to reflect my (current) absolute commitment to you. I deployed memes and TikToks to remind both of us of happy moments we shared. I was unaware of how manipulative this seemed, as you could only logically assume I was still seeking other people. With every fiber of my being I don’t want to ever hurt you, and I’m helplessly sorry for playing both sides of the fence. As I’ll explain later, I was cynically trying to use another person to not think about you, which is absolutely horrible to do you and this hypothetical person. The truth is, and I pray you accept it after seeing this massive confession, that I had already deleted my dating profiles weeks before this letter was sent (though not before the first) and resolved myself to celibacy. 

Immediately after you cut off contact I tried drugs. Then I planned a suicide. Then I tried putting myself in life-threatening situations. I sought to be abused, to be mistreated, to be degraded. As bad as I made you feel, I needed to feel worse. One night, I acted on that and found someone who was willing to do all kinds of unspeakable, mean things to me. After 5 minutes of putting myself in that situation, I left. I cried in the car for 10 minutes, my arms trembling, my body shivering, my hands unable to start the car, and my feet unable to press the pedal. I drove around for 30 minutes, not knowing what to do. I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to make my grave and retire my pathetic existence. I drove to the top of Grandads Bluff. As the lights of the city shown below, I cried again. I cried thinking about when you and I were there. I cried thinking about how we may never go there again. I wept thinking about how we may never go anywhere again. Throwing myself off the ledge seemed so easy, so simple, and above all so preferable to a life without you.

 It was the first time I had done something so drastic, something that I was drawn to after literal years of feeling self-hatred and inadequacy. And I knew very quickly after starting that I made a huge mistake, that I was doing something not for genuine human connection, not for sexual release, not even for temporary happiness! I was doing it to fulfill my self-perceived role as a pathetic loser, to commit myself to what would’ve been a (drawn-out) suicide. 

When I did make it home, I booked an appointment with a medication manager on SpringHealth for the next day. Like my first meeting with a therapist, my words were inflected by tears and belabored vocal cracks. My situation was so desperate, the doctor tried to put me in PHP— some form of institutionalization. I didn’t tell them about what happened to me the night before, but I also didn’t hide my suicidal ideation. Looking back, it still surprises me: I’m so mentally ill that I should be hospitalized. Losing you broke me completely, shattering my mental which was already basically held together with duct tape. I’m hoping with all my heart you may put yourself together faster than me. I didn’t pursue hospitalization, though if I had the money/insurance maybe I should’ve, instead I settled for medication. 

Then, I became so terrified by my encounter, so terrified that I had made an irreversible decision, that I booked an appointment with an online doctor to seek HIV preventative medicine. After discussing the events, being told there was a near-zero chance of infection, I felt a defibrillator. The overwhelming self-loathing cracked, and an urge to work on myself, to be kind to myself so that I may improve, shined through. For what felt like it could’ve been the first time, I saw the possibility for my own improvement. I still went ahead and tried to acquire the medicine.

And then I did something I still don’t fully understand.

They asked me where to send the bill or something, and I gave them your address. I don’t know why I did it… Certainly, it would be easier for me to lie or hide the situation, but I think on some level I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know I was unwell, I wanted you to know I was going to die. And I wanted to know if you would still care. If you did care, it would have been devastating, and I’m truly sorry for making you feel that by reading that letter. And as you assumed I was cheating on you, I’m most sorry for making you think you too might be at risk.

Since my attempt, I deleted my dating profiles to focus on myself. Anything I would’ve started would be cruel; it would require playing with someone else’s feelings and using another human to “get over” you (impossible!!).  I can’t commit to another soul. This rose cannot find a new stem. I also exercise every single day, take all my medications, talk with my therapist, cry for you, and think about you constantly. I write letters you don’t see. I write poems you don’t read. I save memes I can’t send you. I print pictures you won’t receive. I collect flowers I can’t give you. I want to work on being the strong, confident, handsome man you deserve. I want to make you 12 times happier than I made you sad. More than I want to smoke weed, more than I want to die. Before I can work on anything with you, I need to work on myself. I need to be confident in my appearance, my stamina, and above all, safe inside my own head. This is the defining moment of my life, the defining relationship of my life. You showed me beauty of this world and the next one, and inshAllah I may pay you back someday. In this, there is no one else I would rather be indebted to.