To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, January 12—11:12 PM
Subject: officially a loser
Dear Connor,
Calm down. I’m not mad at you. Just because I’m not waiting by my computer every second of the day doesn’t mean I’m mad at you. I have a life, you know. I just happened to be busy being Trevor’s whore and getting disowned by my parents and practically committed to a mental institution. L-O-fucking-L. Not funny. But I have to pretend it’s funny or else . . . I don’t know what else. Pain. Torture. Dismemberment. Definitely heartbreak. Humiliation. Doing the same thing over and over and hoping it’ll feel different this time, but it never does.
Even though I’m supposed to be “grounded” indefinitely, I let Trevor talk me into basically running away from home. I left a note and everything and said I’ll be okay and not to worry, and then I turned my phone off and attempted to switch off my guilt, too. And then I commenced to spend the next four days sleeping on Trevor’s friend’s couch in Ballard. Yeah, I know, really great use of teenage rebellion. But really, what else did I have to do? Hang out at home and get ignored by my parents? Hang out at school and feel like an alien? At least Trevor sort of pays attention to me, and by “pays attention” I mean “wants to put his penis inside me when we happen to be in the same city.” God, I’m pathetic. I call girls pathetic who let themselves get used like this. I’m supposed to think I deserve better, right? I’m supposed to demand what I want? I’m supposed to be a feminist, right? Yes and yes and yes, but I just can’t help myself. Feminist FAIL. I want him to want me. I need him to want me. Blah, blah, BARF.
The sex was good, if you need to know. That was never the problem. Even though it wasn’t the most romantic of situations, at least in those brief moments I was able to get some sort of positive answer for why I was subjecting myself to this torture. But the more I think about it, the less it all seems worth it. Even if those few minutes were mind-blowing, they still occurred on some dude’s couch with a guy who has never once asked me how I’m feeling. There were no candles or music or lingering kisses, no cuddling or hand-holding or even really that much conversation. There was just “Oh, James is going to the store for cigarettes, let’s fuck,” or “James is taking the dog for a walk, take off your pants.”
So what do I do as I realize more and more that he doesn’t give a shit about me? I ask him if I can come visit him in Portland. Because that’s the kind of thing a girl with self-esteem does. She says, “Why don’t I skip school and possibly fuck up my chances to get into a good college so I can run away from home (again) to spend a weekend with a guy who hates my guts?” Trevor practically LAUGHED when I suggested it, but I couldn’t leave it. I practically started begging, coming up with all kinds of reasons why it was a good idea, like I could tell my parents I’m doing a college visit at Reed and staying in the dorms for the weekend. Then he said, “You want to go to Reed?” like he was terrified, like he never thought such a horrible thing was possible. Then all this bullshit started coming out of his evil little pores, like “Oh, sorry, I’m really busy,” and “My roommates don’t like having visitors,” and “It’s not really a good time,” and “Are you sure you really want to go to college in Portland?” and “Do you realize how many kids kill themselves at Reed?” and “Wouldn’t you rather go to school somewhere farther away, like ANTARCTICA?” and “Do you actually think I want to have a relationship with you, you STUPID, CRAZY GIRL?” Okay, so the last couple he didn’t say. He didn’t have to.
At first, I thought it was just about him being embarrassed by how young I am. But then I remembered something weird that happened the last time he was in town. We were out at a bar, and all of a sudden he got really weird and said he wanted to leave, and then this guy came up with his girlfriend and they exchanged greetings all pseudopolite but I could tell they sort of hated each other. And Trevor doesn’t even introduce me, and the guy goes, “How’s Rachel?” and it’s obvious he’s asking Trevor, but he’s looking straight at me, like he’s trying to tell me something too. Trevor says, “Fine,” and the guy goes, “Who’s this?” and Trevor goes, “Let’s go,” and he starts pulling me toward the door, and as we’re leaving I can hear the guy yelling, “Tell Rachel we say hi!”
Of course I asked him about it as soon as we were out the door, and of course he wouldn’t tell me anything. All he said was that he used to date a girl named Rachel and the guy was her ex-boyfriend. But I didn’t believe him. I tried to pretend I believed him then, but that’s when I still had the energy to pretend all sorts of things. I can’t do it anymore. I really can’t. I think I may finally be thinking clearly. I think I may finally end it with Trevor.
Shit.
My chest feels like it’s being torn open. Little dagger feet are stomping around in my heart. Giant claws are reaching in and crushing my rib cage, tearing everything apart until they can get to my lungs, grabbing and squeezing until all the air is gone, until I’m just a bloody, flat, dead thing.
In other news, my parents are finally making me see a shrink. I go on Monday. Are you happy now?
Isabel