Letter #90 in Book 1

With a bullet

I wish you were here, 

It's been a minute since we've been in the same place at the same time but I fully blame your jet-set lifestyle. I take comfort in the fact that you'll read these words in some exotic location like on a mountain with your feet wading in a bubbling hot spring or on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. Wherever you are, I hope you're well. 

So something I've been trying to ignore because it's easier for me this way. Avoidance is often the best medicine. Just bury it deep down into the pit of Irish Catholic guilt that is my birthright. It used to work so well but the older I get the worse it fucking feels. It's like constant heartburn. So, lucky you, you get to hear about it. 

Have I mentioned L.A. Girl in any of my past letters? See? I'm doing it again. This question is disingenuous, I know I haven't. In the 15 years I've known her, I haven't once mentioned her to you in any real way. I can't even bring myself to say her fucking name. Just a not-so-clever nickname. So why now, you may be wondering. Because a couple weeks ago I asked her to stop contacting me and blocked her on nearly all modes of communication. And I feel a certain way about it. I suppose the majority of our relationship was defined by distance, absence, and unavailability. And through those things we pushed to try to make something work. It inevitably turned into a cycle of palpable excitement, lust, plateau, and inevitable meltdown.

We stay in touch for months at a time and then lose touch for months, sometimes years always to reconnect at some point down the line. And it wasn't like there was a question as to whether we'd connect again, it always just felt like we would. It was a matter of fact. And the cycle would repeat. Then I ended up in a long-term relationship and for some reason she got married. We'd email briefly. I'd often ignore hers. She'd never ignore mine. But otherwise, it was crickets for years until my relationship ended and I reached out to her in February of '23 or '22, I don't remember now.

It had been years since we last spoke. She was still married and unhappy. I could tell by her voice. I never really understood what she saw him as far as a partner went. When I met her she was a fucking artist into movies and music and the Kings, into living life on the wind and travelling. I mean, she travelled how many thousands of miles and showed up on my doorstep unannounced...but I came to find that all those fires were snuffed out. It made me angry. Maybe she made decisions to make the marriage work but I blamed him. Fuck that guy. And I think that either upset or hurt her because it was always a tension between us going forward. I had no patience for what I thought was her coddling his dumb feelings when she wanted out. But maybe that's what she needed. At the same time though, where do I get off even having a fucking opinion? It wasn't like I was standing there saying "hey come be with me." I was always one foot in, one out. I wanted her in my life, I wanted to hear her voice, I wanted to fuck her, and I wanted her love. But I could never give her mine. And it drove her fucking crazy. 

Every time I would come back to her I would hope she was single but I would also hope that I would change. That'd I be able to give her what she was asking for. But I was never sure if I could. And I know what you're thinking: why did I keep coming back? Because I liked how I felt around her before everything would turn to shit. The way she'd build me up, she always knew the exact thing to say to make me feel like I could do anything; as if she could peer into my soul and take my insecurities and erase them. The way my written words danced off her tongue as she read them, as if they were written for her regardless of subject matter. She was often hurt that I never wrote specifically about her. She would get jealous about the other women I'd write about but never seemed to notice that I was often writing because of her. And I get the difference but...I don't know, I feel like that mattered. Our conversations could last hours and days, interspersed with intense lovemaking...the way she's look up at me as she went down on me, full of love, lust, want, and devotion. I remember the first 15 years ago as well as I do the last. 

And yet...

I would never devote myself to her. 

I couldn't. It always felt like she needed me in a very specific box or a specific way. Like I could love her the wrong way. It felt like she had thought a lot about how our relationship should be and not how it was. It felt like she would get angry at me for acting like how I am. And maybe the way I was acting was dismissive. I always thought it was the distance that made things difficult. I could never really tell what was real and what was fantasy. And there's a side of her that...I don't know, I could never fully seem to trust. It was dangerous and it scared me. No, not in a sexy, intriguing way but in a way that felt unsafe. Sometimes I didn't know who I was going to get. The calm, considerate, inquisitive woman I had always known or the other side of her that she was never really willing to share, even though she may have wanted to. I know she wanted me to consider this side of her, the side that was riddled with anxiety, insecurity, depression, and ideation but it was never clear what I should be considering. I never knew what things mattered and when. Certain things would upset her while other times they didn't. And she could remember things from years ago that I said or did because she always kept the receipts. And I could never keep up. It drove me fucking crazy.

But even still, this is a cop out. It's probably truer that I just didn't want to make room for her crazy. Historically speaking, I'm the center of attention. I'm the one with the bleeding wounds that never heal. I'm the one that gets the consideration cuz of the shit I've been through. I'm the one that is forever 17. And I know it's selfish and wrong and weak but I don't know how to overcome that. It's one of my biggest flaws and really leaves no room for another person. Not really. 

I guess this brings me to the last time we spoke in early February. We were catching up after a few months and it was nice - warm and familiar. And of course she gave me everything I needed. Everything. She offered it - fast and heavy, I even said so. But still, I took it. Because it felt good, because she felt good. And then...she asked a question she already had an answer for. She knew and asked anyway and my answer fed into every insecurity and doubt and harmful thing she already thinks about herself. And we spiraled into chaos like we always do. Recriminations, accusations, assumptions, indifference and confusion. I felt like shit. She felt shit. And it wasn't even 24 hours. 

I was so angry and mad and...and...and...I couldn't do it anymore. I wanted off the merry-go-round. I was angry about what she did. Things were so good and she just had to fucking ask, like she does. Why. Why. Fucking why. But, see? At the same time, she's hurt by something...I dunno what but something. I don't bother to understand because I think it's dumb. Rinse. Repeat. On and on we go. How is this good? It never changes. I feel like I've done something wrong but I don't know what. We aren't in each others spaces, we consistently just try to feel around the edges and she's clearly just better at it. 

Honestly, I don't know how to end this. It just is. I said goodbye. I don't know if it's right. Sometimes it feels like it, other days I'm riddled with guilt. Who the fuck knows?

I hope you're well, friend. And I look forward to hearing from you.

- Downsyde