Dear Hannah• Part 1

Eight years. And we made a mess of them all. Even the ones we weren’t together. But I guess we were never really together. Not technically. I loved you. And I’m pretty sure you loved me. But we weren’t together. We were never in the same place. Always coming from a different direction. Looking for the same things at different times.

You know the saying, what starts in chaos ends in chaos? Well if we didn’t start in chaos then I don’t know what chaos is. And if chaos didn’t haunt us the whole way through then I don’t know what else to call it.

Eight months. I’d say that for eight months, the first eight months, we could have been something. Looking back I’d say I was the other girl, the third wheel. I wouldn’t say we were a triangle. More like a V. With a dotted line connecting the top two points. You were the bottom point that connected us and he was like a best friend to me. But in the end you had to choose. You once told me you chose wrong but who knows, maybe none of us were meant to be with each other. He was the one you took home to your parents. I was the one who kissed you behind closed bedroom doors, up against kitchen walls. Never in front of anyone who didn’t understand, didn’t know us.

And I think I understand why you chose him. It’s easier to be in a normal relationship. A societal relationship. One you don’t have to explain. One you don’t have to define to a third party who judges without really knowing. And I don’t blame you for wanting normal. Some days I wish for normal. But then sanity kicks in and reminds me that I’d hate normal. That I’m not normal. But what is normal? And why am I not? Because society says I’m not? Or because I accept that I’m not, because they consider me so? Is it a bad thing that I’ve adjusted to, accepted being, and even enjoy being, not normal?

Do you think there’s a difference between feeling shame for who you are and accepting that people think you’re not normal? Acceptance. I don’t much like that word. And tolerance. That word just sets me on edge. But they’ve become a normal part of my description, my vocabulary. Shame is feeling you’re not good enough. Acceptance is settling into the constraints of consideration. Neither appeal but in reality it seems I have to choose one or the other.

Tolerance. That word really gives me the shits. Such a strong aversion and I don’t really have a communicable reason. Other than it’s worse than acceptance. Tolerance makes me feel like I’m standing next to someone. And I know they hate me for the very essence of who I am. And I can feel that hate radiating off them. But they don’t say anything. They don’t do anything. They just tolerate my existence until they’re given half a reason to lash out, and tell me just how much they hate who I am. It’s a silent stewing. A quiet build up until it can’t tolerate anymore and bursts.

Do you think we would’ve been strong enough to make anything of us? Do you think we could’ve lived out loud? Would we have tolerated tolerance or settled for acceptance? Would we have fought for something more, something different? Something we were proud of? I’d like to think we would have. But I know we were never really together. We weren’t meant to be. And all we’ve done instead is make a mess that we’re only just now starting to climb out of. Eight years later.

2 thoughts on “Dear Hannah• Part 1

Add yours

  1. Something today made me search for you.

    I finally got to read something you wrote. It was beautiful and painful.

    Don’t ever doubt that I loved you. I did.

    I will never forget any part of what we had.

    PS. Pew Pew


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