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As I am sure, without pointing the appropriate fingers, you know about me and mine. Here is the background to the letter. There is a SHITLOAD (may in fact be a technical term for this) to petition for your beloved to move down here to the States. I know. I have been slacking on this because, frankly, I am the kind of girl who would rather pretend all will work out itself than actually MAKE AN EFFORT. Now my slackness has come back to bite me in the arse. It has caused my beloved to wonder how I can ever function at all. Before we all do that whole Barbe-blaming thing, remember this: this man is so amazingly patient, I just feel I should shake him up.
I am an ass.
Here we go:
I am sure you will file this under the "why the dramatics?" file, so I suck in a deep breath and brace myself for it again.
Plain truth, I love you. But you already know that. Or at least I hope you do.
I can attempt again and again to make excuses for myself--most of which you have already heard--but I know that they cannot make up for the actions I have not taken. I think in your heart of hearts you have already opted for the reasons why I am not as vigilant and taskworthy as you are about the things that mean so much to us, and again, I can only say you are wrong. But I am not you and I can only stew and boil about what you must feel.
I remarked to Mum that while you were (are) an amazing man, once angered, you would be incredibly hard to cool down. That you would be as blind as I am to hurt and slight that it wouldn't matter whom or how you hurt. And I was right. Because, for the love of Christ, I recognise it so well.
I suppose I'm doing what I feared, one of those little things always playing at the back of my head. I am putting everything off to the last minute, thinking you might change your mind, thinking that I cannot make the effort if all it will do is leave me in a bad spot. I know it won't, and maybe it just makes me that more afraid. No one HAS ever loved me in this way, and I keep telling you that I don't know how to deal with it, but I try in my own pathetic way.
You make me happy, but more importantly, you make me content. I have never known that until now.
If you're gonna be mad at me, then you're gonna be mad at me. I can't change that any more than I can change the colour of the leaves on the trees or the sound of semis going by the house.
If you want me to send back the money you sent, I will. If you want me to send back the ring, I'll do if you want, too.
Oh god, I want to make you happy. I want to make you so happy. It's all I want.
But if I can't....then I understand. |
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