Life as an Extreme Sport

Can’t Be Friends

Mars, dear Mars,

I told the truth the other night, when I said that talking to you was not as bad as I thought it would be. Not nearly as unpleasent, and tho it hurt, it was bearable. I’m glad to hear your life is going how you have always dreamed it would; I’m sad that those dreams never included me.

In some respects it was comical to talk with you. So many things you said you would never do or be that you are embracing firmly; so many things I told you that you discounted, that you now treat as truth.

I found myself only fleetingly drawn to you. You’ve changed so much, stylistically, and it just wasn’t appealing. Only occasionally did I feel a familiar twinge, as you tilted your head or smiled sadly.

It was bearable. The aftermath was not. I’ve spent the last few days back in a hell of twisted thought and emotion. I’ve struggled with fear, doubt, regret, and mourned. I’ve realized things about you, about myself. I’ve realized that I don’t believe you ever loved me – certainly, you cared. But loved? I don’t know, not anymore. I’ve realized that I still passionately love the person I got to know over successive nights on a greyhound bus four years ago. And I’ve realized that, altho traces of that person still come out when talking to you, you’ve killed him.

You want to be friends. You pleaded for that, again. You want to meet up occasionally over coffee, trade stories, and glow with the knowledge that you did the right thing. I can’t give that to you. I can’t tell you that you did the right thing, I can’t regale you with cheery stories of my life that reassure you that I’m over you, and lift the burdon of the pain you caused me from your shoulders. I am not over you, I will never be over you. I will always love the person I met those dark nights so long ago, and I will always hurt from the pain you caused me.

You cannot toss me aside, no longer love me, and still expect to be friends. You can’t always have what you want – you had to make a choice, me or other, and you chose other. You could have chosen to rebuild things with me, to have me in your life. We could have worked on things, and figured out how to make it all blend, mesh, work. You chose to destroy that, and in doing so you destroyed any bridges we could build between ourselves.

Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I’m trying to hurt you, and deny you something you want. But I cannot be your friend.