Here is a list of reasons we should have quit each other long before we did:
Because, while driving in the car with you, I looked at bridges and wondered how big of a splash I would make if I hit the water below them. Because you told me I was gross when I spit on the page that said “stain this.” Because you never questioned what I was thinking about when I went silent for hours in the thrift store. Because I didn’t think you’d care that I was wishing it was big enough for me to get permanently lost in.
Because it had been so long since I was happy for a long period of time that I truly believed I was born to be sad. Because I made a list of things that made me sad and all of them were things you told me about myself. Because my breaking point was making a list of reasons I should leave and reasons I should stay, even though I already knew which side would be longer. Because I wrote, in clear sober letters, that I didn’t think kisses could get me by anymore.
Because you would have left for breakfast without me if I had done what I wanted and taken a picture of the flowers blooming on your tree first, even though we did not have a reservation and were not meeting anybody. Because you got mad at me for sulking over that, even though it still hurts. Because you made a face when I asked if I could come on your trip, then changed your mind and said yes, but never once included me in the plans, even though you made them in front of me. Because I poured everything I had into writing you a letter when you were sad and I can’t remember if you even thanked me for it. Because, when you broke up with me, you brought up me not getting you a birthday gift the year before, saying that my plan to take you on a trip had not failed, I had just forgotten the date. (But I hadn’t.)
Because whenever I get depressed, I hear your voice in my head listing all of the things about me that will never be good enough. Because you roared at me (that is the only way I can describe it, your teeth were bared and I swear your eyes grew hot and red right then) and I cannot shake the image of me afterwards, stumbling away, blinded by tears, and feeling so incredibly lonely that my bones still shake just thinking about it.
Because, by the end, I felt like I should hate myself to have something in common with you. Because I have to resist pounding my pillow and screaming that you were supposed to be one of the good ones. Because I accepted you telling me that I always victimize myself and began to hate the tears in my eyes and the stupid way I’d sit in the corner, picking at scabs and trying so hard to win you back each time we fought. Because I stabbed a painting of mine in a fit of self-hate and because it had been a gift for you, you got mad and took it as a sign that I did not love you, instead of asking me what was wrong. Because when I desperately asked you to please just hide the bottle of pills in the bathroom from me, I acted like I was asking a stranger for a favor, not like I was confessing that I could not stop thinking about walking the thirty steps to the bathroom, turning on the shower, and letting steam fill the room until somebody realized I had collapsed on the floor long ago.