Dear John Break- Up Letter: To the One Who Could Have Made Me Better <3

Dear John,

The truth is its really not you, its me. Well it’s not really me – it’s more like us. Have I literally cheated? No. But I do a little every day in every little way. I lied to you when I gave you the impression that it was just the two of us in this relationships – it’s not!

I must confess that my girlfriends are in this relationship too! I love you. I love you until we have a girls’ night out and they attempt to pawn me off to the businessman celebrating happy hour in an Armani suit and Gucci loafers. I love you, until they begin to water the seeds of doubt about how I should be with someone whose taller, shorter, better looking, less attractive, with a more similar background, with more prospects, whose less in the spotlight, more ambitious, someone with straighter teeth, a smaller nose, a stronger chin, not so sweet, someone less rough around the edges – let me catch my breath. (Inhale. Exhale). Someone whose more self-motivated, someone whose moving up the corporate ladder, an entrepreneur, a… The list goes on. Every different day it’s one thing or another. And you my love never seem to measure up. I do not know what the ever shifting yardstick is though, because you come out a head above their present or absent men, yet they are convinced that convincing me out of love with you is the best option. So – it’s not you, it’s us (me + my gfs).

And dear John, the truth is it’s not just you and I, and my girlfriends; but there is society as well. The way they gawk at us when we are out and about. The disapproving looks we get from various faced races as our skin tones are laid bare and exposed for comparison as we hold hands down the paved streets. Its history that haunts us saying once this was not allowed, and now it is barely permissible. It’s the present as it exists full of people who are contradictions onto themselves. It’s society that screams to me that something isn’t right. Our compatibility isn’t evident, and so they say we must separate.

And dear John, the truth is my dearest it’s not you, but the media. The media that tells me someone who’s a 10 should not be with a mere 6.5. And so I attempt to do the math. Adding and averaging but there simply aren’t enough numbers, and so the probability of our success is skewed on a left-tail test. Some days you take the top score, and other times the scale tips my way. It depends on our Fall wardrobes and our fitness regiment, our regular spa treatments and the size of our 401Ks. It’s the trending topic on Twitter that tells me the next “it couple” has already split. And then my sense of security shatters for they are prettier, richer, and afforded more opportunities, how dare I believe I deserve to keep my man when she can’t keep hers, after all I can barely afford to walk a mile in her Manolos.*

And then it’s my parents, and the rest of my family. Their mixed messages of wait, pause, stop, reboot, play. Everyone wants of me something different. The clarity to make conscious decisions. The freedom to further my career. The maneuverability to make the best of my youth. They think someone younger would be better for me. Someone more mature. Someone with a broader background. Someone less secure. Someone who doesn’t need to tan to attain our complexion. Someone who has already vacationed where we are. Someone with a less controversial family. Someone pre-approved by them. Someone they can take credit for.

So my darling sweet John, it’s not you – it’s us. The girlfriends, the society, the media, la familia, and my own self doubt that lets them occupy a space in my head rent free. That’s really what it is. My self doubt. I doubt what good you can see in myself when I can stoop so low to have thoughts such as these. And after they’ve ripped you apart with their words and punctuations, I pause hand poised above the paper, wondering what to write to you. Wondering what credible reason I can give that is multi-explanatory. Something that will let both of us live with these decisions in a sensible fashion. I wonder where you will wander to next. Beneath my girlfriends’ criticism and constant critique I see signs of attraction, and I hope and pray that you will never succumb to their passion. For then I shall lose not only you my love, but those I sacrificed you for because I was too weak to want what I want and not allow anyone to water down my once concentrated commitment to it. To you.

Society speaks and I am pressured to listen.

Because I believe in Chanel quilted bags and Gucci glasses,
Louboutin pumps and yoga classes,
Smoothies for breakfast, crackers for brunch,
And Evian and cocktail olives for dinner and lunch.

And there’s nothing wrong with these being a few of my favourite things, but somewhere in between, I started to buy into what they really mean. An expensive uniform that inducts one into conformity, and somewhere along the line I lost my uniqueness. My strong mind whittled away by the who’s who and what’s acceptable in the upper tiers. And here I am up here, face awash with tears. For I must give you up, because you don’t quite make the cut. New money, smells funny – they don’t respect ambition. They search for that distinction that comes from a hierarchy, a family tree that you do not have my love, and now that I’ve fallen I must get up. Now that I have you, I must give you up.

Dear John. It’s not you, but all that you are on paper and in print, and all that I’m not in spirit and in strength. My French and Italian paintings will be the only ones to see me cry, as I walk barefoot and downtrodden along the marble floors onto plush Persian rugs in my Penthouse apartment. And every little thing will remind me of what we were, and what we both are not. You are not qualified, and I’m in the deepest sense shallow. After you read this letter I’ll be all alone. For when you read the truths between the lines you’ll realize what I’ve become, and you won’t love me anymore, but I’ll love you always. They’ll say I finally grew up and let the loser go, but I know I’m the one who’s losing out on you. And this regret will make me bitter, and while I’ll call myself a “go getter,” I’ll just be a digger. Digging for someone better by mine and media and society and sorority and family standards. But his better will be worse, for like me he’ll be put together. And the paparazzi will love it, and so will the public, but at home we’ll both loathe it for our expensive mirrors have reflections – and those we’ll abhor. We look stunning together, yet in spirit we are both dirt poor. And I’ll regret this decision, but as far as my brand goes – it’ll be adored.

And so my dearest, we must break up. And the truth is, it’s really not you – it is in fact me. I’m sorry!

Love, Barbie.

Picture Source: http://www.stain-removal-101.com/how-to-remove-lipstick-stains-from-clothes.html

*Meet the Parents*

I was nervous when I brought him home!

I had never brought anyone home to meet the parents before! Never mind the friends, family, co-workers, crushes, exes, and strangers all in one go. Yet here I was, exposing my true love to everyone – all at once.

I wondered what people would say when they truly got a look at him! Would they think him brave, stuck up, too opinionated? Would they think he was too young? I feared they might call him uppity, simplistic, jobless, inconsistent and worst of all – untalented!

Yet I was tired. Tired of keeping him locked up in my bedroom. Tired of being the only one who was allowed to interact with him. Tired of exploring the depths of his mind, thoughts, and intentions through the tattered and torn pages of journal entries. I don’t want my covert operation to be under wraps anymore, I’m ready for the expose’.

I don’t know when I fell in love with him. He started as a figment of my imagination, and the reality of him just escalated as my obsession grew. I find traces of him in blue and black and purple ink.

I had used him many times, truth be told. Trusted him countless others. He was the one I told tales that consisted of my real truths and he’d never let me down, yet here I was about to share him with the world with mixed signals regarding his consent.

But it had been decided. I was ready to put the thoughts in my head to bed – piece by piece. So I found him a cover – www.piecesofme89.wordpress.com – and rolled out the red carpet.

It was time to move my love out – from the recesses of my mind into the arena where the critics and commentators might reach him. Open to the eyes and ideas of all. Friend and foe. Yet I was ready. For as my fingers stroked the keyboard, thoughts of him flowed through me, and each and every day from HP Pavillions, to borrowed Mac books, to computer lab keyboards, to black berry notes he was oozing out bit by bit. I could not supress him if I dared, and as my opinions got stronger, so his hold of me tightened.. For he was I, and I am him – inseperable!

He is my thoughts, my feelings, the very expression of myself. “Once Upon A Blogspot” is his alias, but his true name might as be the same query as my name – “what have you brought to the world?”

He brings inconsistencies, the various faces of all my identities, the thoughts I have neither time nor inclination to speak out loud. He is the discussions I barely explore with others, the truths I tell myself and then forget, he is me without punctuation and I regard this his official presentation.

He may speak on issues, on crushes and cares, on fears and fortunes,on future amibtions. He may have subtle suggestions or strong convictions, yet each and everytime I respect his honesty. Bold enough to bring down the barriers of my mind and to keep typing when I long to backspace.

Who deserves to meet the parents? He does! He is my circle of trust, for he knows and interprets each and every truth. AND whether he is right or wrong, he still comes forth, and for that my deepest respect. Whether he is misunderstood or related to, supported or scorned, here’s my fiance y’all. 🙂

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce myself – inside out.