*How have I gone so long without knowing about the Fuck You letter? Warning, a gratuitous number of ‘fucks’ are contained within. But, blissfully, they are no longer contained in my brain.
Fuck you. Fuck you for not loving me. Fuck you for making me believe there was a good man under the oceans of booze and unrelenting depression. Fuck me for allowing you in my heart, for thinking and hoping the best in you.
Fuck you for rarely showing up to dinners with my friends or family and me having to make excuses for you because you ditched me at the last moment. Ditching me for the bar, or gambling, or a woman, whatever your choice was that day. Fuck me for not really hearing my loving friends ask, “What do you see in him?” when you were once again a no-show, until I was alone in the quiet of the night.
Fuck you and your limp dick for helping my already shitty self-esteem feel I was too fat, that I was not the type of woman you lusted for. You once said you were just with me because, “no one else would want us.” Fuck you for being hot for 90 pound heroin addicts. Fuck you for wanting to be with any woman who has a kid. Fuck you and your stupidity. Fuck me for drinking more when I was with you because of your ‘stimulating’ conversation. Perhaps it is the alcohol that dulls your spirit and intelligence. Fuck me for making excuses for you. Have another shot you dumb fuck.
Fuck me for Christmas shopping with you for your coworkers and family. Fuck me for tediously wrapping each one so they were perfect because I cared. Fuck you for sitting next to me, watching me with what I thought was light and love shining in your depth-less dark eyes, like I was special to you. Fuck you for whispering to me, “Marry me,” once I snuggled against you. Fuck you for always kissing me, telling me you loved me, and how I felt like home when you were next to me. Fuck me for attending your family’s Christmas and missing mine. Double fuck me since I found out your family only saw me as your ‘rebound’, a term that dismisses almost an entire year of my life loving you. I still remember standing on the drive of your mom’s country house, how she looked while telling me she saw how happy I was making you and she couldn’t remember the last time you looked so happy. Fuck me for liking your family and stupidly thinking they liked and respected me.
Fuck me for taking you back time after time, standing by you, always hoping for the best, perpetually worried about you no matter if we were broke up or not. I answered each of your texts, your sadness dripping from the garbled letters, threatening to end your life. Fuck me for thinking I could make a difference in your life if I just text the right thing.
Fuck you for lying. For cheating. And especially fuck you for showing me there never was a good guy under your self-imposed anguish. I may be fucking crazy but I was kind and honest with you. I took your feelings into consideration always no matter the storm raging in me. Fuck m
e for believing that if I was ever in the deepest dark you would be there for me the same as I had always been for you.
Fuck you and fuck the married woman you’re fucking. Hope you don’t lose your job – the one thing you seem to do right – over fucking your employee who cheats on her husband. Shame on you for contributing to the demise of a marriage that involves children. Your lack of morals proves you have nothing good inside you.
Fuck me for allowing your jealousy over my writing to quell doing so in your presence. I ended up sitting on the sofa drinking bottle after bottle with you, getting fatter, hating life, feeling sorry for myself, letting myself drown with you. I ignored my health for far too long just so I could snuggle against you at the end of a shitty day. No worries, I have successfully “peeled my ass off the couch” as you so eloquently put it when I broke up with you two months ago. I can fix “fat” but you can’t fix narcissism. I won’t allow myself to reach the lower levels of loser again.
And maybe now I can breathe. Maybe now I can let go of the anger that rages so close to the surface. It’s been almost two months and no amount of punching inanimate objects or hours on the treadmill has helped anything except my waistline. I know you never thought of me once except to text me in the middle of the night how you fuck up everything. I won’t be worrying about you anymore. I get to focus on my well-being again so when the next storm tears through my soul I’ll be back to my confidant badass self ready to withstand a new hurricane. You hurt me; you hurt me terribly, achingly, and I let you. You men have a way that shreds me in so many different ways I’m surprised I don’t walk around with ribbons of skin swishing from my hips like a skirt, a disturbing new commentary on fashion.
You hurt me, but didn’t break me.
So, fuck you very much.
P.S. Don’t ever fuck with a writer.
P.P.S. I was weighing the options of posting this FUCK YOU letter or burning it when “A Beautiful Lie” came on Pandora as I was finishing my edits. That’s a fucking screaming sign for sure; thank you God and Pandora for your timing. And now, “I am finished with you, you, you!”