Oregon

“ I never knew how big this void was until you told me to leave.
You say you didn’t, but you gave me two choices that both resulted in some kind of unhappiness. It’s been over a year and I’m still stuck. It’s like a never ending spiral that I can’t stop walking through. I wait for you. But you never come.
I want to be loved by you so bad. I want to feel accepted. I want reassurance that I can make it through this.
But you won’t give any of those things to me unless it is followed by policies and conditions, that you’ve made up in your head that make me more acceptable, and more lovable if I follow them.
However, I’m now starting to realize that you slowly stopped giving me these things years ago.

No matter how many good things that happen, I still feel like I’m walking in the middle of the road with cars rushing pass me and everything turns into a blur, and the good things that happen don’t even seem that good anymore because you don’t care about them.
You aren’t happy for. You don’t care like I need you to.
It’s so hard without your help. I didn’t think it would be this hard doing everything by myself. But it is. It’s swallowing me up. How do I stay afloat?

I guess this is really all my fault. I should have been honest with you when you were there for me. I should have told you how I felt, asked questions, done more with you, tried harder to keep a relationship with you.
How could I though. You smothered me when I would try to let you in. You made me hate parts of myself, you made me feel bad about myself for being so sad all the time, like I was this problem that just needed to be fixed as fast as possible.

I don’t understand how I can want you in my life so bad after all you have done to me. After turning me away countless times. But I still do. I want you to be there for me so bad it feels like there’s needles stabbing into my chest.
I wonder if we will ever find a way to make it work. In a way were both so alike. We’re so strong and stubborn, we won’t stop until the other does. Somehow are similarities make it harder for us to be close without hurting each other.
I miss you every day. I think about you every day.

Mom, I love you.
I love you so much that it’s painful.
Maybe one day you will understand why.”

Texas

“I find myself wanting to share dirty laundry about my marriage. Not because I want to hurt him, but because I want people to understand there is the possibility of forgiveness and the possibility of continuing on after an affair. It hasn’t been an easy road getting here or continuing on. Some days I don’t think about it at all, and other days it still consumes me. I want to scream from the rooftops that I love him, but there is a shameful side that knows many won’t understand. I cannot believe all we have overcome since his mistake. I love him. Even more now than before.”

Minnesota

“t’s Good Friday. The day that I’m reminded that I will never be alone because Jesus was crucified and died out of love for me on the cross.

Tonight I led worship as a pastor and I’ve never felt more alone looking out at everyone because I could not help but wonder when this emptiness will go away and love will overtake me.

Sometimes the people who proclaim God’s love every day are the ones who desperately need to be loved. II wish this truth would be announced more often.”

California

“I thought I was the only one in the world who struggled with the scar you talked about. I thought I was the only girl who was constantly fighting against the addiction. But, I read your email and it was as if I found another me. Someone who would understand. Someone who would know the shame that comes from it and the fact you can’t admit it, because girls don’t struggle with those kinds of dirty things. Someone who knows the constant giving in and the promise you’ll never do it again after the deed is done, only to do it over and over again. But, also someone who knows the grace God gives. The forgiveness that He pours out each and every time we commit it. How God loves us just the way we are, but that He also loves us to much to leave us there. I pray that you will be healed of your addiction, that God will battle against it and you’ll never struggle again. Because, I pray that for myself too. And I pray that for every one of us girls that feels alone with our scars and struggles that aren’t the “nice” sins you can bring up in youth groups and church to confess. I pray that we will be set free, that we will rise above and cling to God through it all. But, most of all I pray that we will never start taking God’s grace, forgiveness, and love for granted. Rather, each time we will cling to the promise that He clothes us in a robe of righteousness and casts our sins to the depths of the sea. And maybe, another time we will hear our stories being spoken, but instead of stories of scars and shame, they will be stories of God’s glory and redeeming power.”

College Town, USA

“You drink a little too much and try a little too hard and go home to your cold bed at 2:47 am and think “that was fine” and then before you know it, your entire life turns into a long line of “fine”.”

Atlanta

“I’m sitting here eating left-over birthday cake out of the box. It was really good four days ago, not bad two days ago. But now it’s just stale. And I keep standing over the box eating it with a 5-day-old fork because I don’t know what else to do. I just want to eat stale cake. Maybe because it reminds me of the 2nd. That was the last day you held me. The last day you said, “what kind do you want?” when deciding which carton of ice cream would come along for the ride. The last day you took two spoons out of the drawer and said “let’s go”. The last time you opened my door and sat me in your passenger seat and took me to see the city. The last day you asked if I wanted to go back or “just come home”. The last day I felt at home. The last day you kissed me. And maybe the first day you loved me.

We drove to see the city. But when we got there, the fog had come in. Not even a silhouette stood beyond the I-75 street lights. We knew it was beautiful, we had seen it before. But we were too late. Too late to enjoy what we knew was there…like it wasn’t ever there to begin with. Seemed fitting really…I knew it was beautiful-but you were too late. And now I’m still looking for the city in us and it’s just gone.

I haven’t wanted to write about this. I probably shouldn’t be. You were the first one after him that I had written about. And maybe I’m just superstitious, but I was hoping with everything in me that my writing of you would make you real-permanent.

I wanted to be a memoir writer. Instead I’ve got eight chapters of mediocre fiction here with no resolution. And nobody wants a shitty book like that.”

Atlanta, Georgia

“Tonight, he looked me straight in the eyes and told me he was disappointed in me. My grandfather. The one who used to tell my cousins and me Bible stories whenever he babysat, the one who used to forward me all those chain emails of funny pictures, the one whose fridge was always full of ice cream, the one who picked us up from school in his beat-up old truck.

I’m at that age where you realize everyone you’ve looked up to your whole life might not be perfect. My grandfather falls shorter of that standard every day. I had a concert at school on my eighteenth birthday, and he and my grandmother drove there, couldn’t find a place to park, and left. Didn’t call me or anything. I had the opening number on my birthday, and they didn’t even show up. I keep getting my hopes up and feeling let down each time. It’s funny, but not really: the main reason that he doesn’t meet my expectations is that I don’t meet his. I will never be the Southern Baptist, uber conservative, hymn-singing granddaughter he wants.

So tonight, when he told me he was disappointed in me, it wasn’t as much a slap in the face as it was confirmation of what I already knew.

Bobby, I’m sorry that I want to eat my food before everyone else sits down because, when you’re eating with ten people, it gets so cold and I get so hungry. I’m sorry that I don’t know your hymns and I don’t want to. I’m sorry that I love gay people. But even as I write these apologies, I know they are not true. I’m not sorry for who I am, even though it’s who you’re disappointed in. You’re breaking my heart every time I see you. You want me to be different; I want you to be different. And the sad reality is, we’ll keep going round in circles like this. The first time someone called you a crotchety old man behind your back, I defended you. Now, I feel like you’re the one attacking me, and it hurts. Why can’t you just accept me for who I am? I love Jesus and I love my friends and I love the kids I volunteer with and I love what I write on my blog, even though your comments always preach at me. I love who I am, and no matter the way you feel about me, you can’t change that.

You’re disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in you. And I don’t think it’s going to change.”

New Jersey

“My friends call me a serial dater. One suitor walks out and another quickly steps up to take his place – I don’t think I go out of my way to find a guy but I definitely don’t do anything to prevent a relationship if I feel like he’s a good person. During my short single periods, it’s always been easy to fill my time with someone cute, someone funny, someone smart, someone kind until “boyfriend material” comes along. But, inevitably, the whirlwind romance comes to an end. Usually a messy end. And I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt – oh, it does. Every single time, every relationship, in the quiet moments of comfort, around month 9 or 10, I let my mind wander into the possibility of “the end.” I’ll be okay, I think. I don’t need them, I tell myself, I just WANT them. But, when I empty my box of collected clothes and toiletries and books and condoms that I’ve taken back from my drawer at their place, a tornado touchs down somewhere near my navel. It takes my breath away and rocks my stomach. I cry until I throw up. I sleep on the bathroom floor because it’s the one place I know won’t smell like them, feel like them. Slowly, day by day, week by week, I scrap myself from the tile. It’s the same cycle every time – I tell myself I won’t, I tell myself I’ll wait, but every time I let myself fall into a relationship. All the while, I ache for you. I’ve never wanted an ex back. I’ve never had resurfacing feelings for anyone I once dated. But for eight, long years, I’be dreamt about your lips and the fleeting moments I got to taste them. I wake unsure of whether we fucked the night before or if had just been my imagination running wild during my sleep. I screenshot our text conversations, plan out hours for our skype sessions, and leave a pile of discarded outfits before I find the perfect one whenever we’re about to hang out. We say we’re best friends because we don’t know what else to call one another – I know you feel it, too. You’re the only one I’ve pictured at the altar and you’re the only one I never let myself fall in love with.”

Denver, Colorado

“It’s 8:07pm… I’ve been waiting all day for a Happy Birthday from the man I unproudly love. A Happy Birthday text never came, but one saying “I don’t love you, I never did.” Came through. I’m going to assume he forgot my birthday.”

Agloe, New York

“You’re different than any other man I’ve dated.

Normally they swoop in with their sweet talking and I build a case for them. I sit down for too many coffees with too many people and I list out the reasons why I should be in this relationship.

”The feelings will come eventually,” I say. “Right?”

I don’t build a case when it comes to you. I just come home to you. You’re where I feel safe. You’re where I feel at ease.

You built your life just right before I came along and I’ve been pleased to find you left a space for me. You give me the same feeling I get when driving home for the holidays— 900 miles— and I pull up to the driveway and see the lights left on for me.

You’re like the lights left on.

If I had to build a case then I guess it would be this: you choose me. Over and over, you choose me. You choose my ugly. You choose my beautiful. You choose what I know you will find attractive. You choose the things I try to hide.

If you are reading this right now:

Hi. I’m staying.“