Dear Jamie: PostScript

I’ve not posted for a while, and for that, you have my apologies. Over the past month, I graduated from Edinburgh University with a law degree, had a few nights where I drank far too much, danced until dawn and laughed myself silly with the best people I’ve known, and dealt with the most horrific heartbreak I’ve ever had to endure in the past 21 years of my life.

Up until recently, I loved a man called Jamie MacRae with everything I had and everything I ever would have, but he wrenched out my heart and tore it to pieces. It still hurts. I still hurt. But it had to be done. I had to tell that lying, cheating, philandering bastard to swivel and never darken my emotional doorway again. The story is long, complicated, and far too painfully raw for me to recount here. I will at a later date when I’m not sleep-deprived , intoxicated with too much alcohol and in a tailspin because he obviously just drunk-texted me on a whim 10 minutes ago.

But I told the bastard to swivel through the means of the written word. I sent him a letter. And with that in mind, I have reproduced it here. To you, the reader, I hope you are never unfortunate enough to ever meet your Jamie.

To my something.

Dear Jamie,

You idiot. You complete and utter idiot. I would slap you if not for the fact it might leave a mark on your lovely face.

This is my attempt at saying everything I tried to say the other night but couldn’t quite get the words out. You’re very good at evading and dodging having to answer for your actions. I’ve always found it easier to express myself through writing, mainly because this time my words aren’t punctuated by tears and I’ve had a chance to actually think about what I want to say. And also, you can’t interrupt me because you don’t want to listen to what I’m trying to say. Another plus.

Alright, I’ll start with this. I’m going to capslock it to emphasise my point. YOU DO NOT TELL SOMEONE YOU LOVE THEM AND THEN IN THE NEXT SENTENCE DISCUSS ALL THE WOMEN WHO WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU AND WHO YOU WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH. THAT IS MEAN. THAT IS CRUEL. THAT HURTS LIKE A FUCKING BITCH.
I mean yeah, the whole honesty thing we’ve got going between us is great and all now, but come on, have a bit of bloody sensitivity! You’re sitting there, chattering aimlessly on about Kathryn, Veronica, Robin “who you thought you were in love with”, Alice (the one in line to the throne, if I remember rightly?), your planned “Sex Tour Of Europe”, Ashleigh coming to stay and however many other horrendously attractive women who have asserted themselves in your life and you honestly gave no regard as to how that would make me feel? Knowing fine well how I feel about you, you disregarded my feelings and went on. And on. And on. AND ON. Why? I have no idea. For egotistical purposes, was my best guess.
And there I sat, across from you in Bar Kohl, a rictus grin on my face, every woman’s name another wee stab, another constriction in my throat, another bit of my heart breaking off, until by the end of the night you could have picked the shards of it up off the floor. You were so bloody oblivious! I was on the verge of absolutely breaking down in tears, in pieces, and STILL YOU FUCKING CONTINUED ON!! It was like an elaborate form of torture in between bites of your burger. But no, Stupid Suzi still sat there and kept her fixed smile in place, aesthetically atypical Suzi with her enormous glasses, imperfect dark hair and freckles, anything but conventionally attractive. I’m not a leggy blonde like most of your female following, and I never will be.
“But I can be myself with you!” I can hear you cry. “You’re so honest and are one of my inner circle!” Come on Jamie, you can do better than that. Nobody was ever really attracted to someone because of their personality. Least of all you. You’ve said so yourself, “I like to surround myself with attractive people”, do you remember that? Because I do.
So what am I to you? I told you, I told you the other night not to tell me that you loved me back if you didn’t feel the same way I feel about you. And you know so bloody well how I feel about you. And you said the words back to me.
I’ll re-iterate that, in case you tried to skip it.
YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME BACK KNOWING FULL WELL WHAT THAT WORD MEANS TO ME. YOU KNOW I MEANT IT IN FAR MORE THAN A FRIENDSHIP WAY. MORE THAN AN “INNER CIRCLE” WAY. AND I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY IT BACK IF YOU DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. AND YOU SAID IT BACK ANYWAY.
It was so, so hard for me to say those words to you. I can’t deal with people who tell me they love me and don’t mean it like that. Neither can you, apparently. You said you hated it when people used the L word because they felt like they had to, or as an extension of “liking” someone. I didn’t feel like I had to say it to you. I didn’t use it as an extension of liking you.
So why did you say it?
You were under no obligation to return the sentiment. You didn’t have to tell me you loved me too. If you apologised for not feeling the same way, yes, it would have hurt, but I would have respected your honesty. Hadn’t we just talked about that a mere five minutes earlier? We could always be totally honest with each other? But no. You didn’t. And you have to take responsibility for that.
Oh yes, and you have to answer for your incessant talk about all the Other Women. Where do I place in the midst of this so-called harem of yours? Was our night together after the Stand-Up Championships just a one-off, something you needed to get out your system, job done, itch scratched, now we can be friends? Are you even attracted to me like that any more? Or have I been replaced in your affections by a younger, blonder, leggier model? Did you ever see me as anything more than just another friend-who-you-were-attracted-to? Or maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part to hope that maybe you do have those kinds of feelings for me, and we could have had something if London wasn’t in the way. I don’t know.
Thinking about it in my head is nightmarish. It goes round and round, and I never get any straight answers from you. My attempts to ask you outright have been met with evasive rhetoric that would make a corrupt politician proud. So I’ve decided to stop trying to ask you.
I love you. I love you, you gangly, lolloping (see? I’m bringing it back) man. You’ve hurt me beyond measure, broken my heart, betrayed me, put a sizeable dent in my self-esteem, and kept me up for nights at a time crying myself to sleep. I know all this, and I know exactly what kind of man you are, but fuck it all, I love you anyway. I told you as such the other night.
But I know that I couldn’t deal with all those “Other Women” in your life. Your harem would destroy me emotionally, the thought of you being ALWAYS surrounded by these beautiful women, knowing they want you, knowing you want them… I’m many things, but a masochist isn’t one of them. Even as a “friend” (if I ever was one, since I still don’t quite fully know what I am to you, and your attempts to explain have left a smell of bullshit in their wake) it hurts too much to listen to. It would crush my self-esteem.
Which is why I wrote this. I wanted you to listen to me for a change. I wanted you to be unable to interrupt, or interject, or rebut what I was saying. In the way that I sat and listened to you the other night, if you’ve made it this far, consider yourself having sat and listened to me.Thank you.
Love always,
Suzi xxxx

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