Dear John Doe,

​​Dear John Doe,

It’s been ten months since that text message that had my skin crawling. 

It was like being punched in the gut and having the world yanked out from under your feet and being dangled upside down all at once. 

Phrases in once-familiar conversation that 

Hurt, hurt, hurt

Even more by the casual way you dropped them onto my screen. 

Phrases like ‘slut’ and ‘it’s gender neutral’ and ‘your sensitivity to sexist sensitivity is your sensitivity projection’ and ‘I can’t control how you feel or think. But I can control how I react. Which is to find this hilarious’

And it hurts because I used to idolize you.

I wanted to be you.

We were so similar: our immigrant parents’ only children, first-generation students who knew what it was like to struggle under unimaginable pressure, escaping overbearing households as we went off to college.

But you had the privilege of never being a woman. 

You had the privilege of never being slut-shamed by our aunts. You had the privilege of never being catcalled. You had the privilege of being born the gender with the upper hand.  

And that made you blind.

I wanted to be you so badly. To be free and happy and successful and an independent adult. 

Until I didn’t.

Dear John,

I can’t believe it took me this long to realize how toxic you were

To me, to her, to our family. 

I can remember it so vividly now, that memory tucked away into my subconscious and buried so deep I second-guessed myself for weeks after mulling it over. It was only after going over every interaction with you with a fine-toothed comb because I was so young and naive that I saw it for what it was. Maybe your intentions were pure, but your execution was shit. 

I can’t believe I’m still defending you.

I was wearing a spaghetti-strapped shirt to a family dinner and you made me change, saying it wasn’t appropriate. That it would be better suited for a first date, even though I was wearing a cardigan over it and wore it to church that morning and no one batted an eye. 

I still have that cami hanging in the back of my closet, not that you’d care. 

Or remember. 

You did it so well I didn’t even question it until now. 

Seven years later. 

I was thirteen then, 

I’m twenty-one now. 

I can’t believe it took this long to realize. 

And then those strings of text messages opened my eyes. 

b l o c k e d

How strange to see those seven letters at the bottom of an incandescent screen: blunt, unyielding white in the dark of my room. A clarity I never thought would bring so much relief and second-guessing. 

How foreign to see your contact in my phone, black letters still spelling your name. 

It doesn’t spell pain anymore but rather, the absence of anything. 

I used to love seeing your name on my phone, eagerly awaiting whatever nugget of wisdom you had to offer your ingenúe cousin. 

Now I just feel nothing.

Maybe if you reached out,.

Maybe if you just took the time to listen,. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

So many possibilities, each as hopeful and limitless and cruel as the last. 

It’s been a year and you’ve never reached out. Not that I would ever say it out loud, but I miss you. 

You bought me my first Harry Potter book (you said it wasn’t as scary as the movie) and fostered my love of reading. 

You encouraged me to apply to colleges far from home, offering me financial and life advice. 

You took me on my first trip away from my parents, even if those memories are now tainted.

You believed in my potential that made me who I am today.

You hurt me beyond comparison in fewer than a hundred measly words, strung together in a way I didn’t even think you were capable of.

Dear John,

It’s been a year and you haven’t reached out. 

Not through email, 

Not through our moms,

Not through Instagram or Facebook or Twitter or even LinkedIn. 

And, as I check my email and my Google Hangouts every morning, heart in my throat for a message, any message, from you, 

My anger grows.

I’m angry at you for being so utterly caught up in your misogyny that you’re unable to see my hurt, at being so caught up with being right that you’re willing to sever our relationship. 

(“Do you stare at red exclamation marks and green text?” I wonder to myself in a moment of melancholic doubt).

I’m angry at myself for being so stubborn that I refuse to unblock you (but your absence in our family group chat has been a welcome relief).

I’m angry at myself for being strung up over you. For caring about someone who clearly didn’t care about me (thank you for finally showing me that).

And I’m angry that you were stupid enough to talk shit about my best friend to me and expect me to agree with you (seriously, you’re twice my age — you should have thought this through).

Maybe I acted too rashly. 

You always did tell me to be more aware of my temper, I had your temper after all (just another quality in our long list of similarities that I carefully monitor lest I turn into the person you are.) 

But you didn’t just hurt me, you hurt her 

And I can’t have that.

Dear John,

He makes her happy. 

Not the smiles and sunshine and inside jokes, although that’s also a kind of happy.

It’s that inner glow I’ve only experienced during the last four weeks. The one I’ve been basking in ever since I moved back into the city that we share, just four miles apart. The lightness and ease that comes with being utterly, perfectly comfortable with where life takes us.

She’s happy in a way I’ve never seen her.

Dear John,

I don’t regret what I did. 

One day I hope to forgive you. I really do. 

Until then, I keep your name buried deep in my contacts. 

I keep your words as a reminder to choose the people I let into my life carefully. 

I keep your actions as a reminder that sometimes we are blinded to the truth because we love someone, because we grew up with them, because they are family. 

And in the meantime, I’ll forgive myself for hating you.

• catharsis