Why?

Dear Erika,

I’d like to ask why. I’m not asking you, I’m asking myself. I’m not even sure what I’m asking, but I’m hoping that in writing this I may find answers.

My first why should be why am I writing this. This morning, I found myself on the front step, the same step where you spent so much time way back when. I was drunk, and smoking a cig. Both my dad and brother had left recently, I would never have done this if I wasn’t alone. I put my phone to my ear and was talking to you. Maybe that is a more relevant why. I asked you how you were doing, and then remarked that I was not surprised at you being not sober either. In your own way that is. I tried to explain why I was calling. That is, I guess, why I am writing this, to explain why I called you this morning. Well, with three cigs, and a cup of coffee down, I’ve got one why done. How many more, I don’t know but I guess many.

Why was I calling you, I ask myself as a plane flies overhead. Why did I call the last dozen times? Because I miss you. But why than was it a fictional call? Why must I talk to myself when two movements of my thumb might have you two thousand miles closer? And of course why did I tell you not to call me, when right now I want nothing more than to hear your voice?

The answer I gave you was, “It hurts.” You accepted that answer. I did too. But doing this, right now doesn’t hurt. I should attribute that to my lack of soberness. On that note, I am breaking rule number one by doing this. I am allowing myself on the technicality that it is writing, not calling or talking. If it doesn’t hurt now, did it really hurt then? I should be able know. I do remember that for the days and weeks prior to your last call I felt appreciative that you hadn’t tried to contact me. I should probably figure out why I felt that way, because as I am writing this I cannot say.

I do very specifically remember one instance thinking, “She’s due to call any day now.” At that time it was an unpleasant thought, but thinking back on it I smile. Maybe because I was right, you know how I like to be right, but I think it was for another reason. I would have been very disappointed had you not called. That brings up more questions than it answers though. Why would I be disappointed in getting what I want, or in other words, did I want it all along? I must assume, based on what I am feeling now that I did indeed.

But why?! And the more important question, why did I tell you not to call when I wanted you to. This brings me right back to the very incomplete answer, “It hurts.”

I say incomplete because I now remember the pain. I don’t know if it was new pain, or just being forced to relive old pain, but what is the difference. That you have hurt me I don’t think either of us would dispute, and with pain attached to you, why did I, why do I at all of my most vulnerable moments want nothing more than to hear your voice. At this point, too many cigs later, these words of yours come into my head, “You don’t love me, you love the idea of me.” I have always resisted that notion, and I continue to do so.

I AM happy you called, even though only days before it was an unpleasant thought. I will now say that I am happy because I was right. Not right in my prediction, but right in my thinking that you are a better person than you could ever admit to.

Despite your deceits and manipulations, I have gotten to know you better than many. Better than anyone as you used to say. I believe that you think I fell in love with the girl you presented yourself as. The dragon slaying fantasy woman who was drawn in by my charm. You know me better than I’ve ever allowed anyone to know me. I’ve told you secrets I didn’t think I’d ever tell myself. You know me better than to think that I just fell in love with Perpetual.

I fell in love with the woman who always had love to give, even when receiving was in the shortest supply. The first time, when you practically made me say it, I still meant it. Even if you never did, I have meant it every time. Even now, as I say it aloud, I mean it as much as always. “I love you Erika.”

Lance, Colin, me, Chris, and others. Maybe a list of failures to you, but to me they prove…

I don’t know what they prove. How did this turn into a love letter? That was the least of my intentions. Forget that last little bit, please, and let me continue from beforehand. Flipping back, I find, “You are a better person than you could ever admit to.” I’ve never been able to convince you of that before, and I’m afraid I’ve done a very poor job of trying here. I used to tell you to take my word for it, but I’m sure my word means very little to you now.

I guess I’ve gotten through a few whys, but I don’t feel I’ve said what I meant to. It’s hard to concentrate while watching I Love Lucy drunk.

I’d love to ask you a few whys, but that would go against my rule. I suppose I’ll ask anyway and try to answer for you as best as I can. Why did you…

I don’t even want to finish the question, let alone answer it. I feel I should though. I’ll ask it vaguely, to make it less uncomfortable. Why did you hurt me so badly? An evasive yet fair answer would be simple repetition. Why did I hurt you? But you wouldn’t do that. You might cry. Not on the outside, but on the inside like you do so often. I’d be able to tell from your voce, your tone, but I wouldn’t say anything. Except that I’m sorry. Please don’t cry Erika. I know nothing you have ever done was from malice. Everyone who’s ever met you knows there isn’t a cruel bone in your body.

I’ve forgotten my why, hold on. Oh yeah, I was asking you why. Please, forget I asked, I already know. I blame circumstance. That’s not true. I blame myself. Me writing this letter is in itself about six forms of weakness.

Now I want to rip this up and throw it away. I did not intend this to go this way. I guess that’s what happens when you start to get sober. You know what? I bet that’s why I was drunk in the first place. That’s the last why I’m going to tackle right now. I need another fucking cig.

Yours always,

Bob