Joe's Letter to Janet (A Deleted Scene from 'Love Before Covid')
This is the first thing I wrote for my novel 'Love Before Covid'.
Ironically, it would up being one of the sections that got cut out of the final version of the novel. However, I still kind of like this piece, so here it is.
I think of it as a 'deleted scene'.
"On August 20th, 2015, at exactly 3pm, Janet arrives at her London flat after having had a joyful lunch with her friend Claire Widerlich. Claire happens to be in London reading some of her poems in coffee houses that Janet regularly frequents. Claire gets much bigger and enthusiastic audiences in London than she does when she reads her poems in Leicester. It’s been a while since Janet and Claire have had a chance to have an in-person conversation with each other. They mostly talk on Skype.
Janet decided to meet Claire in person at a trendy Mexican restaurant (Wahaca) at 11am. Both originally planned to finish their lunch and leave by 1: 30pm. However, Janet and Claire were so engrossed in their conversation that they stayed chatting for another hour. They both found it hard to leave an intense and funny discussion, a chin wag mostly about the pitfalls of conceptual art and the stupidity of the art market. Their conversation also drifted off into other topics: Jeremy Corbyn, 60s jazz, electronic cigarettes, quantum computers, cuban vegetarian food, consensual slavery in the BDSM community, and the most efficient way to control your face during a poker game. They even talked about Joe and Loraine.
Neither Joe or Loraine know that Claire is friends with Janet.
Back at her flat, Janet sips a cup of tea at her office desk and opens her laptop to check her email. Her office is untidy. There are books all over the floor; books Joe either purchased for Janet or recommended to her between 1999 and 2002. Next to the books are iPods, kindles, CDs, manuscripts, drawings, skirts, jackets, hats, plastic cups, incense sticks, and candy wrappers.
Janet can see that there is an email in her inbox from Joe. She opens it excitedly to see how Joe has responded to the long and elaborate email she sent him four days earlier.
Janet reads every line of Joe’s email very carefully.
"Janet,
Where to begin…
I know it wasn’t easy writing to me after all these years. I appreciate your courage and honesty. I appreciate all the time and effort it took you to tell me all those things you felt you needed to say.
Believe it or not, it was a relief to hear from you again. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, recently. If you hadn’t emailed me, I would have eventually found a way to contact you. I don’t know how, but I could sense we both needed to talk to each other again. Those feelings were reaffirmed when I read all those beautiful sentences you sent me. It didn’t feel like I was reading text. It felt like a phone conversation, but even that’s not quite getting it right.
It was more like an old rock band had been re-united. When you have an idea and I feel something strongly about it, it’s like harmony. Very complex harmony. Maybe we’re not a rock band after all. Maybe we’re be-bop. Maybe John Zorn and Bill Frisell. That’s not quite right either. It’s more like being a 14 old boy, being seduced by a beautiful woman I should report to the police. You’d make an ace coke dealer, Janet. In some ways, you’re like cocaine to me.
But a little self-destruction is sometimes illuminating. I’m always learning something about myself when I communicate with you. The lessons can be painful. That doesn’t bother me though. Most of the things I learn about myself are painful. Being born was painful. And it’s been painful understanding just how much I miss having your thoughts in my life. It was strange seeing them again, like revisiting a confused childhood memory. Your words are like a swarm of beautiful and golden bees. I work hard to leave them alone.
In your email, you said many things I thought were unfair, insensitive, cruel, and otherwise full of shit. In a couple of places, you were just a mean cunt. Not a nice person. Maybe not even a good person. But that’s only one side of you. There are others. Too many for me to pretend that I understand how they all fit together. That’s why I’m writing you back. That’s why I haven’t told you to fuck off, even though I probably should have. You are a master at making me feel things I shouldn’t feel. You bring out the weepy old woman in me. I can only thank you for that.
Thank you for making it so hard for me to stay angry at you. Thank you for expressing yourself so openly. Thank you for explaining to me the entire history of our relationship and break up (from your perspective). It’s good for me to see myself through someone else’s eyes, once in a while. I’m glad I now know so much more about your mind and history than I ever did as a young lad. So much of what you said I wish I knew thirteen years ago. It might have helped me treat you like less of a dick.
For the record, I don’t hate your brain and never have. It’s an unusual brain in an unusual person; a sometimes horrible and unusual person. However, if there is one thing you’re not, it’s hateful. Pitiful maybe. But not hateful. And definitely not scary. Convincing you I was terrified of your brain was what I had to do in order to get you to break up with me. I know that’s callous and nasty-the epitome of youthful hubris and righteous insensitivity. I won’t even try to defend it. I know how much you loved me. I know how much I hurt you. But that didn’t stop me, as you know.
I can no longer atone or apologise for that in any meaningful way. I tried once before and wound up disfigured, traumatised, and suicidal. I haven’t fully worked through that experience, even though a decade has passed. In the present moment, I can only choose to follow your lead about not offering up excuses: What I did to you was unforgivable. I scarred you without considering the repercussions. I was a selfish little shithead; a sadistic and immature prick. You did nothing to deserve the way I let you go. You have nothing to feel guilty about, regards our break up or the lead up to it. I was a cruel fucking bastard, young and stupid, incapable of making the decisions I knew in my heart were the right ones.
In other words, I was just like you the day you shoved a fork in my face and left me for dead. I can understand how hard you wish you never did that. I hate my past as well. Like you, I wish I was a better person. When we were together, I wanted to be the person that held you up when life tore you down. But I wasn’t strong enough. I told you even then: You deserved to be loved by someone much better than me. It saddens me that you still feel that I’m the best you can do. It’s not even sad. It’s tragic. Your love for me is the worst thing I ever did to you.
I’m ashamed of it. I’m ashamed you’re still in love with someone who doesn’t deserve your love. It’s not that I’m ashamed because I think I don’t deserve love from anyone, mind you. I’m ashamed because you hate loving people who don’t deserve love from you. And yet you love me anyway. You love me even though it goes against everything you value in your life. I wish I could send that love back to you, accompanied by a hand written apology letter much longer than this email. Your love doesn’t feel like it’s meant for me. I feel like it belongs to someone else, someone more like my younger self.
Speaking of someone else, I can understand if you’ve been fantasising about sticking a fork into Loraine’s head. Like most human beings, Loraine can be a vile bitch when people take advantage of her. Her blog about me that you brought to my attention was sickening, but what I did to her before she composed it was far worse. I cheated on her, Janet. I broke the most sacred bond a man can have with a woman he loves. Loraine forgave me anyway. That’s how much she loves me.
I can’t blame you for being concerned about me though. If I were you, seeing the things from her that you’ve seen on your screen, I’d be worried about me too. I hate most of the shit Loraine puts on the internet. I cringe at her islamophobia. I can’t stand her weird Daily Mail Feminism. Even her mum gets angry when she reads the stuff Loraine writes on Facebook about how men can’t self-identify as women. And her mum hasn’t even seen the blogs you did. But there’s an important lesson here: Nothing Loraine has ever put on the internet has stopped her from being one of the most sought after dance instructors in the midlands. She makes far more money than I ever did.
Loraine teaches Children’s Gymnastic Dance, Child and Adult Tap, Adult Ballet, Children’s Theatre Dancing, as well as Adult Modern, and Freestyle Dancing for Teens. In the summers, she does Hip Hop and Jazz workshops (which amaze me because Loraine hates both Hip Hop and Jazz). Kids are constantly popping in and out of our home. They absolutely love her. If they have any kind of trouble in their lives, they let it out and she listens. She always gives them great advice. They even cry in her arms. If Loraine were a horrible person, this wouldn’t be happening.
I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but in person, Loraine is a sweetheart. Yes, she is a challenge, but she’s the kind of challenge that makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. We never talk about social issues or her blogs. We normally talk about things that need to be done in our home. Loraine, as you know, is very beautiful. I know you can’t understand this, but her beauty makes me very proud. Don’t misunderstand me. You’re beautiful too. But not like Loraine. I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as Loraine. Never in my life. There’s nothing that makes me prouder than the fact that I can look the way I do and still be in a relationship with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. For someone who looks like me, that’s like slaying a dragon.
I might worry about this pride if it weren’t for the fact that so many other things about Loraine impress me. Loraine is incredibly intelligent (she can do maths better than I ever could). She’s also amazingly hard working, great at motivating people, and incredible at remembering all the details of any task that makes our home run more efficiently. She teaches me so much. She’s taught me a myriad of practical skills (how to repair a boiler, install a toilet, and even build a woodshed). Because of her, I’m actually a decent cook today. She’s the reason I learned how to drive and can afford a nice car. Her career is the reason we can live where we live.
I don’t need to have intense conversations with Loraine. I have friends for that. Loraine stops me from hurting myself. She makes me feel good about the fact that I’m alive. She makes me laugh. She even installed a stripper poll in our bedroom so she could dance for me before we have sex. How many women are selfless enough to actually do that? Probably very few. And even less can do extended butterflies as well as Loraine. Loraine’s coordination, timing, and reflexes are absolutely cracking. But that’s only the beginning of what’s interesting about her.
One thing I know you’ll find quite interesting about Loraine is just how beloved she is in our little city. People love Loraine on the streets of Leicester. She can’t walk down Granby Street without strangers constantly saying hello. She’s like a local celebrity because of how much money she’s raised for charities that fund community arts projects, children’s health campaigns, and cancer research. She’s been in the Leicester Mercury at least a dozen times. Her dance classes have won awards. Like it or not, Loraine is an amazing person Janet. And as is the case with any amazing person, you can’t reduce them to how they behave on their worst days. Most of the time, Loraine isn’t just good for me. She’s necessary.
Without Loraine in my life, I don’t know where I’d be, or if I’d be. Loraine is like a boundary that keeps all the worst parts of me from overtaking, like the rock that crushes all the waves in me I can’t see. She doesn’t abuse me. She pushes the boundaries of what I’m capable of hearing, what I’m capable of learning from. We don’t have much in common but we don’t need to. Our relationship is about understanding differences, hearing uncomfortable truths. It’s more like art than masturbation, more punk than Pavarotti.
Loraine hates much of what I love and that’s ok. I get exposure to a radically different perspective when I talk to her. I get to see the world through a keyhole that used to frighten me. When I’m with Loraine, I feel like I’m getting the education I wish I had in school. She says all the things every middle class tutor who got off on backstabbing me would never say to my face. And I give her a willing audience for her behaviours, behaviours that never cease to fascinate and perplex me. On top of all that, she tells me every day that she loves me. As you know, I never got that as a child.
Of course, that doesn’t make our relationship a breezy stroll through the garden path of putrid, rom-com bliss. We’re flawed, not psychopaths. We love each other no matter how much we hurt each other. We love each other even when we hate each other. We love each other unconditionally, like two halves of a broken mirror, overlooking the wilderness. We don’t need to be smooth and perfect. We don’t need to be society’s fantasy. We don’t need to be a “healthy couple.” We can be ourselves and love each other for that. I’ve never had love like this before, especially not from you.
With you, I never felt love just because I was Joe. But you got my unconditional love, not wanting it. You wanted to earn my love. That makes me sad for you, even now. You’ll never know what it’s like to be accepted for who you are. You can’t accept yourself. You live like romance is just money-money in exchange for doing shit that delights people and keeps their crushes burning. There’s nothing more tragic to me than someone who believes the things you do. Nothing sadder, really.
I hate to tell you this Janet, but you’re an incredibly fucked up person. I’m not blurting this out because I’m trying to be mean. I’m trying to get you to see something: You need love you don’t earn as much as I do. No adult is completely an adult from head to toe. There’s a little selfish child in all of us that needs forgiveness and understanding. That little child in you is the reason I’m spending the rest of my life with one eye. You, of all people, need empathy you don’t deserve. That’s why your email is just a wee bit ironic.
Behind all that verbiage is a truth you won’t say: You want me to love and forgive you. You want to be loved in the very way you spent so many paragraphs denigrating. You want to be loved and forgiven in a way that’s too painful for you to even admit. So as punishment for being such a flagrant hypocrite, I’m going to give you half of what you want. I’m going to forgive you-and I hope it hurts. I hope you learn from this pain.
I forgive you for disfiguring me. I forgive you for not calling an ambulance or apologising. I forgive you for leaving me alone to bleed to death. I forgive you for all the cruel things you said to me before you nearly killed me. You don’t deserve forgiveness for any of that–you deserve contempt and you know it. But you’re going to be forgiven anyway. Like I do with Loraine, I’m choosing not to define you by the worst things you’ve done. I’m allowing you the potential to transcend all of that and be lovable anyway.
I know I should hate you. I should be frightened of you. I should have pressed charges against you for what you did to me. But I can’t feel anything for you other than affection. It feels physical, like my body can’t feel anything other than the deepest sadness when the mere thought of you rolls around my brain. What the fuck does that say about me? I don’t even know. But I do know why I hurt you. I know why I made you want to hurt me as badly as you did.
When we were in love, I was very happy. It was probably the happiest time of my whole life. That was the problem with it. There were absolutely no challenges. You were perfect in every way: beautiful, intelligent, interesting, kind, funny, charismatic, and so sexy it was freakish. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, I didn’t want to be in the perfect relationship. I wanted to be in a relationship where I could face challenges and feel like I’m accomplishing something.
I reacted the way I did to your diagnosis because it was just an excuse to break up with you. Something about our relationship didn’t feel right. It felt too idyllic. Too incredible. Too much like what every geekboy dreams about when they imagine the kind of life partner they could have if life were perfect; the way life would be if every woman were like Anna Karina in Pierrot Le Fou. If I were more religious than I already am, I might say being with you was like owning a brothel in heaven. When you fall in love with a person who seems so much like an angel, that’s when you know you’re fully dead inside.
I’m only happy when I feel alive, Janet.
In my day to day existence, I’m a teacher and a poet. But when I come home to a woman, I want to be a wild caveman. Because that’s so different to every other side of myself, it’s something I struggle with. I thrive off that struggle, like I thrive when I try my hardest to earn a decent living. I find great joy and relief when I can accept rather than judge my base brain, my lower self, all the grimier sides of my humanity. I spent too much of my youth beating myself up over imperfections. I don’t want to fight me anymore. I just want to accept who I am and live my life the best way that I can. I’m trying to be self-reflective, these days. Part of that involves being honest with myself. Not the hypocrite you still are.
I am not civilised. I’m selfish. I’m unhealthy both physically and mentally (and I look it). That’s why you will never find a pic of me on Facebook again (unless Loraine puts it there). I’m a nasty, ugly and self-harming pig. You are not. You are an extraordinary person because you have the brain of the ultimate pig, the deadly pig. Yet you have now trained yourself to act in a way that makes everyone else look like pigs in comparison. You are very civil that way. Maybe the ultimate expression of civility. But that’s not me. I am a naturally civilised person who wants to be a pig.
That’s the reason we were never a good couple. You want systems and I thrive off of chaos. You want to write books and I want to marvel at them. You want to use people and I want to accept them. You want to live a long life and I’d prefer to die young. That’s what we are. That’s what being honest with myself has taught me. I always knew I wasn’t good enough for you. Now I know why.
Unlike you, I can still love myself in all my failures and successes. I couldn’t do that when I was young and cute. It’s very liberating to no longer be the dashing and chiseled young bloke you fell in love with. It’s honestly a relief not having to be a pretty boy who girls fawn over. When women are attracted to me now, I know its because of me. Not how I look. So I don’t have to fuck them. I don’t feel obligated to anymore. I can fuck Loraine instead. She’s more attractive than all of them put together. And she has the courage to be proud of that. She’s not just proud of being beautiful, Janet. She’s proud of being MORE beautiful than most women.
Loraine is not afraid to say this to any woman she befriends who is self-harming. She’s not afraid to get angry at women who start lecturing her about body diversity. If any of her students gain weight, she tells them off in front of everyone else. She says things to them that, for me, would be incredibly humiliating. You’d think Loraine would have been sacked by now, but amazingly, she hasn’t. I think it’s because of how much her students respect her. They can see that she puts herself at risk, socially. She’s not afraid to make other women hate her. She’s not like me. She’s not weak. She won’t allow women to make excuses for not doing their best.
Loraine is proud of the fact that she’s a fighter; she fights to be as beautiful as she is. She’s proud of the fact that she’s not a typical Leicester girl; she doesn’t eat kebabs; she’s not self-pitying; she doesn’t settle for looking like anything other than what she wants to. She self-creates with exercise and healthy eating. She’s like a sculpture made of iron will; the ultimate expression of feminine energy. I know it’s easy for you to scoff at that. It’s easy for you to look down on the Loraines of the world; the people who actually fight to get rid of the physical insecurities the rest of us tolerate. Loraine isn’t bothered by this kind of snobbery. She looks down on the rest of us. She certainly looks down on me and has every right to.
At the end of the day, Loraine has made her body the opposite of mine. She has the most beautifully toned and limber thighs, Janet. She’s created, bar none, the most perfect abs on any woman I’ve ever seen. Her arse is hard, shapely, sculpted like fantasy made flesh. Her tits aren’t like tits; they’re like the pair of breasts all tits are an imperfect imitation of. She loves herself for that. She’s not afraid of being envied. Loraine is a woman who will tell you to your face how proud she is of her tight pussy. And why shouldn’t she be? She worked hard for that pussy and isn’t afraid to talk about it. Loraine can talk to you for hours about why you should do the Kegel exercises she does. She doesn’t care if that’s not lady like. She doesn’t care if it makes you uncomfortable. Loraine is fierce. She’s fierce in her individuality.
Loraine doesn’t want to live in a world where women let themselves down. She thinks all women have a responsibility to have a harmonious relationship with their bodies. Body confidence, for Loraine, is what helps women defend themselves from rapists and street attackers. It’s what makes women feel like they deserve to be in the beds they fuck in. It’s what allows women to be good role models for their sons and daughters. Loraine thinks there is nothing worse than a parent who doesn’t model self-care in their dieting and exercise habits. I don’t agree with Loraine about all of this, but I’m happy she thinks these things. And no, its not because I’m drowning in endless nights of amazing sex. Sex with Loraine is mediocre most of the time.
Loraine’s beauty and the importance it has to her is what’s not mediocre. It’s the reason receiving her love lets me know I’m good enough not to kill myself. It’s not just society that tells me I can’t be with someone who looks like Loraine. It’s also Loraine. I’ve overcome even her rules, Janet. It’s not just that I’ve made the most beautiful woman in Leicester want to love an ugly fat bastard like me. It’s more transformative than that. If I can make someone who values beauty as much as Loraine love all my rolls of fat, I know that I’m worth loving. I know something about me MUST be lovable. Because I’m lovable, I’ll never have to worry that becoming fat or old (or even disabled) will one day make Loraine go away. I can just be me and that will always be enough. Loraine hates people like me and loves me anyway. That’s the greatest compliment a woman can give a man. I feel like I’ve done something impossible: I made a beautiful woman who hates fat people love me.
This is what gives me hope in life. You can never trust your own lovability if the love you receive comes with conditions. That’s why I don’t want a relationship with my best friend. I don’t want a relationship even with someone I consider my equal. I want a relationship with someone I’m not supposed to have; someone mysterious to me, someone dangerous, someone I can master. Maybe this is because of how my mother made me feel, growing up. Or maybe it’s because I worry I can never really know people. Maybe its because I was in a relationship with my best friend before and that didn’t turn out so well.
Whatever the reason, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having a deep romance with interesting conversations and predictably hot sex. I don’t want to be with someone who is always working so hard to treat me with kindness, respect, and dignity. I don’t want to be bored again. I don’t want the banal luxuries that come with being “the happy couple.” Most of those privileges make me want to be sick. In our home, there are no pictures of me and Loraine on our shelves. We don’t need pictures when we see each other every day.
Our relationship doesn’t need to be freeze framed in a smile. That’s cold and inhuman. Our relationship is like fire. With Loraine, I thrive off of feeling like I’m winning a violent and brutal war, like I’m burning people alive so they won’t decapitate me. I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush of this; it’s absolutely intoxicating, like nothing in my wildest dreams. Other people don’t understand my thrills and I don’t need them to. To me, most people seem like empty holograms and I don’t have to hate them for that either.
I don’t need society to approve of me. I need to do what makes me feel passionate. There’s nothing that stirs me like the moments when I can’t predict what will make a woman incredibly angry with me. It’s better than the biggest orgasms. It makes even the best sex feel like a trivial afterthought. I never got that pleasure from you. You were always so kind, so witty, so intelligent, so seductive, and if I’m honest, so boring and reasonable.
I felt like an indulged child. I felt like you knew me inside out and always delighted me with surprises I didn’t ask for. Every day, I felt like I was getting everything I ever wanted from a woman. For me, that literally feels like decapitation. Especially if none of it’s genuine. I’ll take anger over kindness if there is truth in the anger. Truth is far more exciting than placation. And Loraine is far more exciting than you could ever be. She’s far more exciting than you, even though she’s far less sexy. That’s how much sex matters to me now. Erections are a poor substitute for adrenaline rushes.
What excites me these days is love, truth, honesty, loyalty, support, passion, and forgiveness. And on that front, Loraine soars like an eagle. You were more like a beautiful snake; a snake I’m wise enough to not let near me again; a snake it’s a relief to consign to my past. Or at least it was a relief. Now I don’t know what it is.
Probably 80% of my brain is happy you are part of a past that’s long gone. Probably 90% is happy I now have the relationship I’ve always wanted. 95% of my brain knows it should hate you and it really really wants to. But I’m not strong enough. There’s another weakness in me you can take advantage of. I’m so so angry at you… and yet hearing you describe your feelings for me had me sobbing. I don’t understand why such a small part of me has so much power over all the rest.
What I do understand is that I still like you, though not in a romantic way. You can relax-this like for you is conditional. I like you because you aren’t like anyone I’ve ever known. You’re more like a piece of music than a person; a music too cool for us mere mortals to really hear without years of repeated listenings. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but neither do most of my feelings. That’s another reason we were never good together.
I was never really on your wave length. I was in awe of you. I still am, even though it’s wounding to admit that. I love your insight and creativity, but those aren’t the parts of you that make me jealous. The parts of you I wish I had are your strength and bravery. Even more than that, I wish I had your self-love. I fell in love with you because I was a young fool; I didn’t have good boundaries with people. I had never met anyone who could be so caring and yet stand up for themselves so easily when they needed to. I can’t follow your example but I’m glad I got to see what it looks like. I can’t be like you but you do inspire me, even now. How odd is that?
Don’t waste your time trying to understand it because you can’t. I can’t understand it anymore than you. It’s a much more worthwhile endeavour to be honest instead of trying to understand everything in great detail. In the spirit of that honesty, I can only say again how horrible you make me feel. I feel horrible because we hurt each other so badly. I feel horrible because I can’t really see things turning out any other way. We needed to end. I know that doesn’t mean we aren’t both still hurting very badly.
If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who has feelings they have to shove down. Despite everything that has happened and everything you have done to me, you can erase all my ambivalences with a few strokes of your keyboard. Like an orchestra conductor, you can make me miss you on cue. I miss you badly, Janet. I miss talking to you. I miss cumming in your mouth. I even miss being terrified on roller coasters, squeezing your hand. For better or for worse, I wish you could hurt me one last time. I’m an idiot and I self-harm. You do neither of those things. And so I miss you the way I breathe. I can’t help it.
Maybe that’s why you’re still magical to me, even though I don’t believe in magic. You might be the most magical illusion in the world: the psychopath who can learn to love and be as normal as anyone else; maybe better than normal. I can’t say whether or not you’re a good person. But I can tell you this: You’re better than Hitler. You’re better than Jimmy Saville. You’re better than Katie Hopkins. You’re better than my best friend. You’re better than a boring and miserable bitch. You’re better than my mother. You’re maybe even better than Loraine. But none of that matters. Love isn’t about what you deserve. Like, however, is a different story.
I still like you, Janet. I like you so much, I want to cry. I’m so sad I can’t like you more. So unbelievably sad I am who I am. But I can cope with the sadness for a change. I can even cope with once having loved you, although that love was just a product of deception. But hey, that’s how the human being blossoms till it burns out, like everything else in the fucking stars.
Feelings are shadow play, nonsense, a good night out under too many mojitos and a thumping bass line. Feelings can cloud your judgement, impede your vision, distorting the lens that should be pointing you towards your higher self. I’m not sure I have one of those but I’m positive you do. So regardless of how it makes either of us feel, we both have to face reality: we are over. You have a life you should value. I damage lives, not just eyeballs.
As fucked up as you are my dear, you’re a few paces better than yours truly, a few rungs higher on the consciousness ladder. Even though you’re officially a bad person, you’re still too good for me. I can’t repeat this enough. I’m ok with it and you should be as well. It’s an odd stroke of luck, a little pathway upwards, a gift wrapped courtesy of God. Or whatever.
For my sake, just try to be be happy and live your amazing life. You don’t need me in it, the way you once did. Don’t let your memory of me stop you from living in the present, living at your best. Love is blind but you can open your eyes. Don’t let your memory of me stop you from opening your heart to someone else who can love you far better than I ever could. Don’t miss out on that because of me. You honour your memory of me if you can lead the best life you can without fear or hesitation. Your life is too precious to sabotage over an ex-boyfriend who was far too flawed to love you the way you needed to be loved.
So please, on behalf of that ex-boyfriend, find someone you deserve and grab him. Love him conditionally. Fuck his brains out. And charm him enough so that he doesn’t see all the self-interest rotting underneath your vivacious personality. Don’t try so hard not to hurt him. He might like how powerful and strong you are. I certainly do.
I’ll write you a poem you can read aloud at your wedding. It will be short, pretty, and have nothing in it but the most polite and bland lies about love; like the Corinthians poem you love so much; the one that expresses shame at the way love actually works. But if shame is what works for you, I can play along. But not in this email.
Love, my darling Janet, is impatient. It’s not kind. It’s boastful and proud. It dishonours the memory of others, it’s self-seeking. Like Loraine, it angers easily. And like you, it keeps record of wrongs. But it’s not all bad. Like you, it doesn’t delight in evil. And like Loraine, it rejoices in the truth. Of course, love doesn’t always protect and trust. It doesn’t always hope and it certainly doesn’t persevere.
But you do. And I love that about you so much, Janet. I don’t have the words to tell you how much I love that about you. And that’s why I’m choosing love over you. I need love right now. Not what you give me. What you give me is better than love but I can’t handle it. It’s too powerful and I’m too damaged to be able to take it with grace. If you allow me to take centre stage in your life, even as a friend, I’m certain I will make things much worse for you. Let me be in the background.
Let me just write you that poem when you get married. Let me love my memory of you, the memory of all the things you were before I hurt you.
That’s all I can give you, apart from my forgiveness. That’s all I have left in me.
Joe"
After finishing the email, Janet rolls her eyes.
Joe’s words are drenched in three things Janet hates: hypocrisy, inconsistency, and self-pity. There are also remarks in Joe’s email that Janet finds unfair, delusional, stupid, reactionary, self-destructive, and incredibly insulting. Janet can tell Joe is trying to make her angry; he’s trying his hardest to push her away from him. However, Joe’s email contains an additional quality that makes the above elements comparatively unimportant to Janet:
It makes her feel loved. Janet can feel love for her in Joe’s words."
Ironically, it would up being one of the sections that got cut out of the final version of the novel. However, I still kind of like this piece, so here it is.
I think of it as a 'deleted scene'.
"On August 20th, 2015, at exactly 3pm, Janet arrives at her London flat after having had a joyful lunch with her friend Claire Widerlich. Claire happens to be in London reading some of her poems in coffee houses that Janet regularly frequents. Claire gets much bigger and enthusiastic audiences in London than she does when she reads her poems in Leicester. It’s been a while since Janet and Claire have had a chance to have an in-person conversation with each other. They mostly talk on Skype.
Janet decided to meet Claire in person at a trendy Mexican restaurant (Wahaca) at 11am. Both originally planned to finish their lunch and leave by 1: 30pm. However, Janet and Claire were so engrossed in their conversation that they stayed chatting for another hour. They both found it hard to leave an intense and funny discussion, a chin wag mostly about the pitfalls of conceptual art and the stupidity of the art market. Their conversation also drifted off into other topics: Jeremy Corbyn, 60s jazz, electronic cigarettes, quantum computers, cuban vegetarian food, consensual slavery in the BDSM community, and the most efficient way to control your face during a poker game. They even talked about Joe and Loraine.
Neither Joe or Loraine know that Claire is friends with Janet.
Back at her flat, Janet sips a cup of tea at her office desk and opens her laptop to check her email. Her office is untidy. There are books all over the floor; books Joe either purchased for Janet or recommended to her between 1999 and 2002. Next to the books are iPods, kindles, CDs, manuscripts, drawings, skirts, jackets, hats, plastic cups, incense sticks, and candy wrappers.
Janet can see that there is an email in her inbox from Joe. She opens it excitedly to see how Joe has responded to the long and elaborate email she sent him four days earlier.
Janet reads every line of Joe’s email very carefully.
"Janet,
Where to begin…
I know it wasn’t easy writing to me after all these years. I appreciate your courage and honesty. I appreciate all the time and effort it took you to tell me all those things you felt you needed to say.
Believe it or not, it was a relief to hear from you again. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, recently. If you hadn’t emailed me, I would have eventually found a way to contact you. I don’t know how, but I could sense we both needed to talk to each other again. Those feelings were reaffirmed when I read all those beautiful sentences you sent me. It didn’t feel like I was reading text. It felt like a phone conversation, but even that’s not quite getting it right.
It was more like an old rock band had been re-united. When you have an idea and I feel something strongly about it, it’s like harmony. Very complex harmony. Maybe we’re not a rock band after all. Maybe we’re be-bop. Maybe John Zorn and Bill Frisell. That’s not quite right either. It’s more like being a 14 old boy, being seduced by a beautiful woman I should report to the police. You’d make an ace coke dealer, Janet. In some ways, you’re like cocaine to me.
But a little self-destruction is sometimes illuminating. I’m always learning something about myself when I communicate with you. The lessons can be painful. That doesn’t bother me though. Most of the things I learn about myself are painful. Being born was painful. And it’s been painful understanding just how much I miss having your thoughts in my life. It was strange seeing them again, like revisiting a confused childhood memory. Your words are like a swarm of beautiful and golden bees. I work hard to leave them alone.
In your email, you said many things I thought were unfair, insensitive, cruel, and otherwise full of shit. In a couple of places, you were just a mean cunt. Not a nice person. Maybe not even a good person. But that’s only one side of you. There are others. Too many for me to pretend that I understand how they all fit together. That’s why I’m writing you back. That’s why I haven’t told you to fuck off, even though I probably should have. You are a master at making me feel things I shouldn’t feel. You bring out the weepy old woman in me. I can only thank you for that.
Thank you for making it so hard for me to stay angry at you. Thank you for expressing yourself so openly. Thank you for explaining to me the entire history of our relationship and break up (from your perspective). It’s good for me to see myself through someone else’s eyes, once in a while. I’m glad I now know so much more about your mind and history than I ever did as a young lad. So much of what you said I wish I knew thirteen years ago. It might have helped me treat you like less of a dick.
For the record, I don’t hate your brain and never have. It’s an unusual brain in an unusual person; a sometimes horrible and unusual person. However, if there is one thing you’re not, it’s hateful. Pitiful maybe. But not hateful. And definitely not scary. Convincing you I was terrified of your brain was what I had to do in order to get you to break up with me. I know that’s callous and nasty-the epitome of youthful hubris and righteous insensitivity. I won’t even try to defend it. I know how much you loved me. I know how much I hurt you. But that didn’t stop me, as you know.
I can no longer atone or apologise for that in any meaningful way. I tried once before and wound up disfigured, traumatised, and suicidal. I haven’t fully worked through that experience, even though a decade has passed. In the present moment, I can only choose to follow your lead about not offering up excuses: What I did to you was unforgivable. I scarred you without considering the repercussions. I was a selfish little shithead; a sadistic and immature prick. You did nothing to deserve the way I let you go. You have nothing to feel guilty about, regards our break up or the lead up to it. I was a cruel fucking bastard, young and stupid, incapable of making the decisions I knew in my heart were the right ones.
In other words, I was just like you the day you shoved a fork in my face and left me for dead. I can understand how hard you wish you never did that. I hate my past as well. Like you, I wish I was a better person. When we were together, I wanted to be the person that held you up when life tore you down. But I wasn’t strong enough. I told you even then: You deserved to be loved by someone much better than me. It saddens me that you still feel that I’m the best you can do. It’s not even sad. It’s tragic. Your love for me is the worst thing I ever did to you.
I’m ashamed of it. I’m ashamed you’re still in love with someone who doesn’t deserve your love. It’s not that I’m ashamed because I think I don’t deserve love from anyone, mind you. I’m ashamed because you hate loving people who don’t deserve love from you. And yet you love me anyway. You love me even though it goes against everything you value in your life. I wish I could send that love back to you, accompanied by a hand written apology letter much longer than this email. Your love doesn’t feel like it’s meant for me. I feel like it belongs to someone else, someone more like my younger self.
Speaking of someone else, I can understand if you’ve been fantasising about sticking a fork into Loraine’s head. Like most human beings, Loraine can be a vile bitch when people take advantage of her. Her blog about me that you brought to my attention was sickening, but what I did to her before she composed it was far worse. I cheated on her, Janet. I broke the most sacred bond a man can have with a woman he loves. Loraine forgave me anyway. That’s how much she loves me.
I can’t blame you for being concerned about me though. If I were you, seeing the things from her that you’ve seen on your screen, I’d be worried about me too. I hate most of the shit Loraine puts on the internet. I cringe at her islamophobia. I can’t stand her weird Daily Mail Feminism. Even her mum gets angry when she reads the stuff Loraine writes on Facebook about how men can’t self-identify as women. And her mum hasn’t even seen the blogs you did. But there’s an important lesson here: Nothing Loraine has ever put on the internet has stopped her from being one of the most sought after dance instructors in the midlands. She makes far more money than I ever did.
Loraine teaches Children’s Gymnastic Dance, Child and Adult Tap, Adult Ballet, Children’s Theatre Dancing, as well as Adult Modern, and Freestyle Dancing for Teens. In the summers, she does Hip Hop and Jazz workshops (which amaze me because Loraine hates both Hip Hop and Jazz). Kids are constantly popping in and out of our home. They absolutely love her. If they have any kind of trouble in their lives, they let it out and she listens. She always gives them great advice. They even cry in her arms. If Loraine were a horrible person, this wouldn’t be happening.
I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but in person, Loraine is a sweetheart. Yes, she is a challenge, but she’s the kind of challenge that makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. We never talk about social issues or her blogs. We normally talk about things that need to be done in our home. Loraine, as you know, is very beautiful. I know you can’t understand this, but her beauty makes me very proud. Don’t misunderstand me. You’re beautiful too. But not like Loraine. I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as Loraine. Never in my life. There’s nothing that makes me prouder than the fact that I can look the way I do and still be in a relationship with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. For someone who looks like me, that’s like slaying a dragon.
I might worry about this pride if it weren’t for the fact that so many other things about Loraine impress me. Loraine is incredibly intelligent (she can do maths better than I ever could). She’s also amazingly hard working, great at motivating people, and incredible at remembering all the details of any task that makes our home run more efficiently. She teaches me so much. She’s taught me a myriad of practical skills (how to repair a boiler, install a toilet, and even build a woodshed). Because of her, I’m actually a decent cook today. She’s the reason I learned how to drive and can afford a nice car. Her career is the reason we can live where we live.
I don’t need to have intense conversations with Loraine. I have friends for that. Loraine stops me from hurting myself. She makes me feel good about the fact that I’m alive. She makes me laugh. She even installed a stripper poll in our bedroom so she could dance for me before we have sex. How many women are selfless enough to actually do that? Probably very few. And even less can do extended butterflies as well as Loraine. Loraine’s coordination, timing, and reflexes are absolutely cracking. But that’s only the beginning of what’s interesting about her.
One thing I know you’ll find quite interesting about Loraine is just how beloved she is in our little city. People love Loraine on the streets of Leicester. She can’t walk down Granby Street without strangers constantly saying hello. She’s like a local celebrity because of how much money she’s raised for charities that fund community arts projects, children’s health campaigns, and cancer research. She’s been in the Leicester Mercury at least a dozen times. Her dance classes have won awards. Like it or not, Loraine is an amazing person Janet. And as is the case with any amazing person, you can’t reduce them to how they behave on their worst days. Most of the time, Loraine isn’t just good for me. She’s necessary.
Without Loraine in my life, I don’t know where I’d be, or if I’d be. Loraine is like a boundary that keeps all the worst parts of me from overtaking, like the rock that crushes all the waves in me I can’t see. She doesn’t abuse me. She pushes the boundaries of what I’m capable of hearing, what I’m capable of learning from. We don’t have much in common but we don’t need to. Our relationship is about understanding differences, hearing uncomfortable truths. It’s more like art than masturbation, more punk than Pavarotti.
Loraine hates much of what I love and that’s ok. I get exposure to a radically different perspective when I talk to her. I get to see the world through a keyhole that used to frighten me. When I’m with Loraine, I feel like I’m getting the education I wish I had in school. She says all the things every middle class tutor who got off on backstabbing me would never say to my face. And I give her a willing audience for her behaviours, behaviours that never cease to fascinate and perplex me. On top of all that, she tells me every day that she loves me. As you know, I never got that as a child.
Of course, that doesn’t make our relationship a breezy stroll through the garden path of putrid, rom-com bliss. We’re flawed, not psychopaths. We love each other no matter how much we hurt each other. We love each other even when we hate each other. We love each other unconditionally, like two halves of a broken mirror, overlooking the wilderness. We don’t need to be smooth and perfect. We don’t need to be society’s fantasy. We don’t need to be a “healthy couple.” We can be ourselves and love each other for that. I’ve never had love like this before, especially not from you.
With you, I never felt love just because I was Joe. But you got my unconditional love, not wanting it. You wanted to earn my love. That makes me sad for you, even now. You’ll never know what it’s like to be accepted for who you are. You can’t accept yourself. You live like romance is just money-money in exchange for doing shit that delights people and keeps their crushes burning. There’s nothing more tragic to me than someone who believes the things you do. Nothing sadder, really.
I hate to tell you this Janet, but you’re an incredibly fucked up person. I’m not blurting this out because I’m trying to be mean. I’m trying to get you to see something: You need love you don’t earn as much as I do. No adult is completely an adult from head to toe. There’s a little selfish child in all of us that needs forgiveness and understanding. That little child in you is the reason I’m spending the rest of my life with one eye. You, of all people, need empathy you don’t deserve. That’s why your email is just a wee bit ironic.
Behind all that verbiage is a truth you won’t say: You want me to love and forgive you. You want to be loved in the very way you spent so many paragraphs denigrating. You want to be loved and forgiven in a way that’s too painful for you to even admit. So as punishment for being such a flagrant hypocrite, I’m going to give you half of what you want. I’m going to forgive you-and I hope it hurts. I hope you learn from this pain.
I forgive you for disfiguring me. I forgive you for not calling an ambulance or apologising. I forgive you for leaving me alone to bleed to death. I forgive you for all the cruel things you said to me before you nearly killed me. You don’t deserve forgiveness for any of that–you deserve contempt and you know it. But you’re going to be forgiven anyway. Like I do with Loraine, I’m choosing not to define you by the worst things you’ve done. I’m allowing you the potential to transcend all of that and be lovable anyway.
I know I should hate you. I should be frightened of you. I should have pressed charges against you for what you did to me. But I can’t feel anything for you other than affection. It feels physical, like my body can’t feel anything other than the deepest sadness when the mere thought of you rolls around my brain. What the fuck does that say about me? I don’t even know. But I do know why I hurt you. I know why I made you want to hurt me as badly as you did.
When we were in love, I was very happy. It was probably the happiest time of my whole life. That was the problem with it. There were absolutely no challenges. You were perfect in every way: beautiful, intelligent, interesting, kind, funny, charismatic, and so sexy it was freakish. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, I didn’t want to be in the perfect relationship. I wanted to be in a relationship where I could face challenges and feel like I’m accomplishing something.
I reacted the way I did to your diagnosis because it was just an excuse to break up with you. Something about our relationship didn’t feel right. It felt too idyllic. Too incredible. Too much like what every geekboy dreams about when they imagine the kind of life partner they could have if life were perfect; the way life would be if every woman were like Anna Karina in Pierrot Le Fou. If I were more religious than I already am, I might say being with you was like owning a brothel in heaven. When you fall in love with a person who seems so much like an angel, that’s when you know you’re fully dead inside.
I’m only happy when I feel alive, Janet.
In my day to day existence, I’m a teacher and a poet. But when I come home to a woman, I want to be a wild caveman. Because that’s so different to every other side of myself, it’s something I struggle with. I thrive off that struggle, like I thrive when I try my hardest to earn a decent living. I find great joy and relief when I can accept rather than judge my base brain, my lower self, all the grimier sides of my humanity. I spent too much of my youth beating myself up over imperfections. I don’t want to fight me anymore. I just want to accept who I am and live my life the best way that I can. I’m trying to be self-reflective, these days. Part of that involves being honest with myself. Not the hypocrite you still are.
I am not civilised. I’m selfish. I’m unhealthy both physically and mentally (and I look it). That’s why you will never find a pic of me on Facebook again (unless Loraine puts it there). I’m a nasty, ugly and self-harming pig. You are not. You are an extraordinary person because you have the brain of the ultimate pig, the deadly pig. Yet you have now trained yourself to act in a way that makes everyone else look like pigs in comparison. You are very civil that way. Maybe the ultimate expression of civility. But that’s not me. I am a naturally civilised person who wants to be a pig.
That’s the reason we were never a good couple. You want systems and I thrive off of chaos. You want to write books and I want to marvel at them. You want to use people and I want to accept them. You want to live a long life and I’d prefer to die young. That’s what we are. That’s what being honest with myself has taught me. I always knew I wasn’t good enough for you. Now I know why.
Unlike you, I can still love myself in all my failures and successes. I couldn’t do that when I was young and cute. It’s very liberating to no longer be the dashing and chiseled young bloke you fell in love with. It’s honestly a relief not having to be a pretty boy who girls fawn over. When women are attracted to me now, I know its because of me. Not how I look. So I don’t have to fuck them. I don’t feel obligated to anymore. I can fuck Loraine instead. She’s more attractive than all of them put together. And she has the courage to be proud of that. She’s not just proud of being beautiful, Janet. She’s proud of being MORE beautiful than most women.
Loraine is not afraid to say this to any woman she befriends who is self-harming. She’s not afraid to get angry at women who start lecturing her about body diversity. If any of her students gain weight, she tells them off in front of everyone else. She says things to them that, for me, would be incredibly humiliating. You’d think Loraine would have been sacked by now, but amazingly, she hasn’t. I think it’s because of how much her students respect her. They can see that she puts herself at risk, socially. She’s not afraid to make other women hate her. She’s not like me. She’s not weak. She won’t allow women to make excuses for not doing their best.
Loraine is proud of the fact that she’s a fighter; she fights to be as beautiful as she is. She’s proud of the fact that she’s not a typical Leicester girl; she doesn’t eat kebabs; she’s not self-pitying; she doesn’t settle for looking like anything other than what she wants to. She self-creates with exercise and healthy eating. She’s like a sculpture made of iron will; the ultimate expression of feminine energy. I know it’s easy for you to scoff at that. It’s easy for you to look down on the Loraines of the world; the people who actually fight to get rid of the physical insecurities the rest of us tolerate. Loraine isn’t bothered by this kind of snobbery. She looks down on the rest of us. She certainly looks down on me and has every right to.
At the end of the day, Loraine has made her body the opposite of mine. She has the most beautifully toned and limber thighs, Janet. She’s created, bar none, the most perfect abs on any woman I’ve ever seen. Her arse is hard, shapely, sculpted like fantasy made flesh. Her tits aren’t like tits; they’re like the pair of breasts all tits are an imperfect imitation of. She loves herself for that. She’s not afraid of being envied. Loraine is a woman who will tell you to your face how proud she is of her tight pussy. And why shouldn’t she be? She worked hard for that pussy and isn’t afraid to talk about it. Loraine can talk to you for hours about why you should do the Kegel exercises she does. She doesn’t care if that’s not lady like. She doesn’t care if it makes you uncomfortable. Loraine is fierce. She’s fierce in her individuality.
Loraine doesn’t want to live in a world where women let themselves down. She thinks all women have a responsibility to have a harmonious relationship with their bodies. Body confidence, for Loraine, is what helps women defend themselves from rapists and street attackers. It’s what makes women feel like they deserve to be in the beds they fuck in. It’s what allows women to be good role models for their sons and daughters. Loraine thinks there is nothing worse than a parent who doesn’t model self-care in their dieting and exercise habits. I don’t agree with Loraine about all of this, but I’m happy she thinks these things. And no, its not because I’m drowning in endless nights of amazing sex. Sex with Loraine is mediocre most of the time.
Loraine’s beauty and the importance it has to her is what’s not mediocre. It’s the reason receiving her love lets me know I’m good enough not to kill myself. It’s not just society that tells me I can’t be with someone who looks like Loraine. It’s also Loraine. I’ve overcome even her rules, Janet. It’s not just that I’ve made the most beautiful woman in Leicester want to love an ugly fat bastard like me. It’s more transformative than that. If I can make someone who values beauty as much as Loraine love all my rolls of fat, I know that I’m worth loving. I know something about me MUST be lovable. Because I’m lovable, I’ll never have to worry that becoming fat or old (or even disabled) will one day make Loraine go away. I can just be me and that will always be enough. Loraine hates people like me and loves me anyway. That’s the greatest compliment a woman can give a man. I feel like I’ve done something impossible: I made a beautiful woman who hates fat people love me.
This is what gives me hope in life. You can never trust your own lovability if the love you receive comes with conditions. That’s why I don’t want a relationship with my best friend. I don’t want a relationship even with someone I consider my equal. I want a relationship with someone I’m not supposed to have; someone mysterious to me, someone dangerous, someone I can master. Maybe this is because of how my mother made me feel, growing up. Or maybe it’s because I worry I can never really know people. Maybe its because I was in a relationship with my best friend before and that didn’t turn out so well.
Whatever the reason, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having a deep romance with interesting conversations and predictably hot sex. I don’t want to be with someone who is always working so hard to treat me with kindness, respect, and dignity. I don’t want to be bored again. I don’t want the banal luxuries that come with being “the happy couple.” Most of those privileges make me want to be sick. In our home, there are no pictures of me and Loraine on our shelves. We don’t need pictures when we see each other every day.
Our relationship doesn’t need to be freeze framed in a smile. That’s cold and inhuman. Our relationship is like fire. With Loraine, I thrive off of feeling like I’m winning a violent and brutal war, like I’m burning people alive so they won’t decapitate me. I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush of this; it’s absolutely intoxicating, like nothing in my wildest dreams. Other people don’t understand my thrills and I don’t need them to. To me, most people seem like empty holograms and I don’t have to hate them for that either.
I don’t need society to approve of me. I need to do what makes me feel passionate. There’s nothing that stirs me like the moments when I can’t predict what will make a woman incredibly angry with me. It’s better than the biggest orgasms. It makes even the best sex feel like a trivial afterthought. I never got that pleasure from you. You were always so kind, so witty, so intelligent, so seductive, and if I’m honest, so boring and reasonable.
I felt like an indulged child. I felt like you knew me inside out and always delighted me with surprises I didn’t ask for. Every day, I felt like I was getting everything I ever wanted from a woman. For me, that literally feels like decapitation. Especially if none of it’s genuine. I’ll take anger over kindness if there is truth in the anger. Truth is far more exciting than placation. And Loraine is far more exciting than you could ever be. She’s far more exciting than you, even though she’s far less sexy. That’s how much sex matters to me now. Erections are a poor substitute for adrenaline rushes.
What excites me these days is love, truth, honesty, loyalty, support, passion, and forgiveness. And on that front, Loraine soars like an eagle. You were more like a beautiful snake; a snake I’m wise enough to not let near me again; a snake it’s a relief to consign to my past. Or at least it was a relief. Now I don’t know what it is.
Probably 80% of my brain is happy you are part of a past that’s long gone. Probably 90% is happy I now have the relationship I’ve always wanted. 95% of my brain knows it should hate you and it really really wants to. But I’m not strong enough. There’s another weakness in me you can take advantage of. I’m so so angry at you… and yet hearing you describe your feelings for me had me sobbing. I don’t understand why such a small part of me has so much power over all the rest.
What I do understand is that I still like you, though not in a romantic way. You can relax-this like for you is conditional. I like you because you aren’t like anyone I’ve ever known. You’re more like a piece of music than a person; a music too cool for us mere mortals to really hear without years of repeated listenings. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but neither do most of my feelings. That’s another reason we were never good together.
I was never really on your wave length. I was in awe of you. I still am, even though it’s wounding to admit that. I love your insight and creativity, but those aren’t the parts of you that make me jealous. The parts of you I wish I had are your strength and bravery. Even more than that, I wish I had your self-love. I fell in love with you because I was a young fool; I didn’t have good boundaries with people. I had never met anyone who could be so caring and yet stand up for themselves so easily when they needed to. I can’t follow your example but I’m glad I got to see what it looks like. I can’t be like you but you do inspire me, even now. How odd is that?
Don’t waste your time trying to understand it because you can’t. I can’t understand it anymore than you. It’s a much more worthwhile endeavour to be honest instead of trying to understand everything in great detail. In the spirit of that honesty, I can only say again how horrible you make me feel. I feel horrible because we hurt each other so badly. I feel horrible because I can’t really see things turning out any other way. We needed to end. I know that doesn’t mean we aren’t both still hurting very badly.
If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who has feelings they have to shove down. Despite everything that has happened and everything you have done to me, you can erase all my ambivalences with a few strokes of your keyboard. Like an orchestra conductor, you can make me miss you on cue. I miss you badly, Janet. I miss talking to you. I miss cumming in your mouth. I even miss being terrified on roller coasters, squeezing your hand. For better or for worse, I wish you could hurt me one last time. I’m an idiot and I self-harm. You do neither of those things. And so I miss you the way I breathe. I can’t help it.
Maybe that’s why you’re still magical to me, even though I don’t believe in magic. You might be the most magical illusion in the world: the psychopath who can learn to love and be as normal as anyone else; maybe better than normal. I can’t say whether or not you’re a good person. But I can tell you this: You’re better than Hitler. You’re better than Jimmy Saville. You’re better than Katie Hopkins. You’re better than my best friend. You’re better than a boring and miserable bitch. You’re better than my mother. You’re maybe even better than Loraine. But none of that matters. Love isn’t about what you deserve. Like, however, is a different story.
I still like you, Janet. I like you so much, I want to cry. I’m so sad I can’t like you more. So unbelievably sad I am who I am. But I can cope with the sadness for a change. I can even cope with once having loved you, although that love was just a product of deception. But hey, that’s how the human being blossoms till it burns out, like everything else in the fucking stars.
Feelings are shadow play, nonsense, a good night out under too many mojitos and a thumping bass line. Feelings can cloud your judgement, impede your vision, distorting the lens that should be pointing you towards your higher self. I’m not sure I have one of those but I’m positive you do. So regardless of how it makes either of us feel, we both have to face reality: we are over. You have a life you should value. I damage lives, not just eyeballs.
As fucked up as you are my dear, you’re a few paces better than yours truly, a few rungs higher on the consciousness ladder. Even though you’re officially a bad person, you’re still too good for me. I can’t repeat this enough. I’m ok with it and you should be as well. It’s an odd stroke of luck, a little pathway upwards, a gift wrapped courtesy of God. Or whatever.
For my sake, just try to be be happy and live your amazing life. You don’t need me in it, the way you once did. Don’t let your memory of me stop you from living in the present, living at your best. Love is blind but you can open your eyes. Don’t let your memory of me stop you from opening your heart to someone else who can love you far better than I ever could. Don’t miss out on that because of me. You honour your memory of me if you can lead the best life you can without fear or hesitation. Your life is too precious to sabotage over an ex-boyfriend who was far too flawed to love you the way you needed to be loved.
So please, on behalf of that ex-boyfriend, find someone you deserve and grab him. Love him conditionally. Fuck his brains out. And charm him enough so that he doesn’t see all the self-interest rotting underneath your vivacious personality. Don’t try so hard not to hurt him. He might like how powerful and strong you are. I certainly do.
I’ll write you a poem you can read aloud at your wedding. It will be short, pretty, and have nothing in it but the most polite and bland lies about love; like the Corinthians poem you love so much; the one that expresses shame at the way love actually works. But if shame is what works for you, I can play along. But not in this email.
Love, my darling Janet, is impatient. It’s not kind. It’s boastful and proud. It dishonours the memory of others, it’s self-seeking. Like Loraine, it angers easily. And like you, it keeps record of wrongs. But it’s not all bad. Like you, it doesn’t delight in evil. And like Loraine, it rejoices in the truth. Of course, love doesn’t always protect and trust. It doesn’t always hope and it certainly doesn’t persevere.
But you do. And I love that about you so much, Janet. I don’t have the words to tell you how much I love that about you. And that’s why I’m choosing love over you. I need love right now. Not what you give me. What you give me is better than love but I can’t handle it. It’s too powerful and I’m too damaged to be able to take it with grace. If you allow me to take centre stage in your life, even as a friend, I’m certain I will make things much worse for you. Let me be in the background.
Let me just write you that poem when you get married. Let me love my memory of you, the memory of all the things you were before I hurt you.
That’s all I can give you, apart from my forgiveness. That’s all I have left in me.
Joe"
After finishing the email, Janet rolls her eyes.
Joe’s words are drenched in three things Janet hates: hypocrisy, inconsistency, and self-pity. There are also remarks in Joe’s email that Janet finds unfair, delusional, stupid, reactionary, self-destructive, and incredibly insulting. Janet can tell Joe is trying to make her angry; he’s trying his hardest to push her away from him. However, Joe’s email contains an additional quality that makes the above elements comparatively unimportant to Janet:
It makes her feel loved. Janet can feel love for her in Joe’s words."
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