Dear piece of trash,

Lately, I’ve been suffering from some crippling writer's block. Or more easily put “life block.” And I mean this in all seriousness. I am still scared, and I am still broken. However, I may tremble as I type but I am no longer ignorant to the type of person my ex is. I’m ready to share the reasons for my lack of articles and poems, the reason I nearly failed two classes this semester, and the reason I barely left my house for nearly two weeks.

In all seriousness, I am not writing this article to seek revenge on you.

I’m writing this for the girl sitting on her bedroom floor crying so hard it hurts, for every heave made from a sadistic slice at her self-esteem, for the pain that people like you inflict on people like her. I’m writing this article to show girls that saying you love someone and showing them the opposite is not love at all. Most importantly, I’m writing this (though you may never read it) to show that I am done being a marionette that dances for your entertainment.

And I will never ever run back to the person who broke me again. No, my ex never physically hit me, but sometimes I would prefer he did. You see it would have been a little clearer that I was, in fact, being abused. But emotional abuse, narcissistic abuse... I never heard of such a thing until I was scrolling through my phone looking for answers, something to make the pain in my stomach go away, something to make me get out of bed and get on with my day.

When I met my ex, I was immediately head over heels.

He was funny, charming, and I quote myself here “too nice.” Yes, I even said that to him “I don’t understand why you’re so nice to me.” To which he replied, “I don’t have to be this nice, I want to.” We ended up spending time with each other every single day that summer.

As soon as I was done with work, I would meet him, vice versa. He took me out to dinner, lunch. We went to the beach, hiked in the trails, we even broke into an abandoned mansion. I thought I found the guy I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So, when the red flags began to appear I was far too preoccupied.

He asked more questions than he spoke about himself, and I became his shotgun rider. I never cared what we did or where we went, and I never minded letting him decide. I took pictures of him for his Instagram of all the beautiful, and interesting spots that our adventures took us. This was the first red flag I failed to see.

Everything was good and fine until things got more serious when we got closer and my anxiety started to show. Once our relationship turned into a “relationship” things started to change. He got comfortable in knowing he had me. Although he refused to establish the relationship on Facebook. Again, another red flag that I dismissed.

Once he got comfortable I noticed, being the blunt woman I am, I began to vocalize my anxiety about his lack of effort, and the red flags I started to pick up on. The relationship was long distance, so naturally, like any long-distance couple we visited each other, or I visited him. Four times. And for my 21^st birthday, I went to New York City to spend it with him.

That was my 21^st birthday present from my father. Being able to visit my long-distance boyfriend one more time than I would have had. He, of course, was excited as we were planning the weekend. He said we were to get dinner in the city and pregame at their apartment with all his friends and then go out to the bars, I, of course, ate it all up. When I got there the plans suddenly changed. He was tired and stressed, in need of escaping the city for a weekend. Instead, we drove to Connecticut to stay at your house, I went to your game against Yale and adored you sitting on the bench causing mayhem.

We stayed at your house and I helped your mom make candy hands for trick-or-treaters. On the eve of my 21^st and honestly, I was happy as a clam to see a movie instead of going out at school with my friends like I should have. Why? Because it meant I got to spend more time with you. The fact that you made my 21^st birthday about you didn’t even phase me. Nor the fourth time I came home Thanksgiving, when you asked me to meet you out in Stamford at the bars because, you wanted all your friends to meet me.

Yes, I LET you go to your ‘guys’ pregame alone like you asked. I got dressed up nice, just how you asked me to. Then I drove twenty minutes to my brothers, took an uber to downtown only to call you several times once I got there, yes, my own boyfriend asked me to meet him at the bars on Thanksgiving eve, and yes, he left me waiting in the freezing cold to walk around in the city alone because he was "busy."

After a drink alone at a small bar, courtesy of the nice gentlemen who were compelled to ask just why a girl like me was out alone at night. Why? Because my boyfriend never went to Stamford, he went to a bar in Darien and never told me about his change in plans. You finally got around to calling at last call and amid frenzy on the busiest night of the year, I finally catch a 45-dollar cab.

What did you say once I finally found you? You laughed and said, “why are you so mad? I love you.” Well let me tell you something, I thought you did because I was too blinded by my own love to see that it wasn't love at all. It's just downright disrespect. Little did I know the worst was yet to come. I had just gotten bit by a shark and instead of swimming to shore or waving a life guard to help, I sat there bleeding, like a sitting duck. You, the great white, sniffing my blood.

The first of the comments started out subtle. Nothing I hadn’t heard before. You mention how you liked girls with long hair, dirty blonde, while mine was short and bleached. You talked about how nice your ex dresses and even showed me pictures but nothing could prepare me for how you would use all my insecurities and skeletons you dug up over time to use them against me.

The fact that I used to be bullied in middle school, people calling me emo and every other horrible name in the book. This, the gas lighting from the person who I loved and trusted the most, that is what broke me over everything.

Soon, you began to talk less and question me. Remember that time you answered my face time right before I was about to go out with, “Why do you look so emo?” This started a fight and yes I had to leave the party because I could not stop crying. I recall crying on the phone with my friend Ben, him telling me, “Fuck this kid Hayley, you’re better than changing yourself to fit his desires.” Only it was too late. He had his hooks in me, I was convinced that the fairy tale romance of the summer would come back, it had to.

This behavior went on for a few months, the comments never stopped and escalated into explosive arguments, each time you respond with something along the lines of, “You’re overreacting.” or “See I can’t even have a conversation without you acting crazy.” Yes, this was when the ‘crazy making’ started, and you dug up my mom’s diagnosis and brought it upon yourself to state that I was probably bipolar too. “It’s hereditary, and as a psychology major I know you meet all the criteria.”

Shortly after you left me with no real explanation, no closure other than you didn’t like how I dressed. You threw me to the floor and watched me shatter into a million pieces, then you hoovered because you needed a narcissistic supply of my severe depression and exasperated anxiety disorder that was too much to handle. You broke my spirit, and shattered me into a million pieces, then said you can’t love anyone this broken.

The only text you ever sent me was your therapist's number, which I know was only a power move since, as someone who was tied to you, we cannot see the same therapist. If you’re reading this then yes, I called her, and yes she told me to take her online program called Overcoming Love Addiction. That’s rich! Or she is from a stupid self-help book and course. But don’t worry I got over you without the course, and I learned the most valuable lesson in my life, and that is my worth. Thank you for breaking me, I'm putting the pieces back without you!

Sincerely, The Love Addict