Dear “friend,”

This is hard to say. It’s never easy to end a relationship, especially one of many years; however, we’re not healthy. Nor were we ever.

For years, I have called you my friend, my companion. I have turned to you in times of need, in times of struggle, when I am stressed. I have turned to you consistently, even when we haven’t seen each other in a while, because I know you’ll always be there. You’re consistent, that much I can say. The problem is, you’re consistently abusive.

I turn to you in the darkness, but I’ve begun to notice that you are the darkness. That you create it, you become it, and you pursue it. You’ve disguised yourself as a friend. You’ve hugged me through my pain, digging a knife into my back simultaneously, and hugging me tighter as I say it’s getting harder. Your companionship creates pain, and when you tell me you can fix it, you make it worse.

You’ve been my company for about seven years now. Seven years. That’s a long history to cut ties with, but it's been seven years too long. I remember our fifth anniversary far too well and I refuse to live it again, in greater intensity, on the tenth.

I know you’ll argue that you’re my best friend, that I can’t live without you. I know you’ll argue that I need you, that we’ll always be together. I believed that wholeheartedly once, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t have my doubts. But you are my worst enemy, and I can’t live with you. I need to not have you, and we cannot be together.

You have abused me, mentally and physically. You have cut me down, broken me. You’ve told me that I am hideous, that I do not deserve anything or anyone that will treat me well. You've told me that I can survive on an apple a day. You’ve told me that I’m grotesquely fat, that every inch of my body is two inches too much. You’ve told me that ribs are more beautiful than my happiness, that my hip bones are sexier than living past 40. You’ve disguised these attacks as honesty, as character building, as striving for greatness. You’ve told me that staying with you is strong. That to leave you would be weak. You’ve fooled me into thinking that I am stronger, powerful, and more in control with you.

The only mantra I’ve ever known, that I’ve ever stuck to, is the one you told me. Hunger is strength. The only life I’ve ever known is the one where you tie my arms back, sew my mouth shut, and refuse me joy.

You told me as a young girl, at 13, that I deserved what I was getting. That if I had you, I could be in control. You told me at 14 that I did not need anything if I had you. You told me at 15 that we were together, and you imprisoned me to your strongest ability. You stole my friends, my family, and my joy. You weakened my bones, you injured my body, you took my hair. You took my body and my mind. You took the color from my face and the twinkle from my eyes. You made me a disrespectful, unaware robot. You took my youth from me, and I will never get it back.

At 18, you took my college from me. You sent me to the hospital, you robbed me of my experience. I lived in a hospital, isolated from the world, because you were too selfish to let me live.

At 19, you tried to take my life. This slow murder wasn’t quick enough, I suppose.

You’re very much a part of me, but I am no longer a part of you. You know my family all too well. You’ve come on every vacation, come to every holiday since I can remember.

In Europe you were selfish. In Europe, I was too fat to enjoy the flavors and the culture. I was too weak, too lonely, too sad to be without you, I wouldn’t be able to control my emotions if I didn’t have you. On my birthdays, you stole my cake. You made me look at my family, my grandparents, and say no. I did not want this. On Halloween, you sent me to the ER and put me on an IV and stole yet another memory. On Christmas, you stole everything. I will never forgive you, never, for stealing Christmas.

You’ve made me mean, you’ve made me hurtful. You made me one of the nastiest people I knew, to the people I love more than anything.

Ironically, you’ve made me stronger. You have not made me weak. You didn’t cut my wings, you fed them, and helped them grow. It was you that made me strong enough to leave you.

You sent me to hell, but it’s time for me to go home. It’s time for my siblings to have their sister back. They don’t really like you, and I like them more than you. So it’s time for you to go. It’s time for my parents to have their daughter back. They’ve seen me at my weakest, at my strongest, and they have loved me through it all. You only love me at my weakest, and that’s something I can’t maintain. They hate you, and it’s time to make them proud. It’s time for my boyfriend to have the girl he sees most of the time, all of the time. He may not know me without you, but I do, and that’s who I want him to know. It’s time for me to have me back. It’s time for me to love me, unlike the way you “love” me. I’ve had my fill of abusive relationships, and I’m ready to be without you. I do not need you.

I will probably see you around. You’ll wave to me in the grocery store and tell me to turn the container so I can see the label. You’ll poke my fat as I study and tell me that there are more important things. You’ll watch me as I workout, laughing. You’ll see me out with my friends and try to pull me away. Sometimes, you might win. You might. But you need to know that your losses are beginning to outweigh your wins. Your shackles are loosening, and I’m preparing to break free.

I know you won’t let me go without a fight, without a battle, but seven years of you has made me strong. Seven years of doctors, needles, therapy, and abuse have made me resent you. So just know, old “friend”—we’re done. And you’ll need to accept that.