At the end of July, I drove to LA to fill all the divorce paper with my ex-husband. The heart was broken, the grief was real, the closure not yet reached. That same night, I thought I shouldn't be alone and went to a support group for trans and non-binary people. There, I saw you for the first time. You, sharing the name my ex took after he left me, seemed to shine like the sun, seemed like a sign from the universe that the future was looking brighter than the bleak years I had just spent. For two weeks, I was terrified. Terrified it was all in my head, terrified I was projecting, terrified I wasn't good enough for you. I was doubting everything, any sign of your interest, your smiles, your hello and goodbye hugs, the look in your eyes. For two weeks, I held my breath; during group meetings, while hanging out, during our first walk around town at sunset while seeing dolphins for the first time; for every text, every comment, every picture, my heart would skip a beat. And then you invited me over for dinner and said "it's a date!" I could not believe it, thought I was dreaming. After hours spent with you, laughing, talking, sharing, living for the first time in a while, I finally took a deep breath and said it. "I have the biggest crush on you." And you said "me too." And we waited before kissing, we kept talking and sharing and laughing. And then we kissed and the atmosphere got electrifying. You would stop from time to time to yell "woooooow." We were both surprised, both thought we would never find anything like that, both felt we'd live alone for a while. The next two days we shared could easily have belonged to the most perfect movie. "I really really fucking like you," you kept repeating, during the day, between kisses, while our bodies were merging. "I haven't had a crush on someone in two years." "I haven't felt anything like this in a very long time." "We are so different but it makes us so compatible." "You are the most empathetic and caring person I have ever met." "You are the first person I have ever been with who has never pressured me to do anything." "You are the first person I have told this to, and your reaction was so loving and positive, I could not believe my eyes." "You are the best sex I have ever had." "Please tell me this will never stop, please tell me you won't disappear tomorrow." "You are stuck with me for quite a while, I will never run away." "My mom is looking forward to meet you next week." "I am so happy I've met you." "I am so grateful to have you in my life." And then I said it. Love. I told you I thought this could be love. The word scared you. You said you would take your time, but wouldn't run. The night continued; we talked, shared, laughed. Took a bath, kissed for hours, and had sex. You kept saying "I really really fucking like you." While I was ready to leave, you pulled me back to you, didn't want me to, said you were in denial that I had to. You made plans for us to meet in the morning, and then I left. Happy and reassured. This one won't abandon me, this one is the one, I thought. I believed. The next day, my good morning text was met with "I'm anxious, I haven't slept, we need to talk." And I knew right away. I knew everything was gonna be taken away for me, once again, I knew I would lose everything, once again. I cried the whole morning, my heart split in half, venom pouring from my lips to my ears. How could I have been so naive? So stupid to even believe? I should have known. Good things don't happen to me. I cried more while driving to meet you. When I entered the room, your eyes were dead and cold, a complete 180 from the eyes of the night before, the one who had looked at me with twinkles and warmth while whispering I really fucking like you. And I knew even more. Decisions had been made over night, we were through. Your words sounded like lies, nothing made sense, my head was spinning. I told you it seemed you were afraid something that good could happen, that the fear pushed you to convinced yourself I wasn't good for you, I wasn't made for you, I wasn't the one for you. You simply responded no. My attraction to you has changed. When I look at you, I feel nothing. These words broke me. But it gets even worse. You told me we could still be friends, that we had shared a lot, and that the group would always remain a safe space for me. That night during group, you looked distraught, but I could tell there was still a spark between us, something hard to contain, but which was causing pain now instead of joy. Even your goodbye hug was back to normal. That night, you crumbled. The next day, we were supposed to go on a date to see a friend play at a restaurant, a good-bye concert it was. Of course, the date wasn't gonna happen, but I still wanted to see him one last time. When I arrived, we didn't exchange a word, the atmosphere was tense, you were clearly struggling. When he started to sing songs of love and romance, you started to cry. "As soon as you entered the room, I knew you were the one," one song said. You left before the end. Went home with two of your friends. And relapsed. That night, your text might as well left me for dead. "I have a lot of emotions to process, you are very triggering to me, I cannot see you for a while." From the highest highs to the lowest lows, from the source of intense happiness to the cause of extreme pain, from "I really really fucking like you" to "you're very triggering to me." In less than 48 hours. The world you had created for me, the one in which hope and love and joy and greatness were possible, that world you shattered in a heartbeat, that world you erased, and you erased me with it too. Now I am back in the depths. Back to the world in which I am unwantable, unlovable, undesirable; inexistant. The dangerous element one needs to erase, no more than a pest. No explanations and no reasons. Overnight, from the heavens to hell. Like so many times before. Why do so many people want to get rid of me, after having confessed such powerful strong positive feelings? Why can't I ever be allowed to exist? The repetition is triggering; anxiety and despair madly trying to complete the erasure. I lost 12 pounds in a week. I started smoking close to a pack of cigarettes a day. Tears everyday, pain everyday, and now the emptiness. At the end of Morrison's Beloved, Sethe laments she has lost her best thing. Paul D, her lover, tries to convince her that she is her best thing, and the novel ends with Sethe asking "Me? Me?" I have lost you, my best thing, as well. I miss you, my best thing, miss your spirit, miss your heart, miss your body, miss your laugh, miss your eyes, miss your smell, miss your lips, miss the sounds you make when you came, miss what we were, miss what we could have been, I miss you. Everyday that goes by, especially the ones you had planned things for us. On Tuesday for example, instead of seeing you perform your songs with love in my eyes, instead of meeting your mom and having fun and being the luckiest person on Earth, instead of sleeping with you and hearing you moan "I really really fucking like you," I was home alone, binge-eating. Trying to purge and failing. Staring at the ceiling with knives in my thoughts and venom under my tongue. And no one is there to convince me I am my best thing.
