Dear Brad Smith

Dear Brad Smith,

             Yes, I know that is not your real name, but one day I hope to have enough balls to show this letter to my clients in hopes that it will help them in some capacity, so for your own sake, we are going to call you Brad Smith. I have been thinking about you a lot lately, maybe it’s because you were brought up in therapy last week, maybe it’s because you texted me last week, maybe it’s because your birthday is on Saturday, but I’ve been thinking about you. It’s kind of ironic, when you came up in therapy the other week must therapist told me to write you a letter about all of the things I wish I could have said to you. I laughed at her because you and I both know what happened to the last letter I wrote you. I doubt you forget the one I poured my heart out to you and you proceeded to bring it into work and share it with all of our mutual friends. I remember when Donna called me, Nate texted me, and Chris let me know what you had done. How you had laughed at the letter, called my crazy, passed it around to everyone hoping they would make fun of me. I remember getting the call that night and spending the rest of the night on the floor crying in my apartment, feeling like my heart had been ripped out of my chest and run over multiple times with a semi-truck. I remember feeling like I was going to throw up and utterly humiliated that you did that to me. I remember you used to say to me “You know me, I’m not a bad guy” but it felt like you were a pretty terrible person in that moment. It’s kind of funny, that is the last time I truly remember crying to the point I thought I was going to break. That was the last time I felt so many emotions rushing to the surface and looking back, was the moment that made me feel unsafe in what I was feeling, so congratulations on that.

            Smith, I know how much you hated when I used to call you by your last name, so allow me to be petty in this moment as I recall the time you broke my heart. It’s funny, I have so many memories of you, but I can not remember the first day I met you. You would think I would remember the day that I met you since you had such an impact on my life, but honestly, I don’t. You were just another frat brosif guy who I don’t even think I liked at the beginning. But somewhere down the line, not only did we become friends, but roommates. You remember that day? I went out drinking with Donna and came back to the restaurant we worked at, and you begged me to let you stay in my spare bedroom in my apartment. I remember going to Chris and Daniels stuff later that night to pick up your pillow with that stupid football pillowcase. “Just for a few nights” you said, but we both know a few nights, turned into a few weeks, turned into a few months. We went out together, shared dating stories together, drank together, grew closer.

            You were the whore of Arlington, I was the girl bouncing from one relationship to another, we were quiet a pair. You would make fun of me and the guys I dated: Mark was too clingy, Murry was a divorcee, you would find girl on Ok Cupid and go out on dates claiming you wanted to find the “one” and yet whore around town. We would eat dinner together, hang out on the couch and watch movies, work together. I still have videos of you doing drunken karoke at a drag club, you drunk off your ass at Bob and Edith’s dressed in a penguin costume at Halloween, photos of our nights at Whitlow’s, bar hopping in Clarendon. I remember the time the Buccaneers were losing the game and you punched a hole through your bedroom door, I remember the flowers you bought my after and the apology note you wrote. I remember watching Fight Club with you on the couch when it was snowing outside. You were all bent out of shape that I hadn’t seen it and you forced me to watch it. After the movie, you went outside to shovel the driveway for our landlord, and I fell asleep on the couch. Remember, scaring the shit out of me by slamming on the window and waking me up? We were close and somewhere along the way, not really sure when it happened, but I started to care about you more than a friend.

            I remember the first time we kissed, do you? We had both gone out and gotten drunk, like we typically did, and came back to the apartment to watch tv. You stole the remote and stood in front of the tv blocking my view, so I pulled down your pants. You tackled me to the ground and some how we ended up wrestling, like every fucking cliché rom com ever. I remember you had me pinned on the ground and I couldn’t move. I know I started it, I made the first move. I had no way of getting out from underneath you so I kissed you. I don’t even think I had feelings for you at that point, maybe subconsciously I did, but I remember kissing you, and the feeling of you kissing me back. I remember the rush, I remember what almost happened, and I remember stopping it. Maybe I should have let it go? Maybe I should have had sex with you and gotten it over with. Maybe that would have helped me release whatever fucking hold you have had on me for 10 years. Maybe if I would have fucked you, I wouldn’t have been playing the what-if game in my head, romanticing our relationship together in my head. Maybe if I would have fucked you, I would have realized that you were a selfish lover and never touched you again. But I didn’t. I stopped it.

            Although I initiated the first time, we both know it wasn’t me the second time. The night you came home from the bar and I was asleep on the couch because my Mom was visiting. How you crawled onto the couch, how you removed the covers from me. How you slowly kissed me and tried to remove my clothes. I may have started this bullshit, but you were a willing participant in it all. I remember I you said something fucked up to me that night, as you were nudging your hard on against my body. Honestly, I don’t remember what you said, but I do remember jumping up and telling you to get the fuck off of me, told you that you were drunk and to go to bed. I should have fucked you that night. I should have just done it. I should have allowed you to drunken grope me so that I could stop thinking about it. We both know what would have happened, you probably would have cum in less than 5 minutes, made me feel like shit because of it, and then you would have stumbled into your room. Only to wake in the morning with a “my bad” not knowing how much you hurt me, probably not even caring.

            As my feelings grew, I sat there and watched you whore yourself around one girl after another. And you know what, Smith, we both know I wasn’t the only one feeling these feelings either, although you would allow me to drive myself crazy because you would never admit it. You sent me mixed signals, and I ate them up because that is what I believe I deserved. And trust me, I know that I am also to blame in the demise of our friendship. I know I acted poorly, you needed space, and I wouldn’t give it to you. To be honest, I don’t remember much of the time after I moved out and got my own place. You broke my heart, Smith, and I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to handle all of the emotions that came up when that happened and so I drank. Jesus, did I drink. I wanted to numb everything you were making me feel, I wanted to forget it all, and so night after night I would go drinking with Chris all in hopes of getting you off my mind, but we both know how that turned out. Me doing something fucking beyond stupid, picking a fight with you, arguing, all in hopes that you would just be honest with me. You know I don’t drink that much anymore because of you? Because of that time after our fight, it shames me not knowing what exactly I did to cause you to become so fucking mad at me. I loved you back then, and I didn’t know how to handle that. Honestly, I wish I could have been more mature, I wish I wouldn’t of drank to numb the pain, and just dealt with it. But I didn’t and we can’t change the past.

            When you stopped talking to me, you broke my heart, and I don’t blame you, but also just want to admit you had a part in this twisted relationship. It wasn’t just me who fucked up, it was both of us. You broke me, Smith, and no one has ever broken me. I trusted you and when you brought that letter into work, you broke my fucking heart. Whether we were just roommates or something more, no matter how much I fucked up, I didn’t deserve that.  I didn’t deserve to be humiliated, especially by you. By the person who I used to see every single night before I went to bed, to the person I used to see first thing in the morning, to the person I used to bake those fucking stupid oatmeal cookies for. I loved you and you treated me as if I was absolutely nothing in some pathetic attempt to look cool in front of our friends. Was that what it was? You made me hate myself on a level I don’t think I have ever really recovered from. You made me not trust myself and you made me shut myself down emotionally.

            You broke me so much I moved out of the state, I had to get that far away from you, and yet it didn’t help. I thought of you all the time and when you eventually started talking to me again, months later, I was so happy. I wanted to talk about all of this, I wanted to clear the air between us, but you wouldn’t talk about it. You kept pushing it aside not wanting to address it, and I was happy to do that. I just wanted to have you back in my life again. I just wanted you again. You were my best friend at one point, before all of this shit went down between us, and I wanted my best friend back, so I let us brush it under the rug. I never got to speak my peace for you because I cared about you so much I was willing to just let all the pain go for the chance to have you in my life again. I remember the summer I was interning in New York City at Del Posto and we would g-chat every single day. I remember the one time I jokingly sent you a picture of an engagement ring on my finger and when I told you that it was a joke you replied “thought you gave up on me.” Do you remember that? Probably not, because as I am realizing every day, your significance in my life doesn’t match mine in yours.

            As the years have passed, we have still kept in touch. A random text message here and there. Every Christmas a message about Christmas Vacation, a meme sent “Why is the carpet all wet, Todd?” “I don’t know, Margo” a ‘You serious, Clark” exchange. A yearly message from me to you on your birthday, and one from you on mine. We’ve both moved on, we both have gotten married, and you have a beautiful son. I received a “I’m engaged” text from you, a “I’m a Dad” text, photos of your son. I told you I am writing a book, you joked that I should dedicate it to you, we are good. But, you know what, Smith, I’m not good. It’s 10 years later and I am still reeling from everything. I am still upset because we never spoke about it, I never got to tell you how you made me feel, how insignificant you made me. How I stopped trusting myself because of you, how I spent years numbing all of my emotions in order to not feel as deeply as I felt back then. And it makes me feel pathetic, Brad, because you don’t deserve this much of my energy and you haven’t for years, and yet here I am writing this stupid fucking letter to you that you will never read. And even if you did, you would dismiss, invalidate, and not give a fucking shit about because that is who you truly are.

            You’d probably think I was pathetic for still holding onto this shit because it doesn’t matter to you anymore. But honestly, I don’t give a fuck about how you feel about me writing this letter. And although you may have moved on, it’s obvious that I haven’t because you were the catalyst in something so much bigger.  You invalidated my feelings, denied your own, and broke the trust I had in you. And I guess this letter is my way of finally letting go of all this bullshit I have been holding onto. All of this guilt and shame over the situation, all of this pain, all of the walls I have built around myself because of you. I have become so fucking guarded because of you, not allowing myself to fully experience love, joy, trust, all because I allowed you to. I have spent so much time and energy on thinking about this situation that I have practically drove myself mad.

            And the most pathetic thing about this whole fucking letter is that I know somewhere deep down inside I thought we would end up together. So fucking twisted. I thought that somewhere down the line fate would intervene and we could have this conversation and move past it. Blame it on the rom coms I am bombarded with, but I have believed that you would be back in my life in some way. I mean, you can’t deny you felt something, when I am not the only one reaching out via text. I am still on your mind is one way or another, but that doesn’t matter anymore, because this letter is my final goodbye to you, Smith.

            Because you never did and never will deserve me. Because you never deserved the tears, the pain, the emotions that I have wasted over you the last decade. You know I googled you the other day since you don’t have any social media platforms. I found your linkedin, and I laughed. You looked exactly the same, glad to see you didn’t go bald because I was in fear for you with the receding hairline, and I had a moment where I thought “this fucking guy?” This guy is the one who made you hurt so bad you felt like you were going to puke? This guy is the one who you’ve spent hours of your life thinking about? This guy the one you have dreams about? This fucking guy!?!?!

            And I hope one day this letter makes it way to you because one day I will release this shit to the world, on my fucking terms this time. I hope you actually read it and recognize what a fucking douche bag you were to me. I hope you feel a fraction of the pain that you made me feel, just a little, even if that is petty as fuck. I deserve the right to be petty with you, Brad. We were toxic, you were toxic. And although I played my part in this shit, at least I have the balls enough to admit that, at least I am man enough to own my shit. I wish I could say this to you face, but I don’t think I would have the balls. I would probably become some stuttering fucking mess of a woman seeing you again. That is why I have successfully avoided you even though we have lived in the same city for a decade.

            Do you remember the last time we saw each other? When I moved back to DC two years after all of this shit went down? Remember meeting at the bar down the street from your house in Arlington? Remember how I tried to bring this up and you laughed it off and pushed it aside. You had been drinking before I showed up right? Because that is all I ever was to you, a fall back person when you were drunk and alone. Remember going to your apartment sitting across from me on your couch. Jesus, I wanted you so bad in that moment. I had Romanized our relationship so much in my head that I expected fireworks, I expected you to just own your shit, and for me to own mine. And then nothing happened? We didn’t even talk about this, it was so fucking mundane that I don’t even remember what we did talk about. Do you know I walked to my car and cried the rest of the night? I cried for all the words that went unsaid. I cried for not having enough balls to make you talk about it. I cried because nothing happened. I cried because I knew that was the last time I would see you, and it was.

            Sometimes I wish that I would be walking into Capital Hill and see you. Randomly run into you at a coffee shop, restaurant, a bar, and every time that I don’t, I feel a bit disappointed and grateful at the same time. I know if I did, I would paint a fake smile on my face, and act like everything was all good, because I wouldn’t want you to think I am crazy or pathetic. I would want you to see me as powerful, beautiful, unattainable, because that is what I am to you. I want you to see that you never have and never will deserve the love that I could have given you.

            And I am pathetic for being still hung up on this over a decade later. I will own that patheticness and that sadness. I will own that I haven’t been able to let go and I will own the fact that I have held onto some ideal of you in my head forever. I will own how weak that makes me feel, how disgusted I am with myself over it, how I wish I could delete your number like I have a thousand times before, and yet you text me and it’s back in my phone. I will own that you have moved on and probably barely give these years a thought anymore even though they have shaped me into the person I am today. I will own that I am but a brief moment in your mind and you were years of pent up pain and anger in mine. I will own that I should have gotten over this years ago, that I shouldn’t even be writing this stupid fucking letter, I will own that you made me feel the worse than any man has ever made me feel. I will own that you will think I am crazy if you ever read this. I will own all of it, Smith.

            Because at least I am strong enough to put this letter out into this world. At least I am brave enough for people to see me as the mess I was. At least I am vulnerable enough to admit my faults, my wrong doings, my bullshit. At least I am transparent enough to let the world see all of me, something I wanted you to see but you never did.

            I love you, Smith, I loved you. And I hope this letter is my last thought of you ever. I hope that this year’s birthday message to you will be my last. I hope that I never run into you. I hope that you never cross my mind. I hope I forget you.

            I hope this letter helps some woman out there who is letting a Brad in her life take up space in her heart finally let him go. I hope this letter helps a woman out there stop wasting her precious time and energy on someone who never even deserved it in the first place. I hope this letter does the complete opposite of what my letter did ten years ago. I hope it empowers someone to be bold and vulnerable enough to put all of her heart out into this world.  I hope it causes a ripple effect on this world that shakes the very ground you stand on, Brad. I hope that one day this gets published, passed around, and becomes the anthem for all women who have let men break them and keep them broken, to rise up, and to make themselves whole again. I hope this letter follows you the rest of your life and that everyone around you talks about it, and when people do, you know that you are Brad Smith. And I hope that when women use this letter to better themselves, you have to recognize that you were the catalyst of the revolution. You and every single man out there that has treated us less than, who has broken our hearts, who have made us second guess ourselves. And one day, I hope your wife sees this letter, and that is resonates with her on such a soul level, that she can’t stop talking about it, all the while knowing, it was you who started it.

            Good luck, Brad Smith, because this is the last amount of energy I will ever waste on you.

Love Always, Amanda