I Don’t Know Who You Are Anymore

I remember the first time I saw you. We were in that large room surrounded by all those people wearing business attire. Everyone seemed so dull. I barely paid attention to anything else after I saw you. It was as if I was staring at a black and white picture…except you were in full color right in the middle. I laughed at everything you said. I remember you looked at me like I was crazy, most people do. I smiled at you and you half smiled back with a look of curiosity. It was almost as if your eyes asked, “Does she really think I’m that funny?” or “Does she do this to every guy?”

I started to back off after the look. I knew myself too well. I was already deciding how I was going to go about the first conversation. Would it be in person? Would I add you as a friend on Facebook and send signals through my strategic commenting and liking? Or would I get up the guts to ask you for your phone number?

It’s almost terrifying how you can witness 7 minutes of someone’s personality in a group of hundreds and just know that you will mesh. I knew there was something about you…or maybe I wanted there to be something about you so badly, I convinced myself it were true.

Everyone wants a story. That magical story of how you first met. The lack of interest by one or both parties until both of you realize you’re meant to be…then you’re free to live happily ever after.

I never got a chance to have a one on one conversation during the madness of the week. I made sure we were connected on social media and went back to my routine.

Then I saw that one status that convinced me that we were supposed to meet. It was a status that seemed so normal and carefree…yet when I read it, it was as if I was reading my own thoughts.

Even writing this now, I recognize how juvenile it all seems. I became infatuated with you by the way you presented yourself on the Internet. Never complaining, never dishing too much, and always witty.

Then, we started talking. It’s a rare thing when you can speak to someone through a keyboard and feel as if you’re sitting right next to him or her. You can imagine their laugh and their tone as you talk for hours without even noticing the time.

It wasn’t long before you began to fill my thoughts more than once a day and I would check my phone for messages almost incessantly.

We talked about nearly everything. We talked about our childhoods, our high schools, and our colleges. We talked about our past and our future.

Then, I got my diagnosis. I was dealt the news of my malfunctioning ovaries and uterus and the unsettling truth about what this meant for my future. The kids I had planned, the intimacy of relationships, the feeling of feminism…it all disappeared and was replaced with surgeries and chronic pain for the rest of my life.

I didn’t know how to handle it. I was lost. I felt broken. I poured out my feelings to you one day. It was easy to type it all out. I told you everything. You said you didn’t know how to respond. You did nothing. You didn’t know how to handle it…or maybe I didn’t know how to handle your lack of response. I avoided conversation with you…and before I knew it, you were gone.

That was the last time we spoke. I had convinced myself that you were someone that should be in my life…someone that was SUPPOSED to be in my life. You were someone that could accept me so willingly for my thoughts and convictions before.

But when it came to the real me, you didn’t accept me.

I would never dream of doing this to you. I would have done everything in my power to see you smile again. I cared about YOU not the way your body does or does not perform.

You can tell people I’m crazy, that I’m emotional, or that I’m obsessive…but please don’t forget to tell them what you did to me.

You gave up on me.

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