Self-Sabotage
Welcome to our column written by Managing Editor Caitlyn Mae Araña, called Catching Up With Caitlyn. Through letters, she addresses the trials and tribulations that come with learning and growing as a 20-something.
This semester, she will be focusing on one particular narrative that has impacted her over the years, although not all articles will be about this one situation. So, tune in for your weekly dose of drama and strap in ladies and gents… Nothing is off limits here.
Dear Jacob*,
When we left off, I spoke about how I first started to like you. We left off on the seven-page letter that truly does get more embarrassing the more I think about it. But, it is what jumpstarted the next eight years. I’m going to continue in chronological order because it’s the easiest way for you to understand what has led me to write about you—loving you, hating you, losing you. I want so badly for you to understand.
We started “dating” on Father’s day of 2012. Although, I don’t think we could ever call it that since we never actually saw each other. It was more so never-ending phone calls where we laughed together all night. Your laugh… that’s what truly got me. I remember smiling so much that my cheeks hurt. You made me a better person.
You would talk me down when I was angry with my parents; you appreciated me, you were there for me. You would even call me in the morning to wake me up because I always slept in until at least noon. My dad loved you for that. He’d make me take your morning calls just so I’d wake up. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.
I liked you, but it was all very immature and childish. It wasn’t a real relationship. How could it be? I was 12. Hell, I remember telling you I loved you over a game of hangman! Even though I can look back now and laugh, we did take it seriously. Or at least I did. Until I didn’t.
When my dad died at the end of that year, you were there for me and I shut you out. I didn’t answer your calls. I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t want to hear from you. All my emotions shut off, and you were a casualty. When we did talk, I only answered with yes, no, or I don’t know. There was no in between, and I could tell you hated it. Yet, you didn’t hold it against me because you loved me. Or you thought you loved me.
I got bored. You see, I’m insanely fickle. I hate it, but I can admit that I am. I was with you—that’s not fair to you. It’s not fair that I got bored and broke up with you under the guise of being depressed. I mean, yes, I was depressed, but that wasn’t the reason why we broke up. We broke up because I was bored. A week later, I decided that I missed you. I missed the affection. I missed calling you. And I think a part of me felt like if my dad loved you, then why wouldn’t I?
I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how I felt. So, we got back together.
That didn’t last very long. Like I said, I’m fickle. I’ll change my mind in an instant and I hurt people in the process. Hurting you is one of my biggest regrets. Actually, a lot of my regrets have to do with hurting you. I guess that makes sense, I basically grew up with you. But let’s get back to us. Basically, I got bored again. I think my life had hit a plateau at that moment. I turned 13, I was dealing with a major death, and I wasn’t really sure how my life was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do.
Was I supposed to be with you? Was I just doing it for comfort? Why were you so understanding when all I did was ignore you and hurt you?
I think that’s the part that confused me the most. I continued to treat you horribly, and you refused to get mad at me. You refused to call me out. You refused to yell. Instead, you reassured me. You told me that I was great and I was doing okay. I’d apologize for treating you like crap, and somehow you’d end up apologizing. You’d say that you were sorry and it made me want to scream. You shouldn’t have been sorry. You did nothing wrong. I was doing things wrong. I was wrong.
I wanted you to scream at me and yell at me. I secretly hoped that you would so I could feel something. So that I could somehow feel like I was alive. But no. You. Were. Perfect.
So, I lied to you. I told you that I cheated on you when I actually could never even fathom doing so. I loved you, and I lied to you so that you would get mad at me. Now, how messed up is that? And even so, you still ended up apologizing to me. You said sorry, as if it were your fault that I “cheated on you.” Even now, I want to scream. I was 13! Who the hell was I cheating on you with? My poster of Harry Styles? The Jonas Brothers, maybe? You treated me so well, and I took you for granted. I pushed you away. I lied. And you stayed. So, I broke up with you again.
I think back to it now, and I can’t believe how stupid I was. Why did I think that to have a great love, we had to argue? Why did I think that we had to fight all the time just to prove that we could come back to each other? Why did I not see how great you were for me, and how badly I messed it up for myself?
I’m saying sorry for these things now. I know it’s eight years overdue, but this is the first time I’ve ever actually faced my guilt about what happened. If you’re reading this, I hope you don’t feel like I’m doing this to get on your good side, or because I owe you an accusation-free article. As I’ve told you before, I don’t write these for your eyes only. If I did, they wouldn’t be online. This is an accusation-free article because you didn’t do anything wrong. You loved me when I clearly didn’t love myself, and for that, I thank you.
Only Love,
Caitlyn Mae
*Names changed to maintain integrity