To the last lover I was an asshole to, you were right, and I was wrong. 

I wasn’t who I thought I was either. 

I could try to tell you about how I wish you’d met me when I was early-spring depressed, instead of start-of-winter depressed, and all of that. They’re just words now, though, I know. 

However, I think I get why I’m the asshole this time, why I have been that the whole time.

For years now, I have a habit of projecting two people out there into the world. In person, I’m calm and collected. But the second I have a moment to let those thoughts poking at the surface just below my skull spill out, I create another narrative ⏤ a critical one, a sad one, an unreasonably angry one. 

Unfortunately, for me, I found an audience in that. And suddenly, it didn’t matter whether I was the one who messed everything up or not, because I was still a “good person” and I “deserved love”. 

And I let myself believe that without question.

Why else would anyone still listen to me? 

Meanwhile, that “good person” continually spewed out thoughts that probably hit you at times like daggers while I stood there and smiled right in your face like nothing was wrong.

I was cruel and selfishly unfair. I did not live up to what I advertised. 

Because of all of that, I know you’ll never actually read this. Or anything I write ever again. 

I’m just talking to myself, like I always do. 

But in the chance that I’m wrong — because I am wrong a lot on these types of things — I’ll just say this: 

Because of you, I know that a person can have the backing of the many regardless of their character, or they can have the affection, support and honesty of the one if they are willing to see themselves right.

And, in your case, I wish I had been mentally and emotionally stable enough to have chosen the one.