It Ends with Us

“Just keep swimming, Lily.”
Dear Ellen,
Hi. It’s me. Lily Bloom. Well . . . technically it’s Lily Kincaid now.
I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written to you. A really long time. After
everything that happened with Atlas, I just couldn’t bring myself to open up the
journals again. I couldn’t even bring myself to watch your show after school,
because it hurt to watch it alone. In fact, all thoughts of you kind of depressed me.
When I thought of you, I thought of Atlas. And to be honest, I didn’t want to think
of Atlas, so I had to cut you out of my life, too.

---

I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you didn’t miss me like I missed you, but sometimes
the things that matter to you most are also the things that hurt you the most. And in
order to get over that hurt, you have to sever all the extensions that keep you tethered
to that pain. You were an extension of my pain, so I guess that’s what I was doing.
I was just trying to save myself a little bit of agony.
I’m sure your show is as great as ever, though. I hear you still dance at the
beginning of some episodes, but I’ve grown to appreciate that. I think that’s one of
the biggest signs a person has matured—knowing how to appreciate things that
matter to others, even if they don’t matter very much to you.
I should probably catch you up on my life. My father died. I’m twenty-four now. I
got a college degree, worked in marketing for a while, and now I own my own
business. A floral shop. Life goals, FTW!
I also have a husband and he isn’t Atlas.
And . . . I live in Boston.
I know. Shocker.
The last time I wrote to you, I was sixteen. I was in a really bad place and I was
so worried about Atlas. I’m not worried about Atlas anymore, but I am in a really
bad place right now. More so than the last time I wrote to you.
I’m sorry I don’t seem to need to write to you when I’m in a good place. You tend
to only get the shit end of my life, but that’s what friends are for, right?
I don’t even know where to start. I know you don’t know anything about my
current life or my husband, Ryle. But there’s this thing we do where one of us says
“naked truth,” and then we’re forced to be brutally honest and say what we’re really
thinking.
So . . . naked truth.
Brace yourself.
I am in love with a man who physically hurts me. Of all people, I have no idea
how I let myself get to this point.
There were many times growing up I wondered what was going through my
mother’s head in the days after my father had hurt her. How she could possibly love
a man who had laid his hands on her. A man who repeatedly hit her. Repeatedly
promised he would never do it again. Repeatedly hit her again.
I hate that I can empathize with her now.
I’ve been sitting on Atlas’s couch for over four hours, wrestling with my feelings.
I can’t get a grip on them. I can’t understand them. I don’t know how to process
them. And true to my past, I realized that maybe I need to just get them out on
paper. My apologies to you, Ellen. But get ready for a whole lot of word vomit.

---

If I had to compare this feeling to something, I would compare it to death. Not
just the death of anyone. The death of
the 
one. The person who is closer to you than
anyone else in the whole world. The one who, when you simply imagine their death,
it makes your eyes tear up.
That’s what this feels like. It feels like Ryle has died.
It’s an astronomical amount of grief. An enormous amount of pain. It’s a sense
that I’ve lost my best friend, my lover, my husband, my lifeline. But the difference
between this feeling and death is the presence of another emotion that doesn’t
necessarily follow in the event of an actual death.
Hatred.
I am so angry at him, Ellen. Words can’t express the amount of hatred I have for
him. Yet somehow, in the midst of all my hatred, there are waves of reasoning that
flow through me. I start to think things like “But I shouldn’t have had the magnet. I
should have told him about the tattoo from the beginning. I shouldn’t have kept the
journals.”
The reasoning is the hardest part of this. It eats at me, little by little, wearing
down the strength my hatred lends to me. The reasoning forces me to imagine our
future together, and how there are things I could do to prevent that type of anger. I’ll
never betray him again. I’ll never keep secrets from him again. I’ll never give him
reason to react that way again. We’ll both just have to work harder from now on.
For better, for worse, right?
I know these are the things that once went through my mother’s head. But the
difference between the two of us is that she had more to worry about. She didn’t have
the financial stability that I have. She didn’t have the resources to leave and give me
what she thought was a decent shelter. She didn’t want to take me away from my
father when I was used to living with both parents. I have a feeling reasoning really
kicked her ass a time or two.
I can’t even begin to process the thought that I’m having a child with this man.
There is a human being inside of me that we created together. And no matter which
option I choose—whether I choose to stay or choose to leave—neither are choices I
would wish upon my child. To grow up in a broken home or an abusive one? I’ve
already failed this baby in life, and I’ve only known about his or her existence for a
single day.
Ellen, I wish you could write back to me. I wish that you could say something
funny to me right now, because my heart needs it. I have never felt this alone. This
broken. This angry. This hurt.

---

People on the outside of situations like these often wonder why the woman goes
back to the abuser. I read somewhere once that 85 percent of women return to
abusive situations. That was before I realized I was in one, and when I heard that
statistic, I thought it was because the women were stupid. I thought it was because
they were weak. I thought these things about my own mother more than once.
But sometimes the reason women go back is simply because they’re in love. I love
my husband, Ellen. I love so many things about him. I wish cutting my feelings off
for the person who hurt me was as easy as I used to think it would be. Preventing
your heart from forgiving someone you love is actually a hell of a lot harder than
simply forgiving them.
I’m a statistic now. The things I’ve thought about women like me are now what
others would think of me if they knew my current situation.
“How could she love him after what he did to her? How could she contemplate
taking him back?”
It’s sad that those are the first thoughts that run through our minds when
someone is abused. Shouldn’t there be more distaste in our mouths for the abusers
than for those who continue to love the abusers?
I think of all the people who have been in this situation before me. Everyone who
will be in this situation after me. Do we all repeat the same words in our heads in
the days after experiencing abuse at the hands of those who love us? “From this day
forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until
death do us part.”
Maybe those vows weren’t meant to be taken as literally as some spouses take
them.
For better, for worse?
Fuck.
That.
Shit.
—Lily

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