from I Never Did Tell You Did I?
(Unsent Letters)
by Susan Smith Nash

On Why I Don't Like Taking the Place of Your Anti-Depressant Medication

December 13
Norman, Oklahoma

Rialdi,

Thanks for getting together for lunch yesterday - and, thanks for letting me be so honest with you about my feelings.

Actually, it's easier to run away (emotionally or physically), but I suppose it's worthwhile to make an honest assessment of the situation and to articulate my thoughts and feelings. I don't really want to write this letter, but I think that it's the least I can do. You deserve to know what's on my mind. On the other hand, to write this seems pretty cruel, and I'd rather just let everything slide. I just don't know!

For almost two years, we've seen each other intermittently - it seems to go pretty well for awhile, and then I "disappear." At least that is how you describe it. And I agree, at least that is what it looks like on the surface.

But it all starts and ends with the question: "Why is it that when you're with me you feel good about yourself? And, why is it that when I'm with you I feel so BAD?"

Your sister who lives in England said that perhaps the reason a relationship between the two of us has never worked out is because you're" sorted out" and sometimes it's not easy to be around a person who is completely "sorted out."

You then explained to me (as though I were some sort of idiot) that "sorted out" is a British term, and that she has lived so long in England that she has become British. And, besides, your mother was a British citizen who was raised in China by governesses and servants because her father was the economic attaché (or something along those lines) at the British Embassy in Peking (or somewhere). You're very proud of that aristocratic lineage. I don't blame you. I think it partially explains why you enjoy working with local heads of state (Oklahoma governors, etc.).

That's nice. Now that we've established that you are firmly five or ten rungs of the ladder above me, and that I have no hope of ever aspiring to your lofty perch, we can go on.

I suppose the underlying assumption is that you think I'm not "sorted out" - and, in fact you said that you questioned yourself deeply, wondering if you were attracted to me because of some sort of "broken wing" syndrome - suggesting that I'm a bird with a broken wing and that you feel compelled to "rescue me" - out of noblesse oblige, I suppose. You always like to mention that I'm a geologist at a time when small and medium oil companies have all but disappeared. Not only are we talking about depletion of reserves here in Oklahoma, but also the fact that business conditions have changed, and the small companies just can't compete against the large ones.

Sharks eat minnows. They always have. They always will.

I may be a minnow, but I'm not a bird. And, for your information, I do not have a broken wing. But, I think you know that - and, my exaggerating the somewhat tragic aspects of my miserable, sordid, little failed life is simply a way to save face.

You claimed that you told your sister that even though you are indeed completely "sorted out," you have come to realize that something is missing. That missing element is love. By love, I think you mean a woman, a helpmate, a companion, a sounding board, a receptacle of all you have to give. Some people refer to that as a "bucket."

In theory, I wouldn't mind being your love-bucket. I do enjoy your conversation and your company, but after I'm with you, I feel as though a thousand birds have just picked the flesh from my bones.

Yesterday, I explained to you that after getting to know you, instead of admiring, loving, and accepting you, I'm simply riddled with envy and jealousy. How to you explain that? Hmm.

And, even though you are willing to accept me as a person who is not" sorted out" (but, as you conceded, "bright"), I just can't perform up to your expectations. I'm supposed to be falling all over myself to make big, blatant shows of affection and devotion. I'm supposed to be foaming at the mouth to have sex, etc.. You said you were disappointed that I didn't seem to be more delighted to see you when you came back from Hawaii.

But, the truth was, you were only gone a week! And I hate it that you keep wanting to make huge displays of emotion in public places - holding hands, chewing on my fingers, etc.. I grew up in this town, and this is a conservative society - what are you thinking?

You can have a lot of things in life through sheer force of will and intense desire. You generally get what you want.

I've made a mistake in trying to force myself to make a relationship work, and for thinking that just because you want me, you should have me. After all, you are my better, aren't you?

My mother always told me it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, so why not choose the rich one?

Well, sadly enough, it has been my experience that love is more like A Midsummer Night's Dream - I fall in love with asses. (But they can be so cute!)

And, in the meantime, I still ask myself the question: "If, after being together, you feel great, fantastic, on top of the world, and I feel utterly wretched, what's going on?"

I'm a walking dose of Zoloft for you. Or, Paxil - whatever the most effective antidepressant medication on the market might be ....

This is a really cruel letter, and I don't think I should send it.

I'll just call you and tell you that I'm not feeling well tonight and can't get together. Then, I'll simply disappear again.

That is the most diplomatic approach, isn't it?

Just call me "Coward." It's better than "Love-Bucket."

Sending this anyway,
Susan

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