The Pen and The Sword

I shouldn't have done it, but I felt I had to. In an unassuming file folder at the bottom of a pile of binders and notebooks, tucked away in a cubby of my chest of drawers. It's not as well labeled as the other folders I have stored there. There's only a name. In that file is a manila envelope containing all of the letters I was fortunate enough to receive from the first person I trusted entirely. There was always one letter missing though, I remembered as much when I was collecting the loose papers and compiling the envelope. I wondered if I hadn't thrown that last letter away in grief. I didn't. I found it whilst going through a bin about a week ago. Still in its original envelope. I knew what it was the second I saw the handwriting. I told myself not to read it at the time as I still had things to do, closed the bin and stored it in my room. I suppose I could have just tossed it in the file with the rest, I didn't have to read it, but for some reason... Of course I ended up reading it. This letter is the missing link. The final piece anyone would need to solve the riddles I've wrapped myself in, the answer to my contradiction. This letter is clarity. It is grief, and it is sadness and it is the absolute and irreparable collapse of trust. This letter is the reason I shut down, why I locked myself away and swore never to trust anyone again. Not with anything. This letter is what stemmed the belief that the world around me would only see me as expendable; a means to an end and nothing more. When it was no longer convenient, when I had reached a point when I was no longer useful, I would without fail, be cut free. This is what I believed. I was furious, more with myself than anything. I trusted, and that was my choice. It ended poorly. Was I not good enough as a friend? Had I made some mistake that made me seem like I was incapable of understanding and compassion? I wished, and still do, that they would have just talked to me. They didn't have to run. And now, all these years later, here I am. Doing the same exact thing. Fear rules me. I cannot bring myself to trust, despite desperately wanting to. I edge closer, open my mouth to speak honestly, then bite my tongue and shake my head, scampering back into the dark to peer out with cautious eyes. I isolate myself out of a need to feel safe, and that self-imposed loneliness is more bitter than I could ever hope to describe. I don't want to be lonely. But I don't want to trust. I pull in two opposite directions without compromise. As such, I will always backpedal. I will reach out slowly, growing closer to one or two people who can make me forget why I hide, only to speak too openly and frighten myself into running away. I might try to stand my ground, as I did today, but reading that letter re-solidified my resolve. I cannot trust people. That part of me has been crushed and trampled, and at every point that I've tried to trust, that same trust has been stamped out swiftly and without so much as a word. I remember. This feeling, this dark mix of fear and sadness: This is my riddle. And this letter is the key. The killing blow was struck not with a sword, but rather a pen. I was utterly and completely shattered, by someone I had honestly believed would never harm me in such a cruel way. I can't afford to keep forgetting this; doing so has only compounded more trouble. Some people are better off when they keep everything at an arm's length.