He Nearly Said “I Do” But Chose Fear Over Love

Hey Joe,

I realize this probably won’t reach you. I’m certain you won’t read this, and even if you did, you might not recognize that I wrote it. Your name is changed, and mine isn’t the same.

I’m writing this for my own sake. I still feel pain, and I need to express it. Perhaps this will help me find some relief and allow me to move on more quickly than I otherwise would.

Have I mentioned that I still hurt?

You weren’t my first relationship, and I’m glad I was honest about that from the start. I told you about George, who left me after a little fight when I nearly stabbed him. He called me a drama queen and thought I was overreacting. I was young and hadn’t yet figured myself out.

It was during my time with Idris that I was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. He noticed my behavior and sensed something was off. Being a medical student, he had some insight into what I was experiencing. I insisted it was just a mood swing, but he believed there was more to it, and he was right.

I remember asking the doctor that day, “Is it curable?” She replied, “Angel, it’s manageable. It doesn’t change who you are. You just need to take your medication, go through therapy, and learn your triggers. You’ll be fine.” That wasn’t the answer I hoped for, but from that moment, I understood my life would be different.

I told you Idris left me, but that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t leave; he became increasingly fearful during our arguments. Perhaps he thought I might hurt him again. I had to let him go. How could he love me while being scared? His love felt more like pity. I withdrew from him, and eventually, we drifted apart.

After him, it was just me and my depression. There were times I wished for death. Everything around me faded to black and white. Life lost its vibrancy. Friends distanced themselves, calling me irrational and unable to keep a secret. They labeled me mad and often avoided me. Even my family did little to support me, referring to me as “Aunt Julie’s mad daughter.”

I felt utterly broken, convinced my world had ended. Then you came into my life. At first, I wondered, “Is this guy really interested in me? Why would he love someone deemed ‘mad’?” Your persistence intrigued me, so I decided to give myself a chance to explore this relationship.

I said yes to you and shared my diagnosis. I was surprised you didn’t seem shocked, but then I remembered how quickly gossip spreads. I suspected you were trying to take advantage of my vulnerability. Yet, you looked me in the eye and said, “I’m too old for games. If I wanted sex, I could find it easily elsewhere.”

I found that charming. Even my bipolar mind agreed, and we laughed together. That night was the best I’d had since my diagnosis.

I recall how you tried to calm me during my worst moments. The first time I brandished scissors at you, I expected you to run away, but you stayed and helped me find peace. While the world labeled me violent, you sought to be my calm.

I never imagined we’d last three years. But slowly, we weathered the storms together. Life threw challenges our way, yet we remained strong. There were more troubles, but we endured until that fateful night—the night that changed everything.

I don’t want you to think I was always pessimistic, but reality was evident at every turn. When you told your mom we were getting married soon, I noticed her discomfort. Her expression shifted, and your sister left the room. Your dad tried to stay positive, but I sensed his reservations too.

Every time I asked about wedding preparations, I was really inquiring about how you were handling your parents’ objections. You reassured me, but eventually, those reassurances faded, replaced by “Let’s give it some time.”

I may have been bipolar, but I wasn’t naive. I understood the struggle you faced with your parents regarding our relationship. I could see your exhaustion and frustration. You forgot I studied psychology.

So, when you said, “We need to talk,” I knew the moment had arrived. Fortunately, I thought I was prepared.

You sat beside me and poured your heart out. You couldn’t meet my gaze like you used to when sharing important news. Your eyes darted from the floor to the wall, back to the floor, and finally rested in your lap. You avoided looking at me, afraid of what you might see.

“They won’t let me be with you. They think it’s too dangerous. They worry you might stab me in my sleep. They say you can’t support yourself or the family. They say… they say…”

I nodded as if I accepted it, but inside, I was crumbling. I wanted you to finish and leave me alone. But I had to ask, “Joe, that’s what they say. What do you say?” Then you dropped the bombshell: “I can’t do any of this without their approval. You deserve to be with someone who is accepted. You’re too fragile for this struggle.”

Oh, Joe, you were mistaken. I wasn’t fragile. If you were willing to fight alongside me, I could have faced it. But I understood your position; blood is thicker than water. That’s why I don’t harbor any hatred toward you. You fought for me. You saw potential in me that I couldn’t see in myself.

I heard about your wedding. I would have come if you had invited me, but perhaps you still think I’m too fragile to handle it. I wish you all the best because you deserve happiness. You have a beautiful wife, and at least you can rest easy knowing she won’t pull scissors. I bless you both.

Yours, Aunt Julie’s ‘mad’ daughter.

—Julie
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