I’m sorry I made you stay when you knew it was the wrong thing to do. When you knew that you no longer wanted to be touched, but stayed anyway—as if that was all you deserved. Your fear made you stay, until fear that this would be your life forever propelled you to leave again.

I know you stayed because you had never stayed before, and in some way you felt defective for not being able to be part of a unit, for not understanding how to do it. You wanted to prove yourself wrong—you could love and be loved. You thought it was up to you. But it is not up to you every time.

I forgive you for not leaving sooner because all those lost years will be lost forever. And that understanding is more acute as time goes on. I forgive you because the accumulation of pain you felt each day you stayed will take years to undo. I forgive you for feeling as though you don’t have years to undo it. Maybe you will never know how to be anything but alone, but I forgive you for that, too.

Your body is worn out and you can see the wrinkles forming around your eyes, and at the core of it, you wonder: Who will want me now? I don’t know. Maybe no one. But you have to forgive yourself for staying as much as you have to forgive yourself for finally leaving.

I forgive you for thinking vulnerability was a weakness, because for so long you had to hide your vulnerabilities in order to survive.

I forgive you for believing it was safer to blunt your feelings than to feel anything at all.

And I forgive you for how you react to those feelings now.

I forgive you for not knowing the difference between pity and love.

Every day you are afraid you will continue to mistake the two, but I believe one day you will finally learn the difference.

I forgive you for not knowing what you want, still.

I forgive you for abandoning yourself.

I forgive you for believing you are no one.

I took the letter I had written to myself and pulled out a lighter and set fire to it.

When I was finished, I mixed the gray, burned flakes of paper with the sand beneath it and put it in my mouth. It didn’t taste like anything, but it felt rough against my teeth and tongue. I pulled my fingers across my tongue, scooped out what I could, and swallowed the rest.

IT TOOK ME three hours to get back out of Death Valley, because I drove slowly. I didn’t want to leave this forgotten place, this end-of-the-earth place. When I came out of the valley and drove back toward the white house advertising fresh jerky, I pulled over. I went and tried the door, but it was locked.