To: Girl on the Train

Hi…

We don’t know each other, but I listened to those words you said to that man who was barely listening about how much love you’ve been yearning for. I know so much about your life, yet very little. The question I’m posing to you is one that I’ve asked myself many times: how much more can you take before deciding it’s enough?

Before I go on, I’ll tell you exactly what I heard as I was between songs, and eventually during the long pause I forced after your voice began to shake. For one, I know you’ve just turned 18 and received nothing for your birthday or Christmas. If memory serves me correctly, you are the only one of your siblings not to get anything, and were then, in a train car, asking why this boy who claimed to love you didn’t make the effort of getting you anything either. Shoes. I heard about the shoes you got for him long before he was presented with an opportunity to return the affection—he instead decided to disappoint you.

Sarcasm was hurled back at you in exchange for your vulnerability. Yet, you still begged him to love you. To see you—to care. Without shame you yearned out loud, you cut yourself open in that train car as vultures encircled your bleeding heart. Forgive me, I thought it was performance art at first. The way my music layered on top of your bellowing voice felt cinematic. My memory betrays me now, I have no recollection of which song was playing when I finally heard the strain in your voice before stopping the music.

You got off at different stops, so maybe you’ve already realized what many of us were thinking. How do I say this without sounding like I have any right to tell you what to do with your life? … It’s okay to let go.

I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be you or the exact nature of your relationship, but I heard that strain in your voice, the fighting back of tears, the effort it took to hold yourself together while simultaneously unraveling. The music no longer played while I listened as you, no exaggeration, begged for love.

How much more until you decide it’s enough?

Allow me a moment of projection… As someone prone to the same patterns, it can feel unavoidable. Like you won’t receive love unless you give everything and more. Know this: you may spend every waking hour giving to others, and it still won’t be enough for them to return just a drop to you. I once thought if I broke more pieces of myself off to give away, eventually something would make it back that could be mistaken for love. But you can’t be whole while emptying yourself trying to satisfy a person, or people, who meet vulnerability with sarcasm. There is a part of you hoping that those long conversations filled with yearning, transparency, and rage will repair something that was broken long ago. How many times will you revisit the conversation before deciding it’s enough?

I heard a woman comment to another about how immature the scene was. We exchanged looks (mine of disappointment at the comment). I’ve mentioned that I first thought it was performance art, right? Something about you having the ability to describe exactly what’s missing—what’s needed—in front of an audience of strangers prone to their interpretations of your suffering felt so brave that my mind was initially convinced it was grounded in some sort of fiction. It seemed unreal—a type of courage I haven’t managed to tap into. So, I decided to write. Someone that fierce—dedicated to being heard no matter the setting—cannot go on begging to be seen by a man who isn’t even capable of seeing himself (I assume). I doubt he sensed the weight in your voice change when speaking about how you got nothing for your birthday from him or your mother. I doubt he sensed the weight of your voice change when you brought up the shoes you gave him. I doubt he sensed the weight of your voice change when you said “I want someone who loves me for me.”

I see you, girl on the train. I see your pain, and yearning, and hope to receive love in return. I understand you—the parts of you I got to witness anyway. There is a chance you could be the problem in that relationship, but I can’t help but be biased since I felt that strain in your voice. I also have had too much weight to carry on my shoulders, feeling like giving more will be enough for them to know you need even just a crumb in return. And I’m telling you that if you only start choosing yourself 1 out of 10 times moving forward, it’s better than what you’re doing now. It’s time to start giving to yourself because otherwise all the parts of you that radiate love, joy, and wonderment for the world—that still jump with child-like excitement—will drain out of you, leaving only a shell of the person you could’ve been.

Maybe this is a warning letter from someone who likes to believe they almost lost themselves to the same patterns and found reason through remembering that it’s more important to love myself than people who are determined to “punish me” for giving. Does this reek of self-pity? Maybe, but if it’s enough permission for you to find your center as those who are truly meant for you will find you there, it’s a success. There is a chance this letter will come off as preachy, be assured that it’s not my intention. Know that I’ve written this out of care, love, and a little bit of selfishness. It was a compulsion. I can’t get this to you any other way so I’m putting it here in hopes (or perhaps delusion) that you may come across it.

Girl on the train, who are you when you’re alone? Do you like her? Do you love her? What will you do to protect her? How far are you willing to go? How much are you willing to change? The answer to these questions will hopefully set the course for the work that strings you back together.

Written with love,

[ ana ]

Thank you for making it this far. Holding your time and attention means a lot to me. I invite you to stay if you’re open to receiving whatever I can give. — [ana]

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