My Name is Lori (And I’m an Addict)

I’m addicted to sentence fragments. It's true. My writing is littered with them. I use them for cadence. I use them for impact. And sometimes when I’m just being lazy. (See?) I honestly can’t make it through the day without a good sentence fragment. Or two. Last March I created a sentence fragment that ended a relationship I swore would last forever. How’s that for impact?

“I’m sad and confused,” he said. “How can I not be?”  When I didn’t answer, he repeated himself, more loudly this time, “How can I not be?”

I paused and considered the question before saying, "I'm going to need you to finish that sentence."

“What are you talking about?” he asked, annoyed. Fair enough, I thought. He had, in fact, spoken in complete sentences; it was the thought that was incomplete.

“I need you to finish the sentence,” I said again. “‘How can I not be sad and confused when…’ Fill in the blank. I need to hear what follows. I need to know what you think has happened here.”

My battle with depression had taken its toll on our relationship and we were near the end. We both knew it. He couldn’t hang on—couldn’t withstand the distance, neither the physical, nor the emotional distance caused by my struggle. And I could no longer withstand his apparent lack of empathy and what felt like disapproval of a “weakness.”

“Finish the sentence,” I said yet again.

Silence followed. And then, “How can I not be sad and confused when the woman I fell in love with no longer exists? How can I not be sad and confused when the woman I would have done anything for no longer exists? How can I not be sad and confused when the woman who made me feel like I’ve never felt before NO LONGER EXISTS?” By this time he was shouting and on the other end of that telephone line, 2,391 miles away, I was shrinking a little more with each perfectly-formed sentence.

I had only days earlier written about my depression here in this blog. I described feelings of being “separate” from the rest of the world, disconnected and somehow “not real.” I wrote about “folding in on myself and disappearing.” And here was the man I loved, using those words, using my darkest thoughts as a weapon. Hammering away at what precious little “me” I had left.

So I told him he had to stop. And I didn’t mean just his tirade. We had to stop. He didn’t put up a fight. I may have been leaving him, but the truth is he was already gone.

And it all started because I asked him to finish a sentence. I’m sure the hypocrisy is not lost on you (especially if you've already counted the sentence fragments in this blog post alone), but I have to insist that if you’re going to come at me with words, they’d damn-well better form a complete sentence. If words are your weapon, be prepared to finish your thought.

My name is Lori and I’m an addict. Addicted to sentence fragments. (And I’m an appalling hypocrite besides.)