Letter to Jason, Part Two

    You trust me with possessions.  I’m quite sure that I could ask to borrow anything which is in your dorm room, and you would let me have it with very little hesitation.  For God’s sake, you know what you once loaned me.
    But you don’t trust me the same way with your mind, or your heart.  I don’t have them.  You won’t share those, for whatever reason.  And you know what?  I don’t care anymore about what difficulties you say you have with it.  I don’t believe that anymore.  Because if there’s nothing more to it than yourself, and the fact that a school full of kids ignored you, then you have no reason to be the way you are.  But you haven’t given me the full reason, have you?  No, I don’t think you have.  But once again, you probably won’t admit that.  You say that before I met you is irrelevant.  You insist it’s not important.  Well, if that’s the case, why not turn the tables?  Why not have me ask you why, if your past is so irrelevant, should I give you the key to mine?  Everything in that binder, EVERYTHING, relates to something in my past.  Whether it’s a past of when I was in high school, or if it’s an old memory that I happened to be thinking about, why should I let you read it?  There’s a lot in there of before I met you.  So, going by what you say about your life, isn’t that part of the binder irrelevant to you?  So, why would you want to read it?    You claim these things with you are in the past, dealt with, and buried.  Well, my red binder is full of the past, and yet, how much of that wasn’t stuff I had to move on from?  But it’s still in the past, so why should I let you read it?  The things that I did have to deal with, that I have dealt with, and moved past, I still talk to you about.  I still tell you about all of this stuff, I still give you pieces of my heart, my soul, myself.  Yet, what do I ever get back?  Dodges to my questions, and crypticism.
     If you know about my insecurities, why do you do this?  Why do you pull me close to you, and then push me away?
    I don’t know what else I can say.  I feel as if I could talk until I’m blue in the face, or type until my fingers fall off, but it never seems to have any effect on you.  Or should I say, any lasting effect.  Or perhaps I’m like that guy who dug his way out of prison with the part of a nail clipper.  It took time, but he did it.  Is that what you’re trying to get across to me?  It takes time but it can be done?  Then, Jason?  Prove it.