Seven

Dear Cunt,

How easy it is to lose yourself in the hurricane of thoughts, how easy it is to convince yourself you have what it takes. And how easy it is to be in bed at night, staring at the darkness and pretend you’re good at what you do. All those people who trust you’ll do well, all those people who have faith in you, as if you were what they worked their entire life for. You are. You are the single most disappointing thing they have ever made. The disappointment you bring them, along with the shattered hopes and dreams hurt you more than your own disappointment. And you lie your way out of it, as much as you can. You lie and convince yourself you’ll be okay one day.

And then that darkness finds you again and suddenly it’s not comforting anymore, it’s not embracing you warmly to hide you from pain. It is the pain. It’s the monster you have to fight every time you go to bed. Your breathing’s quicker and your chest hurts. You know you’re having a panic attack and you try to contain it, but it hurts so much. And then you cry.

I hope you’d believe me and all those voices that scream in your head telling you that you mean nothing. Nothing to no one. Such a waste of air, food and space. You lack what it means to be a human being. All the people around you admit their flaws and where they went wrong and how they could change. Then there’s you. Alone and still lying to yourself about what you mean and what you can do.

But please, don’t find that razor. I don’t think I say this often enough, I don’t think I emphasise just how important it is to stay alive. For me, of course; and for the sole purpose of these letters. I could never find someone as rabidly idiotic and flawed and failing as you to write to. I could never find someone nearly as desperate and pathetic. I love you for that.

You wish you had someone to turn to, someone to share your bed and cry silently on their shoulder. But you can’t have no one, and that’s one of your biggest flaws, isn’t it? That inability to share anything other than the adulterated love for things you shouldn’t. That painful little scratch on the side of your leg that bleeds and bleeds. That blood you know is dirty with the secrets of your past. That past you’ll never share with anyone. And most of all, you miss the times when it was easy to pretend. When there were people to pretend to. You miss the ease of waking up in the morning and not hating yourself.

Well, babes, they stopped about the time when you started bleeding.

I wish I could comfort you, but I don’t want to, because the most comforting thing would be death and that’s not an option.

You lack the talent, the want, the desire, the drive to account to anything. It’s unfortunate, but you should have been a pathetic woman like your mother, like her mother before that. You are, but you should just accept it, sink in the depression eating away at your flesh and let go.

Fucking let go.

Lots of love (none at all really),

Jo.

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