Twelve

Dear Cunt,

It’s been a while. I wanted to write to you so many times. I wanted to call you, but wouldn’t that be redundant as fuck? I wanted to crawl on top of a building, bloodied and battered and yell, but wouldn’t that be redundant as fuck? So many things have happened, and you know about them all. Sometimes I talk to you and in the mostly-quiet of the night, you fail to answer, tongue twisted in sailor knots that I could never learn properly. My father tried to teach me once, but I refused everything that came from him then. I refused to learn how to dance to traditional folk music. He didn’t try that hard, he mentioned it once when he was preparing to go fishing.

I want to say it had been a Hollywood moment, one of those Jeff Bridges would play in a shit film that bombed at box office and people would only watch because it was four p.m. six years later and it was a Saturday and there was nothing else to watch. A Hallmark moment on a decent screen without a bra and a cup of tea. It wasn’t. He looked at me and asked me if I wanted to know. I said no then, because I was eleven and I hated him. He never asked again, and I never showed any interest in it.

I miss my father sometimes. I think I miss him more than I actually do. I miss the idea I have in my head that grows over months and when enough time has passed, it builds itself into a screen that covers reality. So I miss whatever my mind draws up as a potential reality. I get that with everyone. I miss my mother enough to call her and then she picks up and more often than not, a certain mood will make me want to drown myself.

I thought I’d ask for help but help is a long way to go and help is help if I see it as help. This is not a whore is a whore is a whore, this is help is help but only if I allow it to be help which means that help is my dom in this non-sexual bit of relationship and ultimately I have the control. Such a fucking bad idea, to give me the choice. I’m going for it though.

You know what hurts? More than loving someone to the point where you would fight dealers to get them crack and then cut your thighs because you’re feeding their addiction? Someone loving you enough that they live disappointment to a whole new level. (I can currently hear someone faking an orgasm and it’s making me want to shoot them.) The idea that someone entrusted you with their beliefs, not in a higher power but exactly as much as you can supposedly carry is terrifying. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it makes me dry heave. A lot of things do these days.

Do you seat your parents down and come out as a long-time, probably forever depression victim?

Cause mine are rarely in the same room. And people blame me for wanting a marriage with a husband who’s not home. They’re still married almost thirty-six years later, so it’s cool. I only have to endure a midlife crisis four times and not even from me but from my partner.

“How often would you say you think about suicide?”

“What’s often?”

“So, self-harm…”

“So, football.”

Recently someone told me they couldn’t make it through one of my texts. They said it was too long, and they tried but it was just endless and they didn’t have the time. I wish I had the balls to tell them what that meant for me, but they won’t read this so it’s safe. I know how shit some of my writing is, gratuitously telling me so won’t change it. It will make me write these pieces of shit that they won’t be able to read because my writing is too much, too poetic, too bland, and too whatever.

I don’t write for them, but why would you tell me?! It’s not like this was constructive criticism, it’s just being mean.

Speaking of mean, I find myself carrying echoes in my mind even more than my thoughts. A constant one is that of the not being on top. Another is that of my being able to do nothing, taking up too much space on the sofa, feeling bad about tampons, pads, anything. Cool, man. It’s cool.

(It’s really not cool.)

This is not a lamenting piece of writing. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anything other than playing with toys at the age of five in a room with adults who admired my tenacity at a young age.

I got excuses instead, and books. Books are cool. A stable environment might have been a great thing, though.

Lots of love (none of all really),

Jo (Ioana).

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