Unsent Letter #God-knows-what

Please forgive me. I’m going to let you down tonight.

See, I’m starting to get the feeling that everything I do is pointless. That I’m too weak to make any kind of a positive difference for anyone. I’ve been battering myself against too many walls these days—and I said I would stop.

I said I would come back.

I know it’s a bad night. Every night is a bad night. And I don’t say that to discount it, to write it off, to write you off… No.

But I haven’t been sleeping.

And if tonight is, in fact, the night that kills you—I will not, I think, even be able to say I should have been there. I should have stopped you. Because I couldn’t, see. Because this may be different from these other nights of ours, but also it is not. The fact that I’m here and you’re there and all I have are words you don’t believe, and you don’t even know what I look like or how close and how tightly I would hold you if I could—it’s still the same. Still our constant.

I want to help you, but I can’t. I have asked you to reach out to the ones who can. It’s on you now. I’m sorry; I know you feel like nothing should be on you, I know you feel like you can’t do anything right, but it has to be you, baby.

You have others. I see their messages, and your answers. I will just be one more. Nothing that tips a balance. Nothing, really, at all. This is not my fault. But night after night of this, and I am starting to believe that it is.

I have to be careful.

I’m sorry, but I have to be selfish. I love you, but I have to be selfish. And you, darling—You, honey, sweetheart, little one, child of mine who is not mine, my heart is breaking for you— but if you are going to be saved at all, you have to save yourself.

I hope you wake up tomorrow, to a sweeter sunrise.

I hope you wake up.

Hello, Metropolis

Callouses grow over the heart by degrees. I wonder, lately, where the line lies between letting go and fossilizing. If I shrink my sphere down to what I can handle, there are going to be things--and people--left outside it. Isn't that the point? The point was to keep things--and people--manageable, so that what I take on, I can do. I acknowledge my limitations. I hate them. I hate myself for them. I recognize the hatred, the irrationality; I remind myself of what I tell others in my position. Good. Keep the center.

But people aren't things.

How many stories can I insert myself into as a character? What gives me the right? How much time can I spend as the eternal supporting character-- But I'm not, am I. My impulse is to swoop in and save the day. What I'm doing--what I'm trying to do is make myself the hero of other people's stories. You know, I hadn't thought about it like that.

No wonder it isn't working.

There's only one story I have the ability to be the protagonist of. By stepping in as the change-maker, I make people peripheral in their own lives. The passive. The ones in need of saving, of re-making. I tell them again and again that they have strength they don't know about, but do I act like they do? Do I trust them with their own lives?

I'm growing callouses, but the abrasions come from the hostile nature of environments--of stories--in which I do not belong. One forgets, sometimes. I forget. I have worlds I'm neglecting. Can I breathe yet?

I'm coming back.

Little Victories

Writing is still extremely difficult right now for whatever reason, but I came across this thing on tumblr this afternoon. This time last year, my answer would have been yes. Three months ago, my answer would have been yes. For most of my life, I've wished for a button I could push that would give me exactly this option. But today, when I saw this stupid picture staring me in the face, my first thought was an immediate and resounding "hell no." And this in the middle of my current low period.

Suck it, depression. I'm going to be okay.

[Edit: And I usually only blog when I'm unhappy or lost--which has not changed at all in the past however long--but I just looked back over my last few entries and I don't think I've ever written so many optimistic posts in a row. Even the bad ones end on a high note. This is very confusing, but not in a bad way.]

I can't remember when I started clenching my teeth, but I catch myself doing it more and more often these days. Another bad habit, I guess. Add it to the list. I often say that home is a bad place for me to break habits, but I'm away from home again now, so it's best to be positive. Ugh. "Be positive." I hate that; I sound like Effie Trinket.

Writing isn't working. This, for instance. I half expect to look down and see the keyboard shriveling up under my hands.

I sound worse than I am, I swear. I'm not not-okay, exactly, but I feel oddly rudderless. I would like something to put my hand on. Or an envelope stuck under my door containing a letter than explains... I don't know. Something? Maybe I just need to get some sleep. Of course, if I go to sleep, the twelve-year-old girl I'm talking to might kill herself. You know. Normal people problems.

You know what I miss? When I was little, after meeting, everyone would gather in what we called the Blue Room and sing hymns. Someone played the piano, and everyone else who wanted to would stand in a circle and sing. I'd be downstairs with the other kids, but when I heard music, I'd say "I have to go now." I'd run upstairs and into the middle of that circle, and I'd dance. Not caring what I looked like. Not caring that I was surrounded by other people who were watching. I don't know what box a fearful child like I was had in which to put that experience so I could do it, but it must have been there. I miss that. Not dancing, specifically, but I miss being someone who would.

"Skinny"

This will not be a long post. It's a little self-indulgent, actually. But it is such a wonderful feeling to accidentally stumble on a pro-anorexia "thinspiration" blog, look at those photographs, and realize that I have absolutely no desire to look like those poor girls. To realize that my ideal body now is two things: strong and healthy. I just wanted to say that to someone, because I'm happy. I've been having guilt about having guilt about eating and it was driving me up a wall, but you know, things could be so much worse. I have been so much worse. I am so much further than I was. I'm okay. I'm doing okay. And I'm okay with that.

I want to write "PLEASE DON'T DIE" in mile-high letters across the sky, and for all of us to look up and realize we'd be harder to look at than the sun if there were eyes to see what we really are.

Instead I hand the razor blade to my father.
"Here, you can have this back now."
"Are you done with it?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."

My voice shakes the tiniest bit, but he doesn't notice, and as far as he's concerned, I've been using it to scrape down a piece of leather. It starts here, after all. I don't make New Years resolutions, really, but the closest I have is the promise to try to treat myself the way I would treat someone in my position who wasn't me, and the intent to let the people who love me--if they so choose--love me as much as I love them.