Letters

2.

"Shit." I put on my Kajal-liner too thick, so I try to take the access off with a tissue. The outcome looks horrible, and I look like someone who had a rough night with someone, tossing the sheets and being wild for a while.
I'm still thinking how I feel wearing all black. I know it's the grief and my emotions taking over me. It looks always different on everyone. But the five stages are always the same. First comes the denial.
  As I step out the front door I show nothing but a smile. I feel free and only for a bit of pain growing in me, trying to take control over my emotions and motions. I stare straight in front of me. People are watching. I live one hour away from Berlin in a pretty small town. I'd love to go around in a skirt, but my body dysmorphia is stronger than my willing to do whatever I feel good, so in the twenty-four degree Celsius I walk around in black skinny jeans and an oversized jumper. Since I'm not completely insane I allowed myself to wear the white one. I feel the sweat running down my back making me feel disgusted.
I hate this town. But the flat situation is so unbelievable in Berlin, when I had to move out from Viktor I had no other choice then this little flat. Everything is nearby and the train station is just fifteen minutes. So I can be in Berlin every day living my real life there, drinking my stupid little coffee on my stupid little walk on the Potsdamer square. Taking a break in the Tiergarten. Watching the sky and people passing by with their dogs or partners. Just idyllic. Lonely.

*

I got into class almost fifteen minutes later. Mi make-up is messed up, my hair looks like a nest. My coffee is chilling me, but the confused looks are eating me alive. I don't want to know how bad I look like, but the looks I get tell me, everyone knows I'm not doing well. I just excuse myself and sit down, take out my tablet and just stare in front of me. Words are getting blurry and voices sound like white noise. At the instant I get out of my numbing hypnosis, I peel off my jumper so my skin can breath and I won't heat up until I faint. The thing is, when you finally decide you're going to open up wounds in order to heal, you need to tear up what's healthy to expose where's the problem. It's cruel, but it works for the sake of healing. And once it's over, you wait. And hope it didn't make everything worse. So did I start taking out memories last night, from the box I put in the back off my brain years ago. I want to heal. Want to get over my traumas. To understand how I got here.
"Is everything alright?" I look straight into the eyes of the professor.
"Yes. I'm fine thanks. I just didn't do my assignment for today."
"I saw you were doing the other ones but you need to do what I ask for the next week. I want to give you the credits because you are here, and do everything. But still you need to do what I ask and later you can move on the other ones."
"Okay, I'm sorry." yet again I disappointed someone. Not that she care that much. She goes on talking about Ibsen and his plays. Everyone has good assumptions and I am just thinking. Thinking about everything happened to me, led to this point. And than I start writing.

I'm not writing this, because I'm ready to let you back. To talk about where you got wrong. I was thinking of going back to Hungary and tell it to your eyes. You abused me. Emotionally, verbally and physically. You supposed to show me love and interest in me, but you didn't even invest the time. And now that I finally closed you out of it, you try to get back and make me feel shit. I don't want you anymore in my life. I can't let you be there anymore. There are no happy memories with you. You always told me what a disappointment I am, broke off my wings. Tear my hopes on an eighteen years old road. I don't have dreams, I'm afraid of commitments and boundaries. Feeling love. Not to be afraid of being someone else's disappointment too. You were my father. But I cannot stop thinking that you're just a guy, who gave my mother a sperm cell to creat a life you could ruin by giving over your mental sickness. Dad, I need you to stop. Because I don't want you in my life anymore. So I need to reinvent myself, because the world won't change. And there's no time for me looking back. I lost my father in you years ago. Trust can be rebuilt, hope not. I buried it long ago with you.