𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟏𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐲, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟗

Dear universe...

I think it's going wrong. Life, I mean. I understand that this is only my third letter addressing you, and it's been a very large and rebellious rollercoaster so far, but I'm different than I was on the twenty-sixth of April on a lonely Sunday in the early hours of the morning. I thought this whole thing was helping, that writing a letter to the universe periodically would help me pull myself back to normality, and turn me into somebody that I could be proud of. But that hasn't happened. There was an instance, in the small gap between posts 1 and 2 where I thought that I was going to achieve something, even if that something was having a personality that was more predictable than a flighty animal. I just wanted to improve a little bit.

But it's getting bad again. It's getting worse and I can't seem to stop myself from unravelling. Instead of it being an early hour of the morning, it's six pm on a Monday and my family are all downstairs. They're trying to ignore and erase my existence but I don't think that it's going as well as they hoped. They are still the ones lumped with clearing up after me, as that's another thing I seem to be incapable of doing. Currently, it's smashed kitchen items that are the target of my anger. Seventeen bowls, four plates, three teacups and about thirty wine glasses (my parents were throwing a party. They didn't tell me.). I hate it. I feel... I feel... I think the issue here is that I don't actually feel anything. I wish I did. No I don't, that would make it worse.

I wish I felt happy.

I've been holed up, cooped up, locked inside of this house, this staged continuation I forced myself to carry out. It's been almost three years. It turns out, a lot can change in three years. Thirty-six months. Over a thousand days. I feel like I'm missing out on life. My dad is never home, the last time I saw him was when I ruined his 'function' and I've missed my sister. Her name is Tara. She's the youngest, and we're four years apart. I've missed seeing her grow up because I can't ever find anything nice to say to her. I wish I could turn back the clock to the years before this fucking mess happened. I don't feel like I deserve that though. What with all of the things I've done, I've said, I've seen, a life that is painless and enjoyable is far more warranted by another different person. Tara wouldn't even recognise me. I hope she's living her best life, doted on and loved, able to venture downstairs and out of the house whenever she pleases.

I have fucked up.

I was doing ok, but then I ruined it. And I know I've said that already, but I haven't said something, it's a dark and dirty secret that has been digging its way into me, reminding me of its presence every single day, every single hour. It had been almost a year, but I messed it all up. I don't want to say, purely because of the shame it has caused me.

I made a mistake, ok? Once more, there are red patterns that I have carved into my arms and thighs late at night, locked in the bathroom. I was once more used to the dull, stinging sensation before the gentle drop made its way down to the floor. Nobody knows. I just thought that, maybe if I don't tell anyone anything, the problem will just go away. I don't think that will work. So I am living my life with dozens of littles doodles of bees etched into me. They're a swarm now, stinging me every time I try to move and get on with my life. I wish I could just stop. But I can't. They won't let me. I won't let me. I think I need help, universe, but I'm scared to admit it. It's one thing admitting it to a page on the internet that only a couple of people see.

And, lastly, hello @lostcqlibre. I saw you. I saw your comment. And you saw me. I'm sorry for letting you down, even though you don't know me.

From me.

Posted at 18:09pm on Monday the 11th of May 2009

1 comment:

@lostcqlibre - stay. You are more needed than you think. You aren't a mistake <3

REPLY >>@Annaliseisalive309 - i think you're more important to me than I'd like to say

and we have never even spoken.