A day won’t go by where I feel like I deserve you.
I know better than that.
I don’t deserve you.
Today, you asked me about smoking.
You asked me if I had smoked before.
I know that you knew the answer to that question. I’d talked quite a few times about my smoking experiences. I’ve smoked cigars, cigarillos, weed, pipe tobacco, and cigarettes. I know you’ve at least heard one or two of these stories. It’s no secret. But those are my party stories.
You asked me if I enjoyed it.
I answered honestly.
I don’t particularly enjoy it.
I really don’t.
And you said good. You couldn’t date someone who smoked.
You said you’d break up right there on the spot.
Now, what was I to say to that?
I do smoke. I don’t like it, but I smoke. It’s almost as bad (if not worse) than cutting. It’s a self-destructive coping mechanism. I mean, I can go weeks without having one. It’s no big deal. When life gets hard though, I’ll have a cigarette.
When I’m really pissed off, I’ll smoke a cigarette to take the edge off.
It calms me down. It makes my brain shut off since I’m depriving it of oxygen. I like the escape. I need the escape.
I’m addicted to the escape.
I know I shouldn’t. But I honestly don’t have much to live for anymore.
You don’t know that.
My therapist wants me to have a long talk with you about the severity of everything.
She believes that you need to be fully informed of my condition and how to care for me if things go wrong.
I know she’s right.
I just really hate talking about it.
And I really hate having to explain my feelings more.
I know how twisted they are. I can almost predict your reactions based off your current reactions.
“Awww :(((( take care babe.”
I didn’t tell you this, but that made me gag. A lot.
Babe and the frown-faces and “awww”. Dear god. Spare me.
I’m not a charity case. I’m not something that can be toyed with. I’m a human being with a illness as deadly as cancer. You wouldn’t “Aww” at somebody who was having a rough day with chemo, would you? I hope not….
I am broken. I am shattered. I am not something that can be simply glued back together again.
I need rebuilding. I need to be remastered. I need to be made whole again.
You’re helping. You’re a saving grace. But even grace can be mislead.
I hope that someday, you’ll ask to read all of this. I’ll be brave maybe and let you.
Let these be the things that I’ve always wanted to say to you, but just didn’t have the courage or will.
It’s hard to tell someone, someone you love, that there are times where you can’t remember what’s keeping you from swallowing a bottle of pills. You try to search and search and you come up with a few strings that are thin but existent. That’s it though. As soon as those are gone, who knows.
Who knows if those strings will be enough next time?
It’s always next time.
When’s the next time I’m going to panic about my weight and food?
That was embarrassing tonight.
I’m not ashamed to say I don’t know how to do something when I’ve never done it before. You were in a weird mood. At least, weird to me. You’re stressed right now. I understand that. I’m pretty sensitive to it though and can’t help but feel like I add to it. I might be, only you know. You should really just tell me then. Put us both out of our misery.
You took over then. I felt a little helpless. Then I thought about what the physician technicians at the plasma center told me.
Since May, I have lost 23 pounds.
Twenty. Three. Pounds.
Closer to thirty really, because my weight is usually less after I’ve digested my food. I had just eaten a really full meal as to ensure I wouldn’t get sick while donating.
I saw the food cooking. I had already started to panic. Sensing it, I went to my bag, took a sedative, then came back over to you.
You made a comment about the amount of oil I used. Unhealthy. I began to crumble.
I decided to go take a step outside. I said I left something in my car that I wanted. My original intention was to go out, have a smoke, chew some gum hardcore, then come back in.
You and the smoking and the don’t do that and the breaking up and the smell and oh how I hate myself.
I then thought that I could pull the switch blade I have hidden in the car. Pull it on myself. Cut. It wasn’t like I was going to stay the night anyway. You probably wouldn’t even notice.
God, it scares me how easy it is to hide my cutting from my own boyfriend.
I honestly don’t think you’re interested in it. I feel like you don’t wonder what goes on in my head to make me want to do that. It probably makes you feel uncomfortable.
That’s my biggest complaint about this relationship.
The importance, how I value to you, my health, my sanity, if you’re proud to call me yours.
I feel like you aren’t.
You still haven’t told your parents. I mean, it’s not such a big deal seeing as they live in Hong Kong so it’ll be months before I ever meet them. I just… can’t help but think.
I was so excited when we first started dating. Hell, I’m still excited. You’re amazing. I couldn’t help but let it slip in front of my dad. It was awkward because I’m awkward, but you’re just… amazing. I want them to know you and how amazing you are. How amazing I think you are.
It feels unreciprocated.
I don’t know if you want to tell them. If it’s important to you. I understand your parents just kind of brushing through things then leaving hastily to let you work or go do work themselves.
But, I feel like if you were really proud, really excited, and really wanted them to know, you’d prompt it.
You’d initiate it.
You’d say, “Mom, dad, can we talk tonight? Doesn’t have to be for long, but I just have something I want to share with you.”
You’d explain, “I’ve started seeing someone. I wanted you to know. She’s been a friend of mine for quite some time. She’s in the studio.”
Maybe they’d ask more questions. Maybe you would want to tell them other things. Maybe that would be the end of it. Get the basics done and be over it.
I can’t help but want some reciprocation.
Then again, I wonder if I’m doing a good job of reciprocating feelings for you.
I wonder if you worry about me not liking you. Not being crazy about you. Me not loving you.
Well…. see the previous post.
I’m going to look at this later and think… “wow, this was shit.”
So to make up for it, I’m going to repost my favorite. My favorite piece of my work.