Dear You,
I hope you remember what I told you and I hope you believed it and I hope you can accept it even if you cannot understand it. I don't understand you. At all. But I have no choice but to accept you. Life has arranged itself in such a way. I hear you laugh and conspire and confide into the person I used to hear you say such negative things about. I expect now I am the person who is the target of all your vitriol, but strangely, I would much rather be ostracised than listen to all the toxic negativity that you have no compunction in offloading on those who are stupid enough to care for your broken and messed up person.
Thank you. Thank you for your generosity and for whatever compulsion is responsible for you tolerating me. Because I know I am intolerable. I don't pretend. I told you before it all happened and you insisted it would be fine and it isn't because I am me, broken in my own many ways and unable to fix myself. I don't understand how you can talk so much. Why do you not get tired? Where does your energy come from?How can I get some of it? For the love of all that is holy, please tell me because I am here, avoiding you because I am too tired to speak and I know you interpret my silence, anyone's silence, as some sort of pointed attack on your very person. It's not about you. Pretty much nothing is about you, which you suspect deep down and which is possibly why you constantly need to be experiencing some sort of drama. I notice patterns you know. And you outright lying isn't going to make me think that what I saw and heard didn't happen. I know it did. I am just not going to bring it up because it doesn't really fix anything.
I am tired. So tired. I just have to remember this quote, and keep reciting it to myself, as you try to drag me closer and closer to the edge of that black hole:
Quote:
If you offered your life up to this illness and said “Eat me instead, eat my life, just let her get better, or failing that, let her keep living” the illness would accept your offer but it would not accept your bargain. You could spend every scrap of energy and time that you have on cooking for your mom and looking after her and encouraging her, and the illness would laugh and say “MORE!” and she might still not get better but you might get worse. This illness is a liar. It wouldn’t care what order it ate you in.