• I’m Trying

    by  • May 5, 2018 • * Safe for Work *, To Everybody • 0 Comments

    Dear World,

    Today I know that you tried to make me relapse. In another universe I know this was probably the night that I finally found a way to kill myself. But this is not that night. I want to say it’s because I’ve been strong but I’m afraid that would just be me trying to look strong in front of a website of anonymous strangers. But fuck if you didn’t get close.

    In the last seven years I have had two best friends. Two people to wade through the maze of mental illness and misery with. One I met through friends in high school and one through the internet. I love both implicitly. Especially as they fought so hard to understand my abandonment issues and what I later discovered was borderline personality disorder.

    The one I met through high school was my very best friend for seven long years. We had been through so much together. Several relationships of mine, her grandfather slowly losing his mind, experiences of unemployment and pressure from society. It was the friendship I thought I would have for the rest of my life. Now, it wasn’t perfect and we were both very flawed people. But I don’t think we ever detracted from each other lives. Then she did an action that my personality disorder interpreted as not including me in her life and putting me on the sidelines. I got upset and gave her the childish silent treatment for a week. Amid those swirling hormones of misery and the old fear of abandonment I had another relapse into cutting myself. This time I pushed too hard and my skin popped in a way it hadn’t before. It scared me. And I thought that she is still my best friend, she still loves me, she’ll still help me. Talk me out of this.

    Instead she yelled at me. Even though I had an exacto knife in my hands and blood was dripping down my thigh she wouldn’t see my reality. I was never allowed to express when she hurt me without having to hear the essay of things I had done over the last year to hurt her. Because her social anxiety was worse than mine she couldn’t bring up those issues as they came. She had to wait until I gave her an opening instead of hearing what I had to say. It hurt. It hurt that I had to always dance around trying to encourage her to get help like I was getting (therapy and medications). While she was allowed to write off all my pain with “I’m just not good at comforting people”.

    Still I believed it would work out. We were going to have a small gig over the winter selling chocolate. Surely we’d figure it out before then. But the job was through personal connections she had and she deemed it no longer necessary to share it with me. Maybe she thought I’d beg, maybe it was a punishment. Whichever it was it screwed me over. Because I have financial responsibilities. I have a $40 co-pay per appointment for my therapy and I don’t ave a steady job. While she has no financial responsibilities. When she had a temporary job she used the money to buy a new computer and a DS. While every week I don’t have an appointment and I’m having a crisis I have to ask myself “is this worth an extra $40 that I barely have?” And if the answer is “I probably won’t kill myself” then I bare through it. My answer is always I probably won’t kill my self.

    Recently I found out that she says the reason we’re no longer friends is because I was jealous. And that when I’m done with someone I’m done with them. Despite the fact every major and minor fight we’ve ever had I was the one that went to her afterwards to smooth things over. Yet, the first time I have not I am the one who always burns bridges. Her mother told mine that she was absolutely miserable without me. And still, she hasn’t been able to just once text me. Soon my family is moving and I know if I don’t reach out to her before we do that I will never see her again. The last time we saw each other was October. She didn’t even text me on my 25th birthday. My mother had bet me money she would. I won 20 dollars I knew I would.

    Today I thought about relapsing. It was October that I had last cut myself. It had always been sporadic. But those episodes were harsh enough that I have unseemingly scars across both my thighs. There’s no question what they’re from. I always wish they were my wrists. My other best friend and I had a more turbulent relationship. As are those made online. We met through a mutual online hobby. A hobby that has been the only sense of self-validation or worth I have ever had. She became my partner in it. We weaved our activities together and created masterpieces that made me so happy and excited I looked forward to the day often because of them. Then one day she stopped. She left me. Where so many other had left me before.

    For some time we just stopped talking. After I lost my other best friend I reached out to her. I let my therapist’s words guide me. Explained my feelings and that I missed her and that relationships change and while it’s neither good nor bad it’s just how it is. She missed me too and we started talking again. The only change was that where there had been many texts and we shared our lives together I get five or six messages. And she never returned to our hobby with me. Not even in private which we had practically been non-stop doing since we’d met. But I let it go. I didn’t want to pressure her and I have been learning to cope with the fact that people and relationships change. If she didn’t want to tell me her reasoning she didn’t have to. We’d just have a different relationship.

    Today I found out she didn’t leave our hobby. She just left me. When I always had the dream that maybe one day she’d tell me her reasons and we’d be able to do some thing meaningful together again instead of the platitudes of how was your day and I’m having pasta for dinner. But just hours ago that dream was smashed. I actually, for once, didn’t believe the worst. I didn’t think it was me, something so uncharacteristic of me that I’m surprised lightning didn’t strike. But dear god. It was. It was me. She left me. She decided she didn’t have time for ME. She didn’t want to share her life with ME. And I wish the halfhearted attempt to kill myself at eighteen had succedded. I wish I was anyone but me. Because it’s me. No matter who I meet or how many friends I make they always leave me.

    I wrote her over 3000 characters worth of pain. I regret it now. I regretted before I finished it and told her to please not respond. That I knew I had opened up a vicious dialogue with her and that I didn’t want it to continue tonight. That she could write a message back but just to wait to send it. I don’t know if there is any answer she could give me that I could cope with. It’s not a new wound. It’s the same one that’s been killing me ever since my mother cheated on my father when I was child, ever since my big sister told me I was just her half sister and that she hated me, ever since the other Asian girls wouldn’t play with me because I was only half Korean and too fat, ever since I was bullied and mocked, ever since the school counselor told me I was just looking for attention and that I needed to stop coming to see her. My therapist right now would tell me to stop the cycle. End this thought process. Tell myself it is not always me. I’d love to talk to her tomorrow but I don’t have $40. All I have is the internet. All I have is the flowers I had tattooed on my wrists because I knew I could never bring myself to destroy art.

    I have truly loved two people in my life. One hadn’t wanted anything to do with me romantically from the start and led me on for months. I wrote a letter on here about it. I think I called him a lord of douchebags and called myself his lady of some adjective I no longer remember. I’ve wanted very little to do with romance since him. The other one had terminal heart failure and a history of being abused and I was a coward and left. I still don’t know if he loved me or was desperate to be loved at all.

    I’m not going to cut myself again. Because I swore I wouldn’t. And I am many things but I am not someone that breaks their word easily. I swore it to myself. I screamed it at my mother when she mocked me for my history of cutting. I’m not going to cut again. But world, you want me to so badly. Every person I have ever placed my trust in has let me down. Every new person I know it will end in heartbreak and the only common denominator is me. It feels like the world wants me to die. I tell myself and my therapist that I am moving forward. That someday it will be alright. That tomorrow already hurts less. But it’s a lie. I still carry every wound and it’s killing me. I wonder what my therapist would think if I died. Would she mourn or do they create a realism that they cannot save anyone. Would the two best friends I had feel like it was their fault or would it be a relief that I am no longer in the world.

    My mother’s friend lost her autistic eight year old to a brain tumor. I read her mourning blog every day and wonder why this little girl so loved and so young is dead and I am spared. I hate myself for thinking she’s lucky.

    But the truth is she is. And I’m not going to cut again. Yet, I am no happier than I was seven years ago and the hurt had far outweighed the accomplishments. I alone am the hero and villain of my story and I am alone.

    C

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