Thursday, September 16, 2004
I don't know if you will read this, or when, but I need to talk to somebody, and you've always been the one I have gone to when things were rough. And things are rough today.
I'm avoiding anyone who might be nice to me, because I know what will happen. They will say something nice and I will have to turn away, because I start crying all over again. One of my flaws, I guess, is that I can't stand to have people being good to me when I am miserable. Somehow when I feel this unlovable, having people care is just too much.
Not you, though. I have always felt comfortable letting you see me in all my moods, with my flaws and my self destructive tendencies in full bloom. I wish I could tell you everything, but that would hurt you. And no matter how much I feel like hurting myself, I can't bring myself to do that to you.
The cigarettes (yes, I did stop, for the entire night) are a comfort to me. Some small hurt that I endure which lets me know that I can. They are self destructive, I know, and I will stop eventually, but for now they are a slow death, and much less destructive than any of the other things that were floating unbidden into my head on Sunday and that still show up now and again.
I wish you were taking better care of yourself. I wish you weren't in pain.
This evening I have to attend a party. One of our managers is going to India, and we are taking him out for beer after work. And I will smile, and make small talk, and be the woman they have come to know over the past few months. Pretending is something I need to get better at.
And I still get up every morning at five to look for you.
I'm avoiding anyone who might be nice to me, because I know what will happen. They will say something nice and I will have to turn away, because I start crying all over again. One of my flaws, I guess, is that I can't stand to have people being good to me when I am miserable. Somehow when I feel this unlovable, having people care is just too much.
Not you, though. I have always felt comfortable letting you see me in all my moods, with my flaws and my self destructive tendencies in full bloom. I wish I could tell you everything, but that would hurt you. And no matter how much I feel like hurting myself, I can't bring myself to do that to you.
The cigarettes (yes, I did stop, for the entire night) are a comfort to me. Some small hurt that I endure which lets me know that I can. They are self destructive, I know, and I will stop eventually, but for now they are a slow death, and much less destructive than any of the other things that were floating unbidden into my head on Sunday and that still show up now and again.
I wish you were taking better care of yourself. I wish you weren't in pain.
This evening I have to attend a party. One of our managers is going to India, and we are taking him out for beer after work. And I will smile, and make small talk, and be the woman they have come to know over the past few months. Pretending is something I need to get better at.
And I still get up every morning at five to look for you.
