Letters to Myself 6

June 7, 2011
By , miami, FL
My Everything, Gone.



Feeling lonely. Again. But in a different way. wishing someone would love me. Not like my mom does. She has to. That’s her job in life. I mean someone who doesn’t have to. Someone who just does it because they can’t help it. That they’d miss me, that they’d feel like they died inside if I left. That they’d hurt every time I did. That they’d do anything for me. They’d love me just for me. Not for anything about me, just because I'm me. That they’d never try to change for me, and never try to make me do that. That they would accept me in every way that I am. But no one does that. And that’s the way life is. For me.



And why should anyone feel that way anyway? I'm not good enough for that. I don’t deserve that. I deserve to feel the way I feel. All I am worth is someone’s pity. That’s all. Maybe not even that. Why should someone feel sorry for me. I'm not some kid starving in Africa. I'm not a family that just lost a father to a war. I'm not a puppy left on the street to be forgotten. I'm just a person. But I'm suffering. I can’t help saying it. It feels like it’s true.

I'm listening to sad music and crying right now, which reminds me that I cried earlier today. Because my mom told me that they threw away my pocket knife. My pocket knife was my best friend. It was my lover. It was my life line. We bonded. We went through so much together. It was with me the whole way, protecting me from pain. From hurt. And then they took it away. Locked it up. In a safe. In my house. So I couldn’t get to it. They knew that it’s mine. Mine only. HOW COULD THEY TAKE IT AWAY? AND THEN COMPLETELY GET RID OF IT? For some reason I always felt like they would give it back to me once I was better. Which was COMEPLETELY CRAZY. INSANE. I don’t know why I always thought that. I just had to believe that we would be reunited someday. To save me from the pain of knowing that we were separated forever.

I'm crying really hard now. The more I think about it, the harder it hits me, the more it hurts. I just can’t believe it. I have no more to write. But a million words inside my head. Pages, chapters, books, volumes, so much I can’t contain it, but I don’t know how to get it out. It’s been 22 days of no cutting. And now that I know my pocket knife, my everything, is gone, I want to cut so much more. It’s like now there’s such a vast emptiness inside of me without it, I feel like if I cut enough I can get it back somehow. But that won’t happen. So what’s the point. But what’s the point in trying. I guess there’s no point in anything now. Great.





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