The First Letter of Madness

Inside my heart lies a curse that is not known to many. They call me loving and yet deeply I loathe.  I loathe the love that I cannot find myself to muster for another. I loathe the love that others feel so effortless. But I do not envy the burden. I do not envy the twinkle in couple eyes as they look adoring upon their chosen mate. I do not envy the holding of the hands nor the breath upon the back of my neck. No, I do not envy love.  I do not desire the throws of passion unleashed upon me as if that is something I could crave anymore. I was ruined last I knew. I accepted this death of my heart. A burden no longer felt to be anything but a fleeting moment like heartburn. I do not care to exert much energy into something that is not promised. Perhaps that is the appeal, I am unsure. I do not see it and I doubt I will ever be it. I am not sure I ever had anything more than the illusion of love. But deeply rooted in my psyche is the overwhelming sense of sadness that I will never be a part of anything more than what I am-alone. But this does not bother me nor does it leave me incomplete. It is more of a relief. Knowing I do not crave something that drives people mad. I tried it more than once. It didn’t take. I spent four years with a monster of a man. He encouraged my death and drove me insane.

It’s been a year today that everything changed for me. When the man I truly loved took his own life. When he succeeded where I had always failed. When he did what I had always so desired. I gave up on him years prior. He was too sad and he knew this. We knew this together. I loved that man with every fiber of my being but his depression overtook him and my own impatience took me out of the equation. Let it be known though we remained close. I drifted to a narcissist and he drifted to a bitch. It was in his death I found the strength to leave my broken failed relationship. It was in his death I found life again.

For thousands of words have been inked on paper trying to explain the darkness I’ve always been surrounded by. Thousands of words on paper inked for my loved ones to read after my passing. But that was then and this is now. Although I am dead inside, I press on in life. I find it beautiful despite the presence of death all around me. I find the simplest tasks to be hard as hell to accomplish. When I wake up in the morning I can’t wait to return to sleep. The nightmares have finally ended. I can’t recall the last time my subconscious mocked my broken heart. Thing is I am no longer broken. No longer beaten. The man who taught me the dirtiness of love no longer has a hold upon me. I realized that today in the shower as the water washed away my dried tears from the night before. I realized I have been finally free of this haunting that lasted about a year. It made me excited to face the year anniversary of the most difficult day of my life.

We also say goodbye today to a man who shot himself in the heart as he was broken hearted. This is why I am not saddened  by the decision to never open my heart up again. To remain closed off to anyone. I have no desire. No interest. I have no energy to expend to another soul. There is no point. I already did my job and procreated. That’s why I am intrigued with the idea of being in love with love a thousand miles away. I hope you don’t mind. I find it brilliantly insane. Insane in a harmless way. I am not boiling any bunnies. I just need a medium to write to. It has been forever it seems since I’ve had the desire to write anything. Last night I sat with a sharpie and inked 15 pages of nonsense babble. I am afraid to even read it.

I must chuckle at myself though because in my vulnerabilities I find raw honesty that many others are incapable of speaking.  I suppose I am just as crazy as the day I was born. Perhaps I am just finding the niche of that eccentric energy I am feeling inside. I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a deep seated hurt that breathes inside me daily. Would it surprise anyone to know that despite that darkness that  I am completely happy with all of the pain I have known. No regrets. No second chances. No wasted time. No, this is all perfect. This is where I have become to be as me now. A rambling girl thousand miles away entertaining the belief that she is madly in love with the idea of love in a man who is unattainable. If you were attainable it would not be of interest you know.  Thus the appeal. Thus the desire. Thus the unshamed love. Because if I am going to love someone, I want it to be someone worthy for the cause. Someone who needs. It. Someone deserving.

Your eyes speak your soul and your soul is pure. This is where we connect. I know you feel it. I am not completely bat shit crazy. Maybe I just amuse us in writing. That is okay too. It gets me out of my head for awhile. It makes me forget about reality. It makes me look forward to something. It gives me something to do most importantly aside from the mundane existence I live. Honestly, it gives me a purpose. I have yet to decide exactly that that is  and I am sure it will change so rather than name it, I will just go with it.

Because inside I am dead and I want to feel . I want to feel love again and yet I don’t want to exert much energy over it. Because love breaks me down every time. I would rather pretend. I would rather send my love in a letter thousand miles away. I would rather just spill my mental garbage out to someone who might find it to be a treasure. If anything the paper can be burned to keep you warm at night. In the end though it keeps me from having to ever say yes to a guy. I would rather love someone out of my league, out of my state, out of my realm than to love anyone close. Maybe I can officially say I have left the planet. Perhaps I have written such craziness to you before. I forget because I just think out loud on paper and send it off. I don’t reread. Rereading is to know the filth of my soul. The patheticness of my heart. The brokenness that has become of me.

I used to write love letters. I decided I will never do that again. You are the exception though because you can never break me. Perhaps the appeal. Perhaps there is a beauty in this that you can appreciate. If not, I don’t mind. I knew rejection so early in life that at thirty five I don’t think it phases me anymore. I know I am not putting myself out there. I don’t want to. I don’t have the energy. Thus why you are perfect.

Thank you for being my imaginary boyfriend even if you didn’t accept the honor officially… The man I can love without having to put in much effort. The one I can write nonsense to and doesn’t judge me. At least I don’t’ feel judged. Your eyes do not tell me that I am crazy. You, my dear friend, know all about sitting in a closet alone with only words for comfort. I wrote on walls and you spoke on a recorder. My dad drove truck and I read his atlas. I picked Rhode Island as my favorite state. Coincidence? I think not. I chuckle. If only I had time to explain the connections. At this point though I find myself distracted enough to continue on with the day. Answering stupid phone calls and writing stupid letters. Not of love though, I am saving my love letters for you. I hope you feel more flattered than freaked out. You are not my Paula Abdul. I shall perhaps write again. It seems to give me an added heartbeat. And on days like today- I need it. So thank you. Thank you for putting yourself out there. And thank you for letting me love you. I appreciate it. It is the perfect nonrelationship I have ever had. I wished I could write to my diary like I write to you.  Until I write again…

“…should I draw you the picture of my heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied.” ~Abagail Adam to John Adam, letter 1782

With all my love


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