The Fourth Letter of Madness

It’s Friday morning-I made it. I almost felt different this morning. Angry more than sad. I was mainly upset last night that my best friend would be so insensitive to my feelings. That she would lack compassion and tact. That I would have to tell her how her comments were not soothing or empathetic in the least. That she would say them anyway. To reduce the man I loved, who I cared for, who died to “that dead guy” shows me she cares very little about hurting my feelings.  Whatever though. It just sucks. She was the first best friend I had after crazy Shannon. I was unable to trust for the longest time. I opened up to Casie, and now I just feel betrayed. Like what for? Like suddenly I am not good enough. Then I think to myself-OMG what does she know? We have thousands of thousands of messages. I spoke free and honest. This is why I think I am done digitalizing my mind. Fuck facebook. Fuck bitches.

I made it to work today. I am happy about it in the respect that it is just me. No bitches to be not answering the phones and talking shit about me. Apparently they did on Wednesday. I laugh. I laugh a big belly of happiness. I am my boss’s favorite. I know this.  Possibly they know this to. They must be jealous of me. I honestly am a pleasant person. I might speak all hateful and loathing but I really am an amazing person. There is nothing wrong with me per say. I say my please and thank yous. I do my job. I am efficient. I am a perfectionist. I sometimes do more than I need to. I answer the stupid phone. So why, why, why am I subjected to bitches gossip.  Because they are bitches, that’s right. Good observation. This actually does not bother me. It doesn’t bother me at all. Maybe because everything else is shit so it pales in comparison.  At least the bookkeeper likes me. And the two lawyers.  I don’t think I like this office work job. I hate the phone and I hate clichés and bitches. I hate gossip. I hate ignorant people who lack compassion. Fuck them bitches. And yes I feel better.  Slightly.

My boss just asked me how I was feeling. He said he was a little worried about me. I really should keep my feelings to myself. I don’t like to have people worried about me. I am fine. Well, I am not fine I am scraping the surface just to get by. Honestly, I am losing my sense of clarity and everything else that I had. But this morning I faked it. Struggled to put on my face. Dressed in my suit and tennis shoes. Brushed my teeth and tried to straighten my hair. I gave some effort to my appearance today. I figured I can fake it until I make it. This has worked in the past. See I do not want to give up. I was thinking of this last night about how it sucks that I have to stay alive so everyone else is happy where I am so miserable. Why am I so miserable? Because there is nothing that gives me any pleasure. Not in this town. Not with these people. And I have one friend. Well, had. There is a reason for that. Because bitches talk shit and start drama. Girls are not my friends. Not in this town. Not in this area. I am okay enough to live. But it is only because I can’t kill myself. I tried. I tried many times. I suppose without nooses and bullets one is not supposed to be successful. But with drugs it should be easy. Nope. That tells me I am not supposed to die. I am not supposed to leave the world. I am stuck here. To be miserable. To appease my loved ones. So they don’t have to grieve over me. So they don’t have to remember me as anything but what I am on a daily basis. For it will be me preparing my families funerals. It will be me creating their eulogies. It will be me because I mocked death too many times that death has taken that privilege away from me and made me mortal. I am titanium. I should not be here and yet I am. I am here and I can’t go anywhere. Imagine how that feels? As if I didn’t feel worse before.

But no worries, I never should have even started these stupid letters. But I lost my best friend and death lingered all around me. My only option seemed to try something to different. To make a pen pal. To fall in love with an idea. To create. To write. To spin thoughts with sharpies at home and type words at work. I wished I was crazy. I wished I could belong somewhere even if it were a mental hospital. I don’t belong there though. My mind is normal. Well, it is as normal as it should be not belonging in a mental ward. My entire life problem summed up in one problem. That feeling of not belonging. That’s what it is. That is what chisels away at my soul. Ohhhhh, the hummmmmmanity…..

But enough about me…how are you doing? I hope that the home life is cozy. I know you have worked hard this year so I hope you are enjoying it. Watching your cholesterol and blood pressure. You gotta live forever you know. Of course, I know I will outlive you and will memorialize you beautifully. Just in case you worry about that kinda shit. I know a lot of people are so scared to talk about death. As if it’s taboo or as if it will instantly strike them dead on spot. My parents hate talking about it. Where do you wanna get buried? Let’s not talk about it. But-what the hell are your wishes-people? I have my stuff written down in my death book. See I do such things to keep myself alive. Whatever works right? One particular year I made a death book. Inside it contains my wishes. Some pictures. Some poetry. Some quotes. Things about me. Names. It is just something I have for the table at my funeral. Hopefully all the babies I am making friends with will appreciate it. As I will be that person who dies at 107 with no one to even come to my funeral as they will all be dead. At least that is how I see it. Almost as depressing as the entire community showing up.

I think it’s going to be okay though. I think that these letters are helping me to purge my depression. It is the only thing that is keeping me from completely falling apart. And I really hope you are not bothered that I am using you for comfort. It should be an honor. One day I might be famous for being me. You know that I don’t expect anything in return. Hell, you don’t even have to read them. It’s just giving me something to do and look forward to for the moment. Maye you look forward to them as well. I know I always get excited when I see prisoner’s mail that I get to read. I know I’m not writing from jail but it sure feels like it. I feel like I am a prisoner in life. One day my tone will change. I hope I will still be writing you letters at that point. Then you can see my progress. So you can think to yourself, I remember when that girl was one gun shy of a suicide and look at her now, all happy and shit. I guarantee it won’t be because of love that I am happy. In fact, I don’t even know what would make me happy. World peace is probably too much to ask for and out of the realm of possibility for me to make happen but a girl can dream, can’t she? Anyways, no worries… I talk a lot of crap but in the end I want to stay alive. I just need to figure out how to fucking live. I am thirty five years old and have at the very least 40 years left of life. That should be plenty of time to figure out something, you would think. That means you have like 40 years left too.

I hope someday we can sit in silence and stare into each others eye. Maybe play the blinking game. Maybe play rock paper scissors. Maybe just stand in the same room. That works for me too. Now that you have been in my head I am not afraid of you.

Thank you. For doing nothing but being my friend. I much prefer friendship at 1249 miles away then in my backyard. You can talk shit about me to your friends and I will never know. I know, I know- I am fucking brilliant! I just like the way you feel when you are nowhere near. I like knowing that there is a guy 1249 miles away from me reading my letters and possibly understanding.  I would hope for nothing less than a connection. In the end though I am protected by one thousand two hundred and forty nine miles. Which means, I never have to own up to anything I have written. I don’t ever have to see you. I don’t ever have to talk to you. I don’t have to do anything.  This makes peace of mind for me. Although, who am I kidding? I see you look at me-you are in love with me. How can you not be? What’s not to love? I am the best invention since sliced bread. I am painfully beautiful in my darkness. Just wait when mania hits me and I burst through with more brilliance. Although, in the end I might be just shit and a nobody. But hey-I am not feeding into that type of negativity. I am the only one who can build myself up. I was wrong to ever depend on anyone other than me to do that. So here I am…..just fucking lost as always….looking for some reason to go on-and that reason just happened to be you. So thank you. You are amazing. So amazing you don’t even have to do anything.

Until I write again…which I don’t work until Monday and so there will be a lapse in letters. Have no fears though, I will be writing. I hope. If I stop that means I talked myself into believing I am a dumb stupid idiot and that this idea is stupid crazy and that I should just bury myself in the sand. However, I am going to be nice to myself today. I am going to Michigan after work and maybe I will find myself at Lake Superior. I love the world’s beauty. Maybe I will take paper and a sharpie with me so we can be together. Ha. So corny but it makes me fucking laugh from the gut and that is so much better then crying from my soul. I should remember I am writing to a person that is real and not just a journal that no one reads but me.  Noted.  So I must leave you now…as I pretend to shuffle some papers and look busy at work. With a big smile on my face. A smile that says Sage all over it but nobody knows. What makes me so happy? Living with secrets. Happy ones. Ones that are sent one thousand two hundred and forty nine miles away. The best kinds. Between two souls.


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