Request For Wisdom Approved

Last night someone asked me to help them just by listening, just by being there. I went to them. She spent more time listening to me than I did listening to her. I suppose I would gather it is because she needed to hear from me. She needed to hear that things can get better. I like to think of myself as one of the lucky ones. I didn’t kill myself in drugs. I didn’t kill anyone else either. I didn’t waste the majority of my life trying to gain footing from a life I had to build myself from the bottom. Not only did I have to start at the bottom, I had a huge hole to fill in before I could even begin. I didn’t hold back from her.

I told her she needed to stop bullshitting herself. Being different means doing different. If we cling to our same habits and thoughts that we have always had we cannot expect anything different. We will always be disappointed.  Pain is a constant. Suffering is a choice. We do not have to hurt anymore because of the abuses we suffered from others.

I found a journal from 2000 when I was 20. I had a lot of anger for my parents and life. I wrote to myself my story as it was then as a 20 year old. I was rather disturbed. Rapes I had forgotten about and injustices which had occurred. I was not disgusted by myself as I read this. Rather I was proud that I could look back sixteen years later and not only own up to the mistakes I made but say I was a better person because of it.

I was never a bad person internally. I didn’t do bad things. I didn’t steal, cheat or lie. I never did cross moral boundaries intentionally in that aspect. My moral compass has always pointed me the right way. I would gather that is why everyone has always punished me harsher than others. Because they knew I would get it eventually. Some people who are punished don’t get it. They don’t even understand the meaning behind it. They rationalize the behavior. They justify it. They can make a rape look like it was nothing more than a misunderstanding. I always was the honest one who was like okay you caught me. I know I did wrong but most importantly I learned to know why I was doing wrong.

I took her to a park. I was selfish in that aspect as I wanted to experience nature. She didn’t have to tell me she had no one. I knew it already. That is why I was there with her. She didn’t have to tell me she was trying hard because I knew she believed she was. She didn’t have to tell me she was lost because she had asked me for my help.

For over an hour I told her my story and explained that even though I don’t have it all together, I am a lot farther than where I was ten years ago and that change is possible so long as you commit to the decision to want to be different. This means that everyone else stays the same and the only thing that you can change is your reaction to them. I told her to set goals because she has no direction and she will never go anywhere without a destination. She is 26 years old. She could do a lot in 10 years. I did a lot in ten years myself. But then again, I wanted to. I had to. I had to survive. I could not live anymore being passive to life. I had to be active. I had to take the wheel. I had to stop running away from consequences and start making better choices so I had better results. I had to destroy myself before I rebuilt myself.

I left her with a real hug. I told her I was proud of her. I told her it didn’t matter if no one else could say it that I was saying it. I told her that I believed in her and that she was doing a great job. I had to leave then as I was already almost 2 hours later for another appointment I had pushed off. This seemed more important though. It seemed like something I had to do. I had to speak to her. I had to tell her things. She needed to hear things. Even if in the end she remains in the same rut I hope she remembers the time I gave her and the wisdom I shared.


First Letter of the Year: Leaving Wisconsin

March 14, 2016

It was a mere twelve hours ago I was driving through the windmills of Iowa, back from Omaha, Nebraska. It was also about that time when I decided first and foremost that my letters must continue and second, I was ditching Wisconsin. Of course, both sounded more poetic in my head while I spun ideas like spider webs, my passenger passed out from the miles of walking and hours of shows. I decided that when my boss returns from vacation that I am going to put in my notice. May 1st. Then I am leaving Wisconsin. I am packing light and I am go West. I am not afraid. I am not worried in the slightest. I have to do this. I do not plan on dying in this town as many have before me have. Those who never found a dream to dream, to those who never got out. I am going to go where the energy is. I am going to go where my soul can grow.

I honestly don’t even want to tell anyone because, in general, often times they don’t want you to go. I say I am going to Nebraska and its instant discouragement like, “What’s in Nebraska?” which now my reply will always be, “Nice people”. They are very nice in Nebraska. The contrast between the Twin Cities and Omaha folks is that the later aren’t so much in their little world that they aren’t going to speak to you or offer you a French fry in a brief friendly conversation never meant to last more than 2 minutes.

I have already spent 35, almost 36 years here in Wisconsin. I must get out. I have to get out or I am going to die here and that is a reality that I do not want to own. My reality is exploring the world. Adventure is calling out to me which I am willing to listen to after finally the decades of death beating on my door has decreased in frequency.

This is the #lastdaysofmylife tour. This is me not dying in my hometown which is riddled with drugs, suicide, murder and judgment. This is me saying “I choose life”. This is me saying if it doesn’t work outside of here-it’s not going to work at all. This is me finally being able to feel comfortable enough to leave the comfort zone. This is me thinking about how much I hate my job and need different scenery.

What really is stopping me from leaving? I see no reason I can’t go and find myself a new life. A new home base. Something I can say I did in my solitaire. It cannot be any worse than what I have afforded to me now, in this town. This town without a movie theatre or a bowling alley. This place does not foster big dreams. I despise it. I despise this life as it is. This is why I must leave it.

What about money? I could give two shits about money. However, I do have to pay my car and insurance to make this work which I already intend to live frugal the next month and work my second job more and bank three months of payments up. That should get me by. I am confident enough in my abilities that I am not the least bit concerned of making any money. I am sure I can always get a job with Uber if anything.

I have lots to prepare for. The only thing is I am going to miss my cat. Desmond will be staying with my daughter until I am able to send for him. I do intend on finding a home somewhere and reuniting with him. He is the only thing I am comfortable loving. He doesn’t walk like a dog so he can’t be my companion on this trip. He will understand though, after all, he is just a cat. My head is spinning with ideas. I am going to go on this adventure and I might not make it back. Whether dead or alive. Whether intentional or unintentional- this might just be the last days here at home for me and that thought does not scare me in the least. I am excited to take myself, take my story and go find a new home. That is how they used to do it back in the day and that is how I am going to have to do it now.

My mom will throw the biggest protest. It’s not so much as worry as just unnecessary negativity. Where I really don’t even want to tell her. I will have to leave my things behind. She doesn’t use the basement but her need for the empty space would completely outweigh my desire to find life outside of this shithole they settled in. I should be angry they picked such a place to raise a child in the first place but I am not. I accept it as part of who I am and why I am choosing to live the second part of my life away.

I know it sounds crazy but I where I am going people don’t need to know I had to go crazy to leave, if that is of course what crazy means. I am an idealist not a strategic planner. I am prepared to fail. I am also prepared to succeed. I see myself in the city life, on a bridge staring at the water or on the rooftop of a building staring at the thousands of lights from a city scene. I want to cry. My heart is happy. My soul feels soothed. For the first time ever in life, I feel great about a decision I am making. I know I will get the jitters for the next 45 days but I know once I am on that road I will not care.

I really have a lot of work to get caught up where I cannot afford to write much longer however I did want to bring up my letter writing before I send it out. My daughter encouraged me to start again. Just the other day as I planned my Omaha trip she inquired if I still wrote you letters. I said no and that it sucked cause I didn’t feel I could write anymore. She said “Do it”.  Honestly, I couldn’t write brilliance without knowing it was my intention to send the letter and not just write it. I have found I cannot trick myself. There had to be the connection. It’s strange like the record label I know. If it’s a huge bother-just mark return to sender. Until then I am going to keep at it. I have to. It fuels my creative endeavors. It keeps me in check. It keeps me inspired. It keeps me moving. If anything it will be quite a legacy to leave behind when I pass. My letters to Sage. I think it could even be a working title for a memoir. I mean the whole point of this adventure I am going on is self-discovery. So long as I have gas money I can go and see everything imaginable. You do not really know what this could mean for me. It could mean I die in an alley, mugged, raped and left for dead or it could mean I find myself alive, flourishing and loving the days gone by. In any case, I do intend on writing you every step of the way. I am after all going to need a friend on my journey other than my actual diary. But trust me my diary is nowhere as great a read as these letters have been, at least in my own opinion. In comparison my diary is just facts on paper, hardly feelings. It’s bland. There are no stories. It’s sad, really.  I do promise to do my best not to be so overwhelming. Forgive me please though; I am a virgin of life which is why parking meters make me smile. This should be exciting for the both of us. I know months prior you had responded to me about needing real therapy if I intended on using a human being as a diary. I’d rather believe that it’s good for the both of us. Travel-that’s the therapy I am enlisting in and so this mean my letters can just be letters now and we can be friends.  I still can’t believe I survived the winter. I do really contribute a lot of that to my letter writing. It helped me out of one of the darkest places I have ever been in life and it’s going to help me walk into the light now. You should, if anything, feel honored. It’s really not that big of a deal though, ha. Not to me anyways. I don’t have time to think about it. If I do think about things I have the tendency to overthink and botch things up. Rather I just release my brilliance out in the universe. I would rather take my chances on that than staying in this town and making it to 40. I guarantee that would not happen.  Until I write again…


Unsent Letter of Madness

I am at my wits end. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to do it either. How long have I been faking life? My entire life. Most consciously doing it for the last 25 years. It ain’t working. When is it a good time to quit? I don’t want to die but I don’t want to live. I don’t want to be burdened with life anymore. I know it is beautiful. I know it is incredible. I just am not feeling it. Today I am not so much depressed than I am angry. I am not angry at anything in particular but just in general. I haven’t written in a week and even that angers me. I know I shouldn’t utilize a human as a my diary but it wasn’t like that in my head. Of course, the reality is is that it was like that and you called me out on it. I am not going to stop writing though, I cant. Forgive me but it’s the only thing that is keeping my sanity. Perhaps I just won’t mail them. I will just pretend that I am still writing to someone who gives a shit. Truth is though, no one gives a damn. I have nobody and nothing to love except my cat, Desmond. I wonder if this will be my last month here on planet Earth. I wonder how long it will take to discover I am missing. That’s just wishful thinking. Truth is, my problems are nothing more or less pressing then the next guys. In fact, I probably would even be better than the next guys which makes me feel guilty. I can’t afford to live on my own. I just can’t. To move back into my mom’s basement is moving backwards. It is saying I can’t do it on my own. I have to depend on others. This is unacceptable. I am thirty five years old. I should have a family of my own. I shouldn’t be working two jobs just to be in the red line. I gotta do something. Something bold. Something rash. So long as I don’t kill myself. Although, trust me, it is so tempting. I am pretty sure this is why people end up in jails or prison. It’s much easier then having to figure it out on your own. I think I would prefer solitary confinement.

An Unsent Letter of Madness

I feel flat this morning. Flat as in my mind is unable to produce the words to write. Did I lose it all last night? My dreams were spent uncovering hidden passageways to dangers underground. Had the sleep police not have woken me; I might have been able to figure out what was inside the secret tunnels. As is though it is faded from the brain and is gone now. Desmond has this habit of waking me up in the early morning hours. He nibbles at my face and no amount of turning or hiding dissuades him. He is very distracting and very annoying. I ask him to stop but he doesn’t listen. He is a funny cat. Perhaps my favorite one to date.

I am already looking forward to not working tomorrow. I haven’t even been here for two hours and am irritated by my one attorney who likes to give me incomplete work assignments so I look like a dumb ass. I hate that. Or tells me to do things which are a complete waste of time so we can bill it out. I am not sure where his ethics come from and don’t really care; but I don’t like to waste my time doing something that is completely pointless and useless. It reminds me I need a new job, a new life, a new me.  I feel guilty that my boss wants to give me a raise. My heart is no longer in this. I don’t like the office mates and of late, I don’t like the job. It does get better-this I know.

I am anxious for time to past to see my growth. Trust me. There will be growth here. I am not laying this all out there just so in the end we can say it was wasted time. No. This shit is going to mean something someday. I haven’t figured out what yet, but it will. I may have many lacking qualities as a human but determination isn’t one of them. I am determined to dream big and that I will.

Or maybe not. Life is useless. I hate it. I don’t think I care anymore to keep fighting. I just want to be faded from existence. I know I will never be anything more than I am now. And right now I am nothing. I can’t stand the goddam phone. I hate my job. I hate my life. I just don’t want to experience another day.  There is nothing I can do but die to get out of waking up tomorrow morning and having to repeat the same horrid experience. I dread it and it hasn’t even reached this afternoon yet. I despise it all. I wonder if ever this cloud of darkness will lift. I know it won’t.  I suppose I could get a life insurance policy and wait two years. I suppose that will keep me alive. Then everyone can be fucking happy that I am alive. That just pisses me off today. I am living just to make others happy so they do not have to grieve over me. I suppose you can call me a nice guy. Otherwise I really don’t think I could just die without making sure that there is money to pay my funeral expenses. I really don’t like the idea of anyone having to pay my way even in death. This is just fucking goddamn wonderful. I am not crazy. I am fucking depressed. Am I danger to myself? Probably. Daily. Hourly. By the minute. Life insurance is too goddamn expensive. I know this will pass. It always passes. It always returns though. It never leaves me. It follows me around like a fucking rain cloud. I honestly am at my wit’s end. What the fuck am I supposed to do? What is so depressing? Life. It’s just a struggle. I don’t feel right in my skin. I don’t care about love. I don’t care about money. I don’t care about the little things. It’s basically that I just don’t like waking up and living a typical day in my body. Isn’t that enough? Did I ever enjoy life? Probably not. I think I was here last year in these same thoughts. Oh wait, I have been here since age 9, if not before. But I can’t die. God or Allah or whoever the fuck is calling the shots-no, they won’t let it happen. Maybe it’s not too late. This is ridiculous. I am looking up recipes for death. Seriously I am not right in my head. This letter must not get sent. I can do that, right? I don’t have to send every letter I write, do I? I don’t even have to write these letters. It’s not like they mean anything. Maybe this will be my last letter ever as I fantasize about death. Maybe tonight is the night. Maybe tonight will be the last night I find myself alive. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? For me, that is. Probably no one else. No. Other people will be upset. Call me selfish. Wishing they could have done something. But there is nothing to be done. Nothing that could have saved me from myself. Not even if I didn’t have to answer the phone. Not even if I didn’t have to go to work the next day. No. Nothing can save me. In the end, I still have to live with myself. And that is the last goddamn thing I want to do-live. I don’t even feel bad about it. I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. I feel bad that I will not be around for the slivers of happiness. I feel bad for the tears cried for me. I am sure that yeah to others I am such a great person and I mean so much to them. I will not deny that. But to me, to me I am shit. To me, I am nothing. To me, I am fucking struggling to keep a float and I am sick of doing it.

I’m fucking depressed. I want to die. I suppose this would be what we wanted to hear from those who are no longer with us. Well, I am here. For now. I am safe in the comfort of my office job so no worries about any immediate danger. I just feel the need to share with everyone that I am so fucking depressed that I might not be able to make it much longer and for that I apologize. Don’t get me wrong. I love all of you people. You are all very good people to know and to love. But I am fucking depressed and there is nothing that can change that. Not your love, not your support, not money, not fame not anything. It’s just something that I wear like skin. It’s just something that stays like a birthmark. I always try to make sure that I keep myself in check when I feel this way. Let it be known so maybe it won’t be real. So maybe it will keep me alive. Keep me alive so everyone can be happy. I don’t want your tears for a day or your nightmares to come for years. I don’t want to hurt anyone but I am hurt and am sick of living to appease everyone so they don’t have to grieve. Buck up. Life is about grieving. I am sorry. I hope you understand, I am just so fucking depressed. I know what to do but its what no one wants me to do. So here I am, stuck between life and death. Meerly I am just hanging by the thread. Let us hope that this passes as the last 25 years have without a goodbye. I know, I know I have this to live for and that to live for and what about this and that and oh yeah that too. Trust me, I know. I don’t want to leave but I don’t know if I can stay. Let me begin again with Day One. Well, it’s still too early to call it a day. Baby steps. I will conquer this demon either by life or by death. One way or the other. Personally, I prefer to live. Regardless, I am safe. So don’t freak out about my feelings. I just figured I would share in case anyone else is depressed. Maybe we can be life buddies. I won’t do it if you don’t do it. I am 0-1 on that. Fucking damn depression. If only life were so simple as to simply survive it. Enough about me. Keep scrolling.

It was a rough morning and an even rougher lunch. Someone came down to where I was having lunch. Told me that I needed to hang in there. That I inspired them. That they were going to do the deed themselves but changed their mind. After tears were spilled and hearts were lifted, I feel a little bit better about staying in this game. Just when I was googling  ways to do it I find myself being uplifted by the love of others. It might just have saved my life today. I don’t know. I can’t be certain. It’s a battle.


The Thirteenth Letter of Madness

I have come to the conclusion that its time. It’s time to stop pussy footing around with my writing and to get serious. As I have mentioned in the past, I am not a follow thru kind of person. I hate responsibility and dependence. I think I would rather eat moldy cheese and that is gross. Okay, maybe that is an exaggeration. Regardless, I enjoy writing so much. I literally sit at my desk and type away. If I do not have a subject I find the day boring and long. However, when I am inspired-watch out. I was in the shower this morning minding my own business and it occurred to me that it is time.

I think the only talent I have, other than amusing myself (which some might argue is not a talent), is writing. I get some good feedback. I know it is hard work. I know this as I have been doing it since like 9. That’s whooooa….almost 30 years. Four years shy of 30 but damn….that’s a long damn time. I might as well make it mean something. I might as well do my best to chisel my name in people’s hearts with my words. I don’t feel this is an impossible feat. I just need a formula. The motivation is there today. Hopefully it sticks with me. I get wonderful ideas all the time. Sometimes it is hard to decipher whether it is a great idea or a really horrible one. Often times I find out the hard way which is okay because I can chalk it up to experience.

If Elizabeth Wurtzel’s “More, Now and Again” book could get people to buy then it is not crazy to think someone would buy mine. I read her book. I read all her books. Mostly famous for, “Prozac Nation”, her “More, Now and Again” book was a dive. All she wrote about was writing. It was extremely boring and incredibly dumb, at least in my opinion. A book that you finish because you already invested so much in it and you hope the end chapter makes the hours you just wasted of your life matter. But it didn’t so don’t be fooled. In any case, books like that give me hope.

I went on a Stephen King kick a few years back. Not him specifically as his writing doesn’t much appeal to me but to his extended family such as his son and daughter in law. Kelly Braffet I wanna say is her name. Not a good writer. His son, Joe Hill, not a good writer. I abandoned his book half way thru because it was so horrible and pointless. I usually do not do that. I usually stick it out especially if I make it half way through; but it was not only wasting my time, I think it was making me dumber as well.

Of course, this new idea might get me through to next week and then be abandoned. But, it’s really something I have wanted as a life goal/dream since I can remember. In fact, I was going to be a romance writer. Funny, I know considering my feelings on love. Romance I am a master but love well, that isn’t anything I want a part of. I have a few ideas in my head about this book idea. I have a book in rough format currently that was a “brilliant” idea two or three years ago. That book is basically research, something more doable then an autobiography. I really don’t want to embarrass my family by writing about my alcoholic mom or what not. That is what holds me back. I have no problem writing of rape or jail. I could care less if people know about me but it’s the others I feel I have to protect.

Again, this may never come into fruition but then again it may just. I am just giving you fair warning. Cause once I am “all that” I don’t want you to think I will abandon you. I promise, I won’t. I know that is your top concern. I don’t blame you really, I know I am fabulous. I am in love with me too, but save it for another day. I cannot handle it now. Not with all this creative energy flowing through me. As you might guess, I am slightly manic. Maybe not fully, but it is brewing.  A month ago I was so low I started writing you letters, last week I was googling ways to die and now this week, this week I am on a mission. It’s really exhausting being me. I know I tell you I am mentally ill and I hope that doesn’t leave you with the impression that I truly am crazy. I really am not. I had the taste of crazy this week and that type of crazy don’t even have a clue that they are different. It is sad really. No, I think I am the type of crazy that was meant for greatness. A craziness that is fun and exciting. A fresh breath of air. At least, today, I think this. Tomorrow I might be shit on the wall but today, today I am a fucking super star.

I made a new friend. His name is Scott. I met him briefly at a “hip hop” show. It was a metal show my cousin tricked me into going to under the premises that it was “like hip hop”. It was not hip hop at all. It now remains a running joke. I took him to a real hip hop show which was yours in Madison. Anyways, Scott and I connected over Facebook. Since November we talk often. I don’t mind him. He is married which makes me feel safe. Like no pressure to be anything but myself and no creeper hitting on me. Just last week he laid it on me that he was an amputee. I am not sure if he thought I wasn’t going to be his friend anymore or what because he made a big deal out of it. I suppose I might be self-conscious about it as well if I were in his shoe. Apparently a drunk driver ran off a racetrack and plowed into four people. Him being one of them and him being the most injured of them. I think I am supposed to help him find peace with it or some shit. I think that is why there is a connection.

Have you ever read “The Celestine Prophecy” by James Redfield.? It is a favorite of mine. I could send you a copy if you need one. Just blink once for no and twice for yes. I think I have three copies. I buy certain books in multiples so I can share them with others. If you haven’t read it, it is a must read. I think you would enjoy it. And if not, then you don’t and I was wrong and it’s not the first or the last time that will happen so no matter. Regardless, I believe in connections like it preaches about in that book. I believe in meeting people for a reason. I think that it was not a coincidence that he came into my life. Especially last week when he laid it on me that he had lost a leg while I was googling ways to die as if my life was anything compared to his. I am healthy. I have two legs. A great job. I have a wonderful family. The perfect cat. The perfect imaginary boyfriend, (that would be you…shhhhhhh). I really honestly have nothing to complain about. It is simply depression that seeps into my soul and attempts to destroy me. I suppose without which I couldn’t not appreciate the highs but seriously it might just be the death of me. I haven’t decided. So keep my letters, they might be worth something someday on Ebay. Actually, I would hope that you sleep with them under your pillow. I am just kidding.

I am in a goofy mood today as apparent in my writing. I even see myself different in my reflection. It is very odd. I noticed that today in my snapchat story. I wish you snapchatted.   I am addicted. I have been since it first came out. I have actually been working on my snapchat game and have received positive feedback. It is just another way I amuse myself throughout the day when I am supposed to be working. Today things have been piling up and I’m like-I will see you on Monday. It actually irritates me that I am bored all week and then Friday comes along and twenty minutes before we close I get bombarded with stupid meaningless tasks that I do not enjoy doing. So fuck it, I will do it on Monday. I ain’t gonna stress about it. I am busy not working. Don’t they know that my letters are more important than criminals getting bond set? Actually, it really isn’t pressing. Don’t think I am completely incompetent at my job. I really am not. I just downplay my great qualities. Ha. I am just flippant at times.

I suppose I should start cleaning up my messy pile of “Things That I Will Possibly Do On Monday”. I leave for Michigan in an hour. I am excited to hack portals, destroy enemy links and my favorite-visit the Lake. I might push myself to wake up for the sunrise. How awesome would that be? A nice romantic sunrise with myself and snapchat. I find friends in the weirdest things. Someday….somehow…..I am gonna change the world. Believe you me, it is gonna happen. One person at a time. I will save them from their own demons. If I can survive then surely they can too. Or maybe the idea sucks I am not sure. Until I write again….

With much love,

The Twelfth Letter of Madness

Last night I was a secret agent. Playing ingress takes me to sights unseen. It also fills my dreams with images other than people I don’t like. Last year at this time I was googling hypnotists. I seriously wanted nothing more than to forget the brokenness I felt. All relationships change a person but this one did more than that. It killed me and it made me a different person. It ruined love. Although I don’t think I would share that with anyone but you. And I know that there is love out there to be had, but honestly, I do not want it. The thought sends me straight to a panic attack. I just don’t have the energy to start again. After so many times being broken I think it’s safe to say that I recognize that love is just not for me. I read my numerology often and it never changes. Sevens are unfit to marry. I honestly believe that. I look at people I pass and I feel nothing. I look at men and am disgusted. I look at woman and I feel sorry for them.  My mother tells me I can still have more children as if I really were the motherly type. As if I had any love inside me to give to a child, much less a baby. Seriously. This also would require mating. I have done my mating and I feel perfectly fine retiring. It’s okay to be single. I don’t have to be in love to be “normal”. Sometimes normal isn’t about relationship status as no relationship is normal. I will not be fooled by the superficial.

Last night I was free. For hours I drove. I thought to myself how wonderful it truly was to not have to answer to anyone. To not be bothered in the night while I hacked portals and dropped mods as if I were doing something wrong other than just simply enjoying myself.  That is what I recall from my four year relationship that failed. It failed not because I didn’t give it everything I had, but because I gave it everything I had and more. It failed because I like to do my own things and think my own thoughts. I do not like to be tied down to unknown insecurities that are not my own.

Last night I was free and last night I was reminded of how wonderful that was. No one yelled at me for not calling because my battery was dead or because I didn’t have reception. No one yelled at me cause I got home so late. No one ridiculed me because I played a geeky game. No one yelled at me because I had fun alone. No one. In fact, I was warmly greeted by my feline friend, Desmond. He was happy to see me. He did not care I stayed out past my bedtime. He did not seem bothered by my late night appearance. That is why he wins at relationship of the year. That is why him and I fit together so perfectly. He makes loving easy. He makes it simple.

I was stupid when I gave up Spencer for the relationship. I will never do that again. Lesson learned.I gave him up and less than two weeks later all was lost. Not only did I lose my ex-lover to suicide, my current boyfriend to narcissism but I lost my cat too. This is when I would have done anything for love which I did. Of course not all was lost because Spencer was half my daughter’s and she took him in happily. But I never should have given up my everything for nothing. How was I to know? Well, I knew. Deep down within my core, I knew I was with a jerk. I told the universe to free me and it certainly spared no mercy in the parting. I have no one to blame but myself. And what seemed so devastating a year ago has no effect on me today except for an unpleasant taste in my mouth when I reflect back.

The other night I dug through my tote. I pulled out his “file” to burn. I relived the memories. Wondering how we survived without any good times. I didn’t get a chance to burn it that night however I do believe that I am going to shortly, possibly even tonight. I usually don’t go around burning my memories but I don’t want them anymore. I don’t care to see his name when I open my Pandora’s  box of the past. I will retain the alcoholic, the multiple personality guy, the cheater and the rapist but there is nothing so special about the narcissist I need to keep.

I do not hate him. I do not hate him in the slightest. I am disgusted and I am repulsed but I do not hate. I will not be tied to him. I admit he did a number on me. I actually am grateful for the experience. One of the hardest lessons of love I was forced to endure, but I made it out okay. I had even found a rare photo of his dad who had passed from an online site that I had enlarged. I was going to give it to him for his birthday. I kept it for months. His birthday came and went (two days after mine) and yet I retained it. I decided he didn’t deserve anyone to care so much, especially not me, especially not me. No. I think about it every once in a while, tucked away in a drawer. Should I send it or should I not I ponder some days. Then I wise up and remind myself that it is no longer my place to do such things. He made the choice to treat me like a ragdoll so why reward him. It’s hard being an empath sometimes. Also, I know he would know that I sent it. It’s not like his current girlfriend has a heart like me. Not many people do.

That is why I love being me. Love though, will never be spoken from my lips or inked with my pen again. Unless of course it is for you but that just would make things weird if ever we cross paths again. Two sevens in love are ideal of course, but again, I am not here to love. Lucky for you so many people already love you. I read recently somewhere that you were in a relationship, six years was it? I feel for you, buddy. I can relate. Today I am grateful I don’t have those headaches. I am grateful that I am free to look at my phone without upset, to write in my journal without upset, to read a book without upset. Basically be a person without upset. I do not miss intimacy I never got, kisses I didn’t receive, love that was withheld, lazy afternoons that never happened or the talking on the telephone. I simply do not care so much for sharing my life with another and I am perfectly accepting of that to be lasting til the death of me. I will then die a happy woman.

Maybe if the right guy came along I am told. As if everyone thinks you need a man to be human. I laugh. I am quite capable of surviving on my own. I don’t want to let anyone inside my heart or my head. I don’t want to lose focus as I did in the past. The hardest part of love is breaking up. Suddenly everything becomes lies and blame is placed. Changing phone numbers to avoid phone calls. Assuming secret identities so one can be left in peace to post things online. Avoiding places that once was loved. Losing family because they friended the enemy. Relearning to live because their rejection killed you. Nah. This is not something I feel that is missing in my life. Besides, not many can handle my eccentric nature. In fact, no one to date has been able to handle pieces of my soul offered. Which is great news for me because I can write you letters. I can share my soul with you. I can bleed my heart on paper and feel as if I am contributing to something that in reality is nothing and still feel good about it. I can play these games in my head and not be judged. I can have the heart of a child again without being hurt. That is the perks of this, well whatever this is.

What is this? What am I doing? I sometimes ask myself what the hell I am doing. So easy to explain, writing letters. But why? Why you, why now, why here, why this-just why? Then I break it down to myself in simple words-mental illness. Then I laugh. I am amused. I write to get it out. I write to express. I write because that is all that I am and all that I have ever been. Because it is what I do. Because I lost a sense of identity or maybe I never had one and I desperately am seeking for it in my words. I have always been lost. I have never belonged. I have always been a wounded girl. I never was wanted or accepted. Not by any memory I recall. Always outcasted. What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I too sensitive? Am I too loving? Too compassionate? Too knowledgeable? Is it because my mind is smarter than the players lines? Is it because I am not into money, fame and glamour? Is it because I would rather write about love then to feel it? Or is it because I just love my cat too much?

In any case, I care not. I am just a girl trying to survive. Finding identity in letters sent seven states away.  If ever I find it, I will have to give you thanks. Not that you have been an active participant in this letter exchange but its okay as I have never expected a reply. I like to keep my expectations on the low side so they are always met. I am simple that way. Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t make demands. I don’t like confrontation. I try to be assertive in life but at the same time I tend to be very passive. I don’t like rejection personally. But then again, is there anyone who does?

It’s been three weeks of letter writing. I have surpassed my depressed state and am on the upswing of the high.  I have discovered many things in these last three weeks that only these letters have afforded such an opportunity to discover. For that I truly give thanks. Again, you really haven’t done anything but exist but still for that you get credit. In all honesty, you do more than create-you inspire. Your genius mind is one to be museum in its death. I hope I go before you though. You are not going to be an easy death to grasp. Please live forever so I don’t have to mourn you. Even though I play pretend, I know you are real. I laugh as I bombard you with my life story. I just remind myself that all that matters is it is written and not where it is sent. I feel it is in good hands with you. Or your agent. Whomever opens your mail. I guess that just slipped my mind. Anxiety attack. Just kidding. Shout out to whoever for reading my babbles. I just hope it’s pleasant reading. I am getting paid good money to type these at work. Regardless, it is quitting time for me here. Best I clean up the porn cookies, hide the flask in the desk and go on to sling chicken, which is truly my favorite thing to do for work. Crazy I know.  Until I write again….

Much love,

The Eleventh Letter of Madness

I have no desire to write and this is my third attempt at a letter this morning. I think it’s because I am on the upswing of my depression. I cycle so often that it’s hard to keep up. Today I feel great. I even came to work and its Wednesday. I wonder if anyone has caught on that this is usually my “sick” day. Apparently, my mental health is stellar today as I am here and semi-happy.

I am sending you a book that I pulled off my shelf. Actually, I ordered a duplicate to send you as I am still in the process of reading it. It is something I purchased back in 2003 when I started to find myself for the first time. I just figured that you might enjoy it since you are in the pinnacle of life that focuses on inner development and soul searching. This is your time for spiritual growth, you know.  I don’t know if you read books like this and if you never read it, that’s fine too. Pass it on to someone who might enjoy it. I do not suggest burning it to keep you warm. Burning books is a moral sin. Oh, the humanity!

I am slowly finding life to be bright again. Last weekend I hung out with the folks. I ended up ripping up a hardwood floor. Well, some of it. I volunteered to do the rest this weekend. I couldn’t in good conscious let my father do it himself which is exactly what would have happened if I hadn’t jumped in to help. I watched him sore and stiff move last Saturday and wasn’t going to let him kill his back. Of course I killed my own back but I am young and can handle it. I must admit I impressed him with my go-to attitude. I might not be able to boil water but I can tear up a floor like a bad ass. Besides, I am OCD and can’t just do one. I stayed for two hours past my expected leave time just so he could drywall that day and not have to do all that bending. I’m a Mathews, we get shit done!

I visited the lake as well. I love her. I can’t wait to visit her again this weekend when I finish the floor. It is so peaceful depending on the company. I had with me my brother’s wife, who likes to talk. Not only talk, but explain what she is doing, why she is doing it, how she is doing it, every step of the way. I had to spend 8 hours in the car with her. When we got to the lake I was like you go there, I will go over there and we will meet back up. The last thing I wanted was to have her talk while I was in the middle of collecting my thoughts at the lake. I went a short distance away and stacked rocks and watched the waves crash at the beach. I must admit that I have a love affair with the lake. She is intoxicating. I didn’t want to leave her. Eventually, I made it back to Tarah who proceeded to talk. I love her but there should be a word limit. I can’t enjoy the driving if my music jive is interrupted by every thought coming out of her head. Censor that shit. Pretend that it’s church time. I don’t know. I had to explain at one point when she apologized for being quiet (that is nothing to be sorry about) that it’s okay to think and that quiet time is okay. She is lucky that I have patience. All I could think during the silence, is please don’t talk, please don’t talk. It really took the fun out of things. Or interrupting my jam session. If the radio is on loud, there is usually a reason. Don’t interrupt me when I am singing to Sublime. In the end though it turned out well as I took her to see her dad and her grandma and found some inner peace from it.

Her grandma, I love. She reminded me of Dorthy’s mom, Sophia on the Golden Girls. I want her hair when I get old. A big fluffy Q-tip. Her house was bare with just the essentials. One wall was of her family. Every light switch had God or Jesus sayings on it. In the basement she had a huge tapestry of Jesus and under it were these posters with loving quotes. “Those are what I used to leave for Honey at the machine shop”. They also had dates on them. 1952. 1978. I teared up at the love she had for “her honey”. She told us stories while we visited. All the while I am thinking, I love this lady. Everytime she said, “My honey” my heart melted for her. They were married for gosh, 58 years I want to say. It was a great experience. I never had grandparents, well not in the traditional way. Certainly not like this lady anyways. I told Tarah, I can’t wait to go back. Even if I gotta listen to complete babble for 8 hours (round trip).

Also, this weekend my daughter found out that her boyfriend had cheated on her. While she was pregnant and then after she had little baby Johnathon. We as a family never really have cared for the guy. It is due to his lack of ambition. We are an ambitious bunch ourselves. We get shit done. What this floor has got to go? Done. No breaks. Just go go go….  He, on the other hand, is not our idea mate for my daughter. She loves him, which is the main point. I talked to her on the phone about it and could hardly speak from crying. She says to me, “Why are you crying?” and between my caught breath I mustered, “Because when you are a parent and your child hurts and you can’t do anything about it you hurt so I guess I am a real mom.” Which made me cry even more realizing how I fucked up most of life as a parent. I blame myself even if the world around me doesn’t. I told her when I was calmer that she didn’t have to worry about anything. That I would make sure everything worked out. I suppose one of my many talents is that of a solution specialist, thanks to my mother always throwing problems out. I was so proud when she answered back so matter-of-factly, “I know”.  The kicker is she is choosing to stay with him. No one is happy about this. I told her that I respect her decision but I aint happy about it. I get it. She wants to keep her family intact. But cheating is for losers. I also told her that he needed to be present for Christmas. He needed to man up to his mistake. I assured her that no one would beat him up or give him too much shit. If he planned on being with her then he definitely needed to come. Besides how can she trust him to be alone. It’s just another talent of mine-compassion.

In any case, it’s getting to be that time that I go grab the office mail. It’s nice to get away from the phones. I hate the phones. The phones are my enemy and will always be. I hate that direct line of communication. I also hate that no one in the office can pick the damn thing up. It is why I despise my job. Of course, if the phone didn’t ring I would have nothing to do except write letters about life that really is rather boring. I apologize. Today you get a book so I suppose it’s not so bad. I entertain myself so really it’s a win win-for me. That’s really all that matters-filling my ego. I don’t want to make it about you, then it will get weird. I would rather just carry on my existence in Wisconsin without being reminded that my life is being sent to Rhode Island. It is better than drugs and better than sex. Trust me, writing is my drug and it tends to fuck me often as well. It is a healthy balance. If I had a therapist I am sure this would be chalked up as a symptom, but fuck it, who are they to judge, right? Being that I am alone, I think I will just keep it to myself. Until I write again…

With much love,