24th October 2016
When I first thought about writing these letters to you, I promised myself that I would be as truthful as possible. That I would not spare any detail; that I would bare my soul naked in the hope that through my experiences, negative or positive; you may be able to learn from my mistakes and maybe make wiser decisions than I did. But the truth is so scary Jessica, really scary. Even I am scared of my own truth. So much that I kept deleting each paragraph I typed the past week because it frightened me so. I tried, Jessica, I really did. But the truth is really scary; and I do not want to lie.
I lie a lot. I have perfected the art of lying so much that even I, sometimes, can’t tell my truths from my lies. I lie to myself so much that I begin believing my own lies. I have mastered the art of lying with a straight face about my feelings even to those closest to me. I no longer know how to express my genuine feelings.
I keep lying to myself that it will be ok; that it isn’t as bad as it seems; that I have no feelings for people; that it was just sex and nothing more; that it didn’t hurt when he left; that I have all these things figured out; that I am not sabotaging my own success intentionally; that it wasn’t abuse, it was a mistake; people slip.I don’t want to do this anymore.
I am tired of the fake smiles. I am tired of carrying all this weigh around me. I am tired of dwarfing my expressions and feelings. I am tired of making excuses for abusive people. I am tired of loving in half because of the fear that the love will not be reciprocated; I am tired of hiding me from them, afraid that they will leave. I am tired of thinking I do not deserve nice things in life and that’s why I keep sabotaging every single good thing that comes my way. I am tired, Jessica. I really am. The exhaustion is showing; at work, at home; with the people around me. I have zero enthusiasm for life right now. I am tired of this tiredness; this dullness.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
I will not lie to you; on some nights; I wish deeply for this life to fade away. On those nights; I pray for the angel of death to take this cup of suffering away from my hand. On those nights; the loneliness echoes my thoughts. The night becomes longer; the blanket of darkness becomes more opaque.
On those nights I see a sadistic god; a god that would rather give life to someone who does not really want it rather than those who pray feverishly for it. A god that gives you colouring pencils when you asked for water to quench your thirst instead. Useless.
On some nights; I intentionally walk on dangerous paths; in the hope that some low-life thief would attack me; smack me on the head with a blunt object and leave me for death. At least then my appointment with the Underwold shall be on someone else’s hands. I am too cowardly to take it on my own. But even on those days that I pull such dare-devil stunts; nothings ever happens. I keep reaching the house safely, how disappointing. Seems my guardian angel takes her/his work pretty serious.
That I am still alive to this date beats me.
But what is the point of life if you have to carry all this weight around. What is the point of life if the exhaustion is already murdering you; slowly consuming you from the inside?
I am tired.