To Whom it May Concern

Eight years ago, you told me to stop writing. You told me that putting my true feelings to paper could only get me in trouble. You told me that once it is written, I could never take it back. But you didn't consider that I didn't want to take it back, that maybe I had no other way of expressing myself. You chose to ignore the desperate cries for help that were written in those journals. Fuck, you ignored the cries for help etched into my wrist. Instead, you tried to shut me up.

Now, for the first time in my life, I am writing exactly what I feel. And I don't give a damn who reads it. But you don't get to jump in to save the day on your terms. I'm sure you have been following this blog all along and maybe mocking me for my insane behavior or congratulating yourself on being right about what a fuck up I am. Shaking your head, shrugging your shoulders, telling your friends and family, "We tried." Don't think it isn't transparent that you only reach out to me the one day I post about losing hope.

What's really fucked up is that I am more concerned about your thoughts and feelings than my own right now. I want to put on a fake smile, tell you everything will be ok, and shut down this blog. Shut down my one outlet. Again. So that you can feel better, put yourself up on your moral high horse, and take pride in thinking that I can't survive without your compass. But for my sake, I can't do that. I need to keep you at a distance until I can sort out who I can trust and who is a trigger for my insanity.

I'm sorry I don't fit into your vision of a perfect family.
I'm sorry I can't pretend the past didn't happen.
I'm sorry I have mental illnesses I don't know how to control.
I'm sorry you didn't realize this a decade ago.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you how bad it was a decade ago.

I'll probably be sorry I posted this.

Let it Be

Exactly twelve years ago today, I woke up with a mom and the sense of security every child deserves. I thought my life was normal. I thought what I experienced was what every 7th grader went home to. By the time evening came twelve years ago today, I had no more mom and no more delusions that this was normal. My mom killed herself.

This "anniversary" is always a trigger. Every time I look at the clock, I picture what I was doing at that exact time on this day in 2000. And yes, except for a few hours that are blacked out, I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking at each and every minute. It would be easier if I could make myself stop thinking about it and picturing each scene, but in a sick way, I don't want to. As painful as it is, I know if I don't make myself remember what breakfast looked like that day, I will start to forget what my mom looked like. If I don't remember her complete lack of hope, I will forget that it was her illness, not her choice, that took her from me. If I don't remember how much it fucking destroyed me, I will forget how strong I am. 

The tangled mess of emotions I have spent more than a decade working through, pushing down, and sorting out reels me back into that day. On the surface, I'm sad. No one questions why this day would bring my mood down a bit. In fact, it would be weird if I wasn't a little bit sad. But deeper down, I am still angry at her for not getting the help she needed and deserved when she knew that she had a mental illness. It is hard to forgive someone who willingly left me without even saying goodbye. Without even leaving a goddamn note.

Maybe I'm being irrational (I usually am), but this year is worse. I don't have any family around me that I didn't inherit from boyfriend. I'm pretty certain it's a mutual animosity that have kept my family and me from talking this long. Today is different though. I just want one other person to talk to who actually knew my mother. I want to be able to reminisce with someone who was there. But who the hell am I kidding. We never did that. It's easier to forget she existed; they are probably doing the same with me now. Just cut out the fucking bipolar crazies.  

This is also the first anniversary I have spent knowing that I have the same illness that killed my mother. I'm scared the same will happen to me and angry at her for not being here to tell me it will be alright, the way she used to when I was little. Before she wasn't here to tell me that anymore, and before I stopped believing it.