I don't have friends. I mean I do, but not really. Or maybe I just don't trust people enough anymore...

 

But once, there was a you who I felt like I was free, you know, when I could be the most horrible and you'd still want me alive and whole and you know... When I loved you and I don't feel like I was a burden to you, or that it was hard to talk to you at all.

 

But you changed. Which was something you warned me of, that if you loved me it would be like this, because you don't like this love business. Just like I do. You were my soul mate in that sense, that you don't want to hear it and I want to say it repeteadly until you believe me.

 

With you, I felt like I was an okay person, and I didn't need to be smart, or badass, or even whole to be perfectly honest. And when I say I want to kill myself, you say don't. And when I say, I want to live, you say, everyone does, even just a little. You were the most important person to me, at one point in my life. You know. More than my husband, more than myself.

 

And that I know must have been scary. I can't really blame you if you got scared. That is the tiest place to be. To be actually someone who has tamed me. And you find I am needy. And annoying. And I miss you, when I hurt because I have no one to speak to...

 

No one I want to speak to.

 

I find I want to die, and there is no one to stop me.

 

The slit of red makes me feel guilty, because I miss you telling me it's okay, to be me, to be alive.

 

I am more than my mental illness. I am so tired.

 

But in truth, I guess, this is not about you. I just miss you. And I stare at the screen, thinking of how many times I wrote to you about dark things I thought of, thinking that you must not mind them, because you cared about me.

 

But I don't think, that I must have made you tired. I mean, you're not sane yourself. You're barely able to keep yourself alive.

 

I tell you opposite of what you tell me: It's okay if you hate yourself, because I love you.

If you kill yourself, I won't hate you, but I'd be incredibly sad.

 

And I wonder if I was any help at all, you know. When you tell me you ed up your liver for taking so many damn pills you tried to end your life, you know what I felt? Happy. Happy because you confided in me. Happy about our friendship. Then I felt guilty about being happy, because I should be feeling something else, like anger, or sadness, or concern, but all I felt was happy that you still think you should tell me about this. I'm a complete .

 

And I miss you.

 

Because my life , and not really, and everything hurts and I remember something you said about being afloat and trying to not let the wave swallow you whole and you always thought that we might be just beside each other... but now I'm alone, and you're somewhere. Hopefully being afloat and waddling, like I am. Or something.

 

I just want to feel a little better, until the next day that I'm okay... you know?

 

 

I miss you, I resent you for making me feel like I can't write you anymore. You told me to keep fighting for you. But how much is too much, before my feelings collapse, before saying hi becomes too hard like you predicted.

 

I hope you are doing well. Were we really friends? Or just resonant destructive beings resonating?

 

I wonder if you love me too.

 

Like I love you?

To the point that I think you are the worst thing that happened to my life...

 

and the best...

 

possibly the best.

 

 

Once there was a you who was the best thing in my life.