So many things I want to tell you.

I want to tell you that Kyle 2.0 and I actually went to primary school together, although we didn't know each other back then. I want to tell you that they stuffed up and nobody's running for Women's Officer, and I want to see you tut tut and tell me again that I was the best gal for the job. I want to tell you that my friend sounds like death and asked me to pray for him, but I don't know how and it kills me a little bit each day. I want to tell you that I'm sick and scared and I want you to hold me and tell me that everything will be okay. I want to tell you that my anxiety is so bad that that day when you saw me I could barely get out of bed, and that I saw you long before you saw me and cried because I couldn't run to you and kiss you on the cheek like I always could.  

And I want to know how you've been, too. I always wanted to know; it was why I always wanted to see you, because I know that the question that gets the most lies is 'how are you'; people always ask me that now, and I always say something stupid and generic and not-me like 'not bad' or 'pretty good' or 'yeah, okay'. No. I'm not okay. But there's nobody I can say that to anymore. You were the only person who could handle my not being okay. I always had to see you to see that you are good and safe, but now I cannot. But I hope you are happy. I hope you have other people to talk to and other people to make you smile. I hope you miss me. Don't work too hard. Don't stress out so much. Don't hurt yourself at work again. Look where you're going when you're riding that damn bike. Don't eat too many sweets. Be yourself, but remember to be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. And stop skipping those "optional" workshops. 

I wish I told you that just because I say I'm not okay, doesn't mean I assume that you're okay. I wish I told you that just because you upset me doesn't mean that I don't think you never get upset, or that you deliberately tried to upset me. Everything turned into a blame game, but I wish it hadn't. All my life people have blamed themselves for my many deviations from healthy or happy, but I wish they didn't. It is not my fault that I am not healthy or happy, but that doesn't mean it's yours. It just is, and we could have been friends without the fear and blame. But you're only not-quite-eighteen, and I don't think you can handle this quite yet. I am still-just-seventeen and I've never been able to handle it, but you had a choice and I never have and never will. You can turn a blind eye to all the times I spend doubled over in pain or curled up and crying, but I cannot. But that means you have to turn a blind eye to all the times I've smiled with you, laughed with you, talked with you, loved with you. It would have been too much of a sacrifice for me, but that was because you were all that I had. I know you have others. Less complicated people. It's what you deserve. 

And I want to tell you that I'm glad that we were G and Ry until the very end. 

I miss you more than words can say.

I had forgotten that you don't have those messages anymore and are not in the habit of weeping nostalgic and being sentimental. I don't think you remember what you gave up. 

And it's too late now; do you see the finality of this? This isn't just some fight we can spring back from. Words cannot say how much this is hurting me, hurting me more than anything; there is nothing I can do to forget how much this is hurting, or to forgive you for it. I have no-one to talk to, no-one to hold me like you used to. I would have done anything to get that back. 

I cannot let you back in, but if you ever find it in your heart to forgive me, please, come and see me. If you can just tell me to my face that you don't hate me and wish me well, I will be okay. I am sorry, so sorry, more sorry than words can say. 

There's something I failed to learn in all my life as a writer; life is a story, but a story with no ending. We love rhyme in our poetry and happy endings to our fairytales because we crave a sense of completeness; but life is a story, or rather a series of stories, that end mid sentence. I let you write a few chapters of my life, and you wrote for me euphoric highs to rescue me from my demons and beautiful, tender, touching moments. You wrote for me guilt and insecurity and worthlessness; you wrote for me confidence and courage and comfort. But your story ended without really ending; you stopped mid sentence, you stopped mid word; a word I can't decipher, because you barely wrote the first letter of it and then you left.

I did not adore you as much as people think I did. I was perfectly capable of speaking harshly of you to my other friends, and I did so on a regular basis. My friends are all accountable to each other, and that has protected me. It is why people are here to catch me now that you have made me fall. I do not like some of them as much as I liked you, and I have complained of them to you. It is important not to do anything silently. 

My comfort is all the things you derided and attempted to wean me off. Other people you don't like, books by people you don't respect, spending time on things you don't believe in, writing things you don't agree with. I could have kept you by cutting them all off, but I will not be dependant on any one thing, or one person. They always told me that part of abuse is isolation, and I thought that meant physically. But you are not the kind of man who would hurt a woman. But there was a kind of emotional, intellectual isolation, from all the things in my life and from myself. You glorified loneliness but could not deal with the burden of my solitude.

I'm okay, really. I know this matters to you in the most selfish way possible; you don't like the guilt of hurting people. You would rather I pretend to be okay because when I fall apart you see how implicit you are in my pain. I hope it affects you; I hope this affects you the way it affects me. I hope you miss me now that I'm gone. This is my selfishness.

My irrationality always ends up making sense; I don't know if this is paranoia creating its own catastrophes or just really good intuition on my part. I was always so afraid of you becoming like this, because I always saw it in you; it was an achievement, to go a day without your indifference or malice or cruelty. It was an achievement, to pass so much time with your care and affection; you are not the kind of person who is all too liberal with that, and I don't know if that makes you cold or if it makes me weak. I do not know what you saw in me to make me worthy of your attention, but apparently that is not the case now. You always treated your time like a precious commodity and that I should be honoured to live in the scraps of it. That's not how friendship works. We are all too busy for everything, but there is something insane in us that makes us wake up at stupid hours and go to bed at even stupider ones for the people who are important to us. I was never important enough for that.

I feel kind of guilty giving you all this friend advice when I am nothing but a terrible friend. I warned you, but you didn't listen. I warned you, but now you are hurt. I suppose I never listened to you either, so maybe we are even.

I've been forcing myself to read over our last fight to desensitise, and it is working. But I can't bear to scroll up beyond then. It is easy to leave behind your anger and neglect, your blatant condescension and pointless cruelty. I can't bring myself to read all of our smiley conversations, not yet. I can't bring myself to relive your kindness, and your affection that seemed all at once overwhelmingly intense and whimsically ethereal. It's too hard to think of your hugs and smiles and winks and whispers and kisses.

I wish I had never met you. I wish I could go back to when I admired you from a distance as something annihilating and untouchable. I wish I had never known what a joy you are as a friend and how cold you can be when you I let you close enough to hurt me. I wish I had not been broken and I wish you had not taken it upon yourself to fix me, and then break me again. I wish a lot of things, you know.

I've just finished reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, a book I know you will never read; but you should, because it would make you less of an asshole, but one of your many endearing traits is that you wear that like a badge of honour. It's the first time I've read one of these death lit books and not wanted to jump of a cliff; I know what it's like to be sick, probably not on that kind of scale, but more than your average cold. Having my demons and being hospitalized because your heart sucks at being a heart is very different, but at the same time exactly the same. This idea that all sick people are self-martyred angels resigned to their fate is ridiculous; the vast majority of us are attention seeking narcissists who shamelessly exploit sympathy, because we can. We don't want to be defined by our illnesses, but it's simply not possible for illness to be ignored. I have a heart condition whether it is acknowledged or not. Whether or not you show me any kind of care or consideration, I still have my demons. It is expected that sick people always attempt to brush aside their pain, but when you're sick pain is a part of who you are, and your friends are supposed to accept you for who you are. What you did to me wasn't nice, but what I was doing to you wasn't nice either; the difference is that I would have stopped it if I had any way to. I don't know if you could say the same.

Wordless Wednesday: Paint Art

I remember in our last conversation when we were talking about how the people in our lives impact us in those little idiosyncratic things we do that we like to think of as our own, but they're all copied from other people; people we've loved, people we've hated, people we've forgotten, people we remember all too well. It was an interesting thing to hear, from someone like you; someone who so vehemently detests being told that you're not being yourself.

The important people in our lives leave imprints. They may stay or go in the physical realm, but they are always there in your heart, because they helped form your heart. There's no getting over that. I remember those times when I felt safe and warm and loved with you and that is a great part of the strength that I need to get through each day. There are little things about me that were yours and are now mine. I don't regret that, I don't regret that at all.

I can't absolve you, though; and I know that was what you were looking for. All through our time together you have always tried to guilt me into thinking that everything is my fault; you always apologised until now, but the blame was still there. I cannot absolve you from your implicity in my pain; and I would not even if I could. In your life there will be people who hurt you and people you hurt, and you're just going to have to live with that. You might not deserve your hurt, in the same way that I don't deserve to be periodically anaesthetised and flayed open, but you need that, you need that to help you enjoy the good times, to appreciate the times when you're not in pain. And the people you hurt might fill you with guilt and self-loathing and regret, but you need that, too; you need that to realize your capacity to inflict pain and to control it as best you can. I would be doing you a great disservice by absolving you.

You created your own monster; you were the one who told me to go out there and be myself, and now I am so hopelessly addicted to that I could not be anything else if I tried. You were the one who contacted me, you were the one who gave everything and you were the one who took everything back. I think you enjoyed that; I think you enjoyed being a friend to someone rendered so passive. The kisses were fine when it was you and not me. The games were fine when you started them and I didn't. The debates and arguments and endless hours of chatting our lives away were fine when you wanted them, but not when I needed them. You told me to be myself, but you did not know who I was. I am sorry if I disappointed you on that account.

I think you, like most people I know, have romanticized mental illness. I think you have romanticized the idea of the fragile little girl needing a shoulder to cry on. I think you have romanticized the image of a pretty but untouched sixteen year old innocent. I think you have romanticized the idea of being the last man standing for the lonely nerd nobody wants or cares about. I think you have romanticized the strong, defiant, outspoken woman. I don't think you realized what a burden it is to be a friend to someone with demons like mine, I don't think you realized how needy and dependent broken people can be, I don't think you realized how permanent and consuming first experiences can be for someone like me, I don't think you realized that being my friend means you will inevitably cop some of the shit that is always being tossed my way, I don't think you realized that if you teach me to stand up to others I will end up standing up to you. I did not know what it would be like, to be your friend; I learned it was wonderful, exhilarating, beautiful, but also lonely and heartbreaking and confusing. I didn't know and came to it with no expectations. You cannot always expect me to be good and kind and loving. There will always be times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand. Friends, like spouses and children and family and everyone else who makes life wonderful, are burdens. There will be times when you feel unloved and uncared for; believe me, you have made me feel all of that plenty of times. Friendships, like all relationships, require commitment. Sometimes you have to realize that friends are not infallible and sometimes there will be times when their only choice is to either lean on you or fall over; part of being a friend is realizing that sometimes people lean on you not because they want to, or to make you feel hurt or heavy, but because they love and trust you enough to let you carry them until they can walk again, and because they love and trust you enough to do the same for you. People need to break down, sometimes, and they need people who will honour their promise to not leave. It is easy to be friends when everything is sunshine and roses; real friends stay during crises. You need real friends during those times when you cannot walk and your only choice is to lean on someone or to fall over. You let me fall over, but I will pick myself up.

I know you and I are very different and that is why we cannot be friends, but I think you know that we are more similar than you like to admit; I think that you see the worst of yourself when you see the worst in me - I certainly did. It is an uncomfortable feeling, isn't it? We are all hyperaware of our faults, but seeing them in other people is intolerable. You realize that forgiving yourself means that you have to forgive people like me, and some of the things I do are unforgivable. It's hard when you realize that you are unforgivable, like everyone else who has lived or will ever live.

I do not doubt that you have people who are willing to be more indulgent with you than I ever could be; I do not doubt that these people somehow manage to maintain some kind of dignity and integrity whilst doing so. You are so easy to love, and so easy to forgive - which is a blessing and a curse, I suppose. I am sorry I could not indulge you; I wish I could. But it got to the point where I could not indulge you without shutting part of myself out, and over these last two years I have become accustomed to living half a life.

There is something that we always admire in people when we first get to know them; idealism. I know that because my only selling point in the sell-yourself game known as guild politics is that I am an idealist; a very young idealist, so young that they have to sneak both me and my idealism into licensed premises. That kind of idealism is appealing, but absurdly impractical; inevitably we watch as we and the people we love become the cynics we used to mock. I admired your idealism and optimism because I am not a naturally optimistic person; it was something I experienced vicariously through you. You have a great gift for hope, but also a predisposition towards become one of those people who's life savours of anticlimax. The brightest stars burn out the fastest and you are blinding. That was my great worry for you, back when I was still allowed to care for you.

How difficult I must seem, to be so attention seeking and yet so reclusive. You were always trying to coax me out of my shell because that's what friends do, but you were not prepared for the person who always remains hidden. We have romanticized coming out, in every sense of the term, without considering why something must be hidden in the first place. Your idealism was that I should have no shame in a society defined by shame and shaming; you did not stop to think why I was forced to hide so much of myself in the first place. In all the movies everyone turns out to be more or less normal, and deviations from normal are 'attention seeking'; we fail to realize that for some people, abnormality is the norm and being normal is our way of seeking attention. We are all attention seekers, as much as you might detest them; you cannot judge anyone for that. We have created industries and empires upon the desire for attention and you are a part of that machine whether you like it or not. I think we have romanticized reclusiveness because we have shamed attention seeking so much. And you have no right to shame me or anyone else for that; break up with your girlfriend, cut off all your other friends and move somewhere far away with no human company before you dare tell me that I should not attempt to cure my loneliness with a bit of attention.

I spoke only the truth when I told you that people lie, and then they leave; you are the epitome of that. Nothing you have ever said to me holds true now, and now you are gone just like all the rest of them. I suppose I must have seemed broken and resigned when I said it and you, as my ever faithful and loving friend, attempted to banish those thoughts away from me. I did not doubt you when you said you would never leave; it is one of the only things you have said to me with genuine sincerity, now that I have the benefit of retrospect. But I did not think that your presence made the statement any less true; I know that what you mean one day can hold no water the next day - it was a recurring theme of yours, and a constant source of pain for me. People lie, and then they leave, and yet we still want them. But I do not want you, anymore; I wanted the boy who used to drop everything and run to me whenever I cried, I wanted the boy who was genuine and charming and had that smile that made you feel like he was irresistibly prejudiced in your favour. I wanted the boy who sincerely wanted me to be happy and apologised sincerely for causing me pain. I wanted the boy who could see past everything else and saw me for what I am. I wanted the boy who realized I was broken and put me back together, and then held me tight so that I would not fall apart again. I don't know what happened to him, but he's long gone and his ghost had a great capacity for cruelty and indifference that I cannot bear. I know you think you have not changed, but maybe when you have the benefit of retrospect you will see what I mean. Nonetheless, I wish you all the best, because I know that somewhere behind all the spite and exasperation my friend is still here and you are all that remains of him. I don't know if you're still here, but it doesn't matter. I know you know all of this. I hope one day I will find someone like you and you will find someone like me, and I hope all of this will have taught us how to treat these people with a little more decency, and to afford them a little more dignity.

When you consider power - who has power, who can take power, who or what gives power, what power does to the powerful and the powerless; it is worth noting that not all kinds of power are seen and recognised by the public eye. Privilege is a silent power; silent because it is barely understood, rarely considered and never acknowledged. We are all implicit in the ways in which privilege alters the gendered, racial and economic dynamics of society; the silent but unquestioned authority of being male or white or rich or heterosexual or cisgender. We are so accustomed to the unwritten hierarchy of privilege that we think of our privileges as universal rights. Someone from a privileged group may not exploit or even realize their own privilege; but unlike other kinds of power, privilege is wielded involuntarily and without much thought. We all benefit from privilege, even though we refuse to acknowledge its existence in our sophisticated, civilized, individualistic, opportunistic world.

passive.

Now Playing: Roar by Katy Perry (I used to bite my tongue and hold my breath, scared to rock the boat and make a mess, so I sat quietly, agreed politely)

I have forgotten how to be passive.

Being passive is something that is expected of women; all women, even the ones who are valued for being smart and strong and sarcastic. A female activist is 'cute', but should bow down to male discourse; otherwise you're being a bitch or not listening to advice or not being a good friend. And these aren't just abstract political of philosophical opinions; even things like consent or standing up to physical or emotional abuse is frowned upon. I keep getting whacked over the head with 'nobody's perfect' and I know that, I know that all too well - believe me, I am the last person I would describe as 'perfect'. But that doesn't mean we should be endlessly tolerant, or penalized for being defiant. Being passive is not empowering or strong and should not be an obligation. We expect women to live their lives in caretaker mode; it's fine to have opinions, but 'for the sake of my marriage' or 'for our friendship' women are supposed to eventually back down.

I can't do that. I can't do that anymore.

I have always had a predisposition towards defiance; in my younger and more vulnerable days I was broken as all teenagers are and I sat down and shut up. The only outlet I had for all my opinions and anger and passion was my blog, but back then a grand total of about two people read my blog, so it felt like a safe space for me to vent; like a diary. I've always been shy and anxious and insecure, and that really did impact the way I express myself; it's why I turned to things like poetry and art, which can be very provocative and jarring but at the same time abstract and easy to defend. But as my audience grew, I couldn't stop being me. It's addictive, knowing that you're being someone so genuine and sincere that it scares people. I can't stop being me.

My life is one long argument, and sometimes it's hard. Sometimes it's easier to just nod and say 'whatever you like' or 'I don't mind', when you do, when you do mind, and it kills you. Sometimes it's easier to sweep things under the carpet or let things slide, let yourself be amused by something funny or soothed by attempts to make up for things that shouldn't have even happened in the first place. You have to stand up for yourself, even against people you love; because sometimes they're the ones who most need reminding. Conflict is an inevitable part of defiance, but I'm not going to stop that. I am who I am, and I was born to be kind of explosive and provocative. Take it or leave it.

I was broken, and someone put me back together and broke me again. And that's okay, you know; there's always a little voice in the back of my head, quietly saying that I will try again tomorrow. I'll be my own hero in this next chapter of my life, because that's nothing less than what I deserve. There's only one person who will be with me from the very beginning to the very end, and that's me. I'm tired of being collateral damage, and I'm tired of people becoming my collateral damage on my way to growing up. I've learned to be lonely, and I've learned how to be alone. There's nothing I can't do for myself, and that's all it's going to be, for now; for myself.

You must forgive me my desire to write to you; it has become something of a habit of mine. I think what I will miss most are the conversations we will never have.

I beg your forgiveness for anything I have done to hurt you, and can only ask that you remember old times, for my sake, and remember me fondly. I know I was not an easy friend to have and, for my part, I could not have hoped for a better friend. It was my greatest joy to be your friend, even for only this short time. I understand that my demons are too much to ask anyone to bear with me, but I ask that you think of me with some indulgence; I never meant to hurt you, and if I had any way of being an easier and better friend to have I would have done it. 

I must confess that I am not altogether surprised at how things have come to be; I think I have always known, deep down, that I am not the sort of person who can make you happy. I think I always knew that we were so different and at such different times of our lives, and I think I always knew it would end too soon and too badly; but I barged ahead anyway, because that's just what I do. They say that Anne Boleyn must have known for a time her fate; I think I had my Anne Boleyn moment. For my part, I have no regrets. I would do it all again if I had the chance. 

As for me, I am somewhat broken; I will make no attempt to hide it because nobody can live their life guiltless and that includes you. I have learned now not to believe people when they say that they love me, or that they will never think badly of me, or that they will not leave me. You said them all and one by one they have proven false and I am not entirely sure who to blame. But I will try my hardest not to let my bitterness and resentment colour my memory of you; I am trying to preserve the things I think of to keep me going as best I can, unsullied so that I may always think fondly of the time I was your friend. If I can accomplish that then all this would have been worth it. 

I am selfish and arrogant enough to hope that you will not forget me; I hope you will remember that when you were seventeen you used to drop everything and run to the little girl who cried. I hope you will remember all the little moments that are so precious to me, and remember all the times you made me smile. I had hoped to enjoy your big warm hugs and your beautiful smile for a little while longer, but I will always remember you fondly and I hope, after all that has been between us, when you see me you can give me your smile. I hope you remember that I loved you sincerely and genuinely tried to care for you as best as I could.  

I wish nothing but the best for you; I hope that you stay good and safe and be happy. If I could offer you some advice, it is only to say that you should not live your life attempting to minimize your pain, or the pain of others. You are doing yourself a great disservice, and you do others a great disservice even when I know you always mean well. Things hurt because they matter. Things hurt because they mean something, and that is an important thing to acknowledge to yourself. I am hurting, badly, now, but I will be okay. It hurts because you mattered, and although I am not glad of the tears I am glad to be living a life filled with people who matter. Being your friend, like most things I have done in my life, hurt beyond belief; but you have to live life to the fullest, even if that means experiencing a lot of pain to make the sweet times sweeter. 

 It's one in the morning and I don't know how long it's going to take to feel okay. I know you will not spend too much time dwelling on it, because I know you too well. I don't mind. You are what you are, and I loved you for it. Truly. 

Stay Beautiful. 

'Demons'
(self portrait)

동무

I would you was with me now that you might see
What pain I take in writing to you
Everyone, it seems, knows too well
The care and affection between us
Everyone, it seems, but me and you

I have here no friends
And much less impartial counsel
I know my temper flares yours but
It was all real, you know
You know how I detest insincerity

I beg you to tell me of my offences
And your grievances
I will speak nothing against it
My trust is always in you
That you will be as you have promised me

And these are all things so strange to me
How to talk, how to love, how to care
How to make it through each day
Without my demons, or yours
Please teach me gently how to breathe

If any person will meddle of my cause
I require them to judge the best
You must all know I was not ready for this life
I thought to be dead and past my pain

No more, for fear of tiring you
I heartily recommend me unto you
Praying you to send me word how that you do.

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