I don't own Twilight.
MY LETTERS TO YOU
Leaving my bed in the mornings is a heroic feat for me these days. It's been hard for over a year now, and with each new bright sunny day, I want to stay in bed even more. Maybe even vomit a bit. Perhaps, I could stab myself in the eye with a sparkly, sharp object.
Some days I think it will never get better.
Some days I just want the dark to stay.
I'm blaming you right now. I blame you for my miserable existence and for everything else that is wrong in this world.
There is this rage inside of me I just can't get rid of no matter what I do. Lately I've been thinking a lot about my life. But the more I think about it, the more I want to punch myself in the face and more importantly you for turning me into such a mess.
I know I told you about my childhood before. I wonder if you ever really listened to me or if you just couldn't understand.
Fixing me was your plan.
But in order to do that, you should've listened a little closer. I get the feeling you never knew me that well at all. There is still so much about me you don't have the slightest idea about. I can't really blame you for that, because I kept it a secret from you. I'm trying desperately to keep the facade of a sane human being.
So since I have your undivided attention now, or so I hope, I'm telling you all of it; not leaving a single detail out.
Suck it up. You owe me.
Did I ever tell you about this dream I have every goddamn year? The one I first had when I was three years old. It's the first dream I can remember at all, and it comes back to haunt me each year, around the same time. Funny thing is - it wasn't a dream when I was three years old. It was real. My life already started with a nightmare.
At the time, I woke up from a dream I had about Bert and Ernie. I must have watched Sesame Street that evening. Ernie was poking his head through the door, and then I woke up in a dark bedroom. It was my bedroom at my grandmother's. There was light shining under the door, so I figured someone was home. The apartment was empty, though. Only the TV was on in the living room, showing a scary movie about a cowboy and a really huge bear. I remember it was one of those old movies in black and white. It scared the hell out of me.
So little me climbed on the hall table and grabbed a coat and put my yellow rubber boots on; I didn't want to get my cute jammies dirty. I left the house and went on a search for my gran or my mommy. When you actually think about it, I was quite clever for a three-year-old, because I knew for sure where I would find my family. In the pub not that far from home. My mom used to work there as a waitress. I still see that night crystal clear before my eyes. How I looked back every few seconds to make sure the bear wasn't following me. I even asked some strangers to take me across the street since I wasn't allowed to cross a road on my own. I knew that much. There probably wasn't even a car out on the streets late at night in our little hometown, but I was a good girl and followed directions anyway.
I got to the pub, and sure as hell, everyone was there. My gran later told me that I have always been fond of parties. It isn't surprising though, because my mom often took me to work with her. For a child, it was quite a funny thing, being around drunk people all the time. I never understood why they were always acting so strangely. I think I had my first sip of beer at the age of three. Kidding...I think.
It was only one year later that I found myself in the same situation. Again. Back at my own home with Mommy nowhere in sight. So again, I put on my coat and rubber boots and went to Gran's in the middle of the night. It was raining. Pouring, really. To say that Gran was surprised to find her four-year-old grandchild at her door in the middle of the night is quite the understatement. Turned out my mom got a good scolding for her behavior later. Again.
I know I have told you this story before, I remember that I did. Still I wonder, why you didn't find that too worrying. I think it's sad that the first real memories I have as a child are being left alone, scared to death and without my mommy.
If you were here now, I know exactly what you'd tell me: yes, your life was hard at the beginning, but you had your grandma. She cared so much for you, blah blah blah...You turned out to be such a strong person, blah blah blah.
Well, guess what?
Turns out, I'm not as strong as you think I am. It's not a suprising fact, at least not for me.
You already know my mom was a drunk. Or is. Who knows at this point? But did I ever tell you just how much liquor she needed to be able to say she loved me? Those were the nights I was always the most scared of. The nights she'd sneak in my room to wake me up and tell me she loved me. Tears were always streaming down her face. Then she'd start babbling things I couldn't understand as a child. The only thing I knew was how worried about my mom I was and that I had to get up in the morning to go to Kindergarten.
I hated being tardy. Always have. It always draws unwanted attention to you.
I thought there was something wrong with my mom. Why else would she wake me in the middle of the night crying like she did? I wanted so desperately to help her, but I just didn't understand what was wrong. I felt so utterly helpless, but most of the time ashamed of her antics when drunk.
When I told you those things thirteen years later in my life, shortly after we got to know each other, you told me it wasn't my fault. Yes, I know that now. Maybe I always have. Still, I dreaded those nights. Constant fear is not a nice feeling to live with, especially as a child. But then, you wouldn't know.
I have yet to overcome this unjustified guilt I feel toward my mom, even for things that were out of my hands.
As I lay in my bed now, I can't for the life of me figure out where things went so terribly wrong between you and me. You were everything in my life and more. You still are. My one true love. The one that can never be replaced. My soul mate, even though I don't really believe in all that lovey crap.
There is this ache in my heart. It is overwhelming and slowly killing me. Piece by piece. Day by day. Still, it's not enough to pick up the phone and call you.
YOU hurt me. YOU called me a bitch. So yeah...
YOU should call ME!
You know that I'm waiting desperately for your call. Just once in your life, you should swallow your pride and just fucking call me. You were the one who said those hurtful things to me. Yeah, I said some shit, too. I know. I know what a pain in your ass I am sometimes. Still, you know I'm not in the right frame of mind right now. Some days I'm not even able to wash the dishes or leave my apartment. The easiest tasks feel like writing a dissertation about quantum physics. How the hell am I supposed to call you and fix those things between us when I don't really know what happened anyway?
What did happen to lead us here?
Did you finally have enough of me? After all these years? Did I hit your breaking point? Finally? Or is it that I don't fit in your life anymore?
I kind of get it, though. You have her now. She is the total opposite of me. Not really, since you told me she has mother issues, too. Is she the reason you don't call me? Is she your new test subject for your social studies, now?
Or do you sit at home right now cozy on your couch in your own too-big-for-one-person house, that your mother bought you for your 28th birthday, not having a care in the world? Not having had a single job in your entire life so far? Not needing it. Your mom's credit cards have no limits.
Do you ask yourself right now if you ever had the slightest idea how fucked up I really am? How helpless? You always found my moods quirky, yet adorable. The times I don't feel like talking. The way I could listen to one sappy song on repeat for hours. The way I read books for ten hours straight. Those days when I forget to eat and sometimes even to breathe.
I guess you are fed up with me now, aren't you? Or did you realize that you were never able to handle me, to fix me. See, I think the only thing that tied you to me was… pity. Are you realizing now what a waste of space I am? And a hurtful one at that?
Wouldn't surprise me at all. I hate to say it, but…
I told you so, right from the beginning.
Even so, it hurts.
A/N: Thank you, Bnjwl. I worship you.
mcc101180 and korinneraylie made this look pretty.
And huge thanks to whomever invented PTB, internet and wine.