There are things that I can say to you, and there are things that I can’t. I’m always at war with myself, and that’s why I can’t be honest. I might say something that can either push you away or make me hate myself even more. I’m afraid of that. I’m afraid of losing you.
It’s complicated. I am complicated. And you have impressed me for being able to put up with me because, believe me, I would have abandoned myself if I could. Oh yeah, I actually did. The scars say so. At least they’re just scars (for) now.
I remember hating you, and being annoyed at you. I also remember you hating me, too. I remember a lot of things. But back then, all I could remember and think of were sadness, pain and misery. I couldn’t remember much about being happy because each day was just a sad day. Every single day was a curse. Sometimes, I’d hate myself for waking up.
I can’t really tell you that I have stopped hating myself. But I’ve been better.
You see, this is why I’m writing this letter. Back then, I was just that sad and hateful girl. Now, I’m a girl who feels happiness, too. But I’m not sure how I’ll be able to help myself in the next days, weeks, years.
I will help myself. I am helping myself. Because I want to be better. I want to be happy. I don’t want to be sad anymore. I don’t want to be empty. And this letter, this letter is everything.
There will be days when I’ll just feel thankful for you and the others. I will always think of you in the best ways – how you’re all so kind and helpful to me, how you matter to me and how I love all of you. It will always be an honor for having met you all. But even so, there will also be days when I’ll just feel like I’m holding you back; that I’m worthless to you, or that you’re all judging me. Or, perhaps, you’re just pitying me, and, behind my back, you’re all saying how sick you are of me. On other days, I get confused about the difference between kindness and being kind. And I’m afraid to know which between the two you are under. I’m afraid. You can always make me feel safe, but my safety with you is not a reassurance that I am safe. And I’m sorry if I doubt you. My mind is playing tricks on me. I’m explaining my side, so you’ll understand because I know that you’ve also been confused with me.
There will be days when I’ll just feel like I’ve accepted myself. I’ll look at the mirror and see an average or a slightly above average looking woman. I’ll think I’m satisfied with life. I’ll tell myself that I’m lucky and that I’m actually a nice person. But there will be times, not days, that those thoughts will be shooed away, and I will be disgusted with myself. I no longer know the difference between self-acceptance and narcissism. I’m so afraid of accepting myself in such a way that I refuse learning to be satisfied with myself. I’m afraid to come to the point where I’ve grown to love myself too much or I have changed too much. This is new to me. I haven’t felt okay with my own skin for a long, long time. That’s why I just can’t be okay in such a simple way. Because what’s been okay or normal to me is hating myself. Even though I can accept people, I just can’t accept myself so easily.
I hate myself for admitting this, but you, you pushed me to be brave. I am ashamed to think that a man helped me with myself because I wanted to be strong enough to fix myself. I didn’t want love. I didn’t want a man. I didn’t need love or a man. That’s why I wanted to pretend that you didn’t like me. It’s because I was afraid. I was afraid to know that I’m weak and desperate enough to have to need someone or something to make me happy. I didn’t want romance. I didn’t need it. And yet, what happened? It’s what I got. Even though I didn’t want it, I somehow liked it. And this is really shameful to say, you know. Especially to a flirt like you. You must be so proud of yourself.
I have realized that I have dreams. You, too. This relationship isn’t healthy, I think. It’s not because of you. It’s because of me. One moment and we’re okay. The next, I’m having a storm, and you’re trying to calm me down. You can’t always happen to have a coat or an umbrella, you know. There will come a time when I’ll be a storm and you’ll be there, not able to shield yourself, so you’ll find someplace safe, away from me. And this is a note in advance. If that ever happens, I’m sorry. And if you think that it’s your fault, it’s not, and will never be.
I don’t believe in forevers. I know that everything has a limit. Even us. I know that I’ll just be someone you were with in the past. I can’t avoid that. But you, you make me want to hope. You make me want to believe in something that goes against my beliefs. You make me want to wish for us never to end. And that is why I’ll be honest.
Please don’t get tired of me.
It’s pathetic, I know. In fact, this is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever done. But I’m being honest. If being honest is what will make you know how much I really care for you, and if it isn’t what will push you away from me, I guess I’m not going to mind the embarrassment. For now. Take note of that.
I’m sorry for talking about me so much. I’m being selfish. But here’s the thing: I’m grateful for what you did for me. You were there. You didn’t give up on me. Thank you for that. When you were slipping away, you were not abandoning me. You were just trying to see if I’d actually get out of my comfort zone, and do something. That’s pretty threatening to me, you know. For someone who’s bottled up her feelings inside for such a long time, expressing myself and being honest would do nothing but create cracks on all the bottles I’ve kept with me.
You made me realize that I was ruining myself when all I ever thought was this: the world is shit and I am worse. I wanted to be pretty, to be fit, to be enough. As life would actually have it, satisfaction is what makes something enough. I wasn’t satisfied with myself that’s why I wasn’t enough for myself.
I love you. There it is. And I hope that I really am not your charity case because you don’t make me feel like that anymore, but my mind makes me think otherwise. Right now, I’m actually happy with my family. I’m closer to my friends. I’m happy with you. Thank you for being the stuck-up bastard that I love.
If we ever breakup, don’t pity me, okay? I want you to be happy. Treasure this letter because this is where my honesty is. It’s because I’m not brave enough to say these things. But for now, let me be brave enough to tell you this: