I Wish I Could Tell You - Letter 04

[To the readers: Definitely not sexy. Not even romantic? Mostly heartache this time, I suppose, but as usual, for my Sir.]

Dear Sir,

It has been a long time since I've written one of these to you. In truth, I haven't felt as much of a need to. However, this isn't a sign that my devotion to you has waned. It has instead grown, taking root in the very depths of my soul. I wrap myself up in the comforting warmth of your presence and your words and blossom with the tenderness and care that you give me. Perhaps this is the reason why?

The more we talk, the more my feelings are revealed to you. Even though I sometimes think that you also carry these same desires inside of you, I am never entirely sure. I can barely even push my clouded thoughts into coherent things most of the time, let alone find the words to explain them. How can words even truly convey their meaning? Many people try. But whenever I do, they seem inadequate still. I can read them and cry at the emotion they evoke in me yet still feel as if there were more that could be said. And even still, I can read them, see the errors in my ways and yet not feel any different.

There are so many letters left unpublished that I have for you because of this very reason. I start them because I hurt and need to write but they lay unfinished because at the end of each, I feel as if the act of putting them down into words has somehow twisted their meaning. Ironically, I also have some letters that I haven't published because I feel as if I have finally manipulated the words enough that they create something almost tangible. That makes me so, so raw. Laying my soul bare even behind this veil of namelessness cripples me at times in the same breadth that I feel empowered by it.

It is, perhaps, not even the fact that strangers can read and know of my distress but the fact that the more I write, the closer I get to finding the truth within my own heart. The truth that I hide even from myself because I don't allow my mind to dwell long enough upon that wisp of a dream that I crush myself beneath the weight of my want.

Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever had an ache so strong that it keeps you up at night until your body finally takes over and drags you under? That's how I feel this evening and thus why I'm writing now. I can't sleep. My cheeks are wet for the second night in a row. The last few days have been overwhelming me and I really wish that right now, I could run to you and seek comfort in your arms.

In times like this in the past, I have never really had anyone. It's a first, for me, to have someone as supportive and caring as you. And so it doesn't feel real sometimes. I fall back on my learned habits of being afraid to share my worries because sharing them before has only ever brought me disdain and made me feel more alone. I think I can tell you. I start and stop and start and stop again. I share more with you than I've ever shared with anyone in my entire life. But then I feel them, the little pinpricks of doubt creeping up my shoulders and neck. The dark fingers of anxiety and worry that try to sink their claws in my mind. And I worry... have I shared too much this time? Is this finally the moment you give up on me for being too capricious, too twisted, too needy, too wanting? Should I reel myself back in?

Then the walls flare up. My protective shields. I poke and prod and examine and try to find fault from all angles so that I can tell myself that yes, I was right. This really was too good to be true. There is no real happiness for someone like me. Don't hope. Stop wanting. Protect yourself.

But now you're gone. Or I'm gone. Maybe we're both gone. And I feel lost without you. I think about you constantly. I wonder if you're thinking of me. If you miss me as much as I miss you. I wouldn't blame you if you stopped loving me. If you have stopped loving me already. In fact, I might even agree with your reasoning. As much as I dislike myself, I'm surprised you ever loved me in the first place. Then the spiral begins and I don't know how to stop it. Darker and deeper and I end up in that place, that personal little hell inside me where I doubt everything. Where I let myself believe that I hoped and wanted for too much. Because what has hope ever gotten me but heartache?

I wrote once about jumping off that cliff into the abyss of adventure. I was hopeful then too. But now, what am I? The broken ship? The jagged stones wearing down over time by the crashing waves? Maybe all of it together. Maybe there is no calm in the heart of the storm after all. Not this storm. Not for me. Or maybe, just maybe? That calm is the end of it all. Where I can close my eyes and none of it's there anymore. Peace within that nothingness. Again, another futile hope.

- Your Not So Good Girl