To 13 year old Marie (me)

I know you feel different. Shh, stop, you don’t need to tell me you’re okay, or that you haven’t really though about being different. You don’t need to put your armor up. I know that you feel different. And it’s okay. Don’t worry about me knowing. You can trust me. And by the way, I feel different too.

You don’t know me, and I think that if you met me you wouldn’t put your trust in me. But Marie, that’s not because I’m not trustworthy, or because I don’t care about you. It’s because you don’t trust anyone. But even if you don’t, I wanna tell you this: that you can trust me! I care about you, and I know you, and I see you. I swear that I’m here looking out for you, and I believe that you need to let someone in. I believe that you need to trust someone. Someone. Because letting someone in will never mean that you’re weak, it means you’re strong.

You know all these nights, the minutes before you fall asleep, and you worry that something bad is gonna happen tomorrow at school? Don’t. Don’t worry. Or all those nights, the minutes before you fall asleep, and you cry because of something bad that happened at school? I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that you have to go through this. But I’m gonna tell you something, and you have to listen real close, okay? It’s not true. What they are saying, and the feelings you get about yourself after it happens, and when no one is there to help you or see you, those feelings they’re not true. Not at all. You are valuable. You are so valuable. To me. And I know that since you don’t know me, those words probably don’t hold any merit. But this might: You are so valuable to your family. They are caught up in their own shit, and they don’t see how much you’re hurting, but believe me when I say that it’s not because they don’t care. It’s merely because they are hurting too. But, and this is very important, tell them! Tell them what you are experiencing! And I know, I know that you’ll say that they should know without you telling them, or that you’ve already told them, but tell them again. Tell them again and again until they hear you, and until they help you!

Someone loves you, Marie. And I know what you’re gonna say, that everyone hates you, and that you know that for a fact. Well, I’m a grown-up, and this I know better than you. I’m insufferable right, thinking I know things because I’m a grown up? I know, I know, I’m partly teasing you, but mostly I know that someone loves you. And what more, I know that someone likes you. And one day you’ll figure out that it doesn’t matter whether or not all your classmates likes you, what matters is that you’ve got friends that’s there for you. And you got that! And hey, it’s OK to love books! It’s OK to love the puppy, and spend time with her, and with your family. I can promise you’ll never end up regretting not going to parties or being popular when you were a teenager. I know you miss it now, wondering why you can’t like it or want it. But what if I told you that you don’t miss it because you long for it, but because you think that somehow that would make you feel less as a fuck up, Marie, sweetie, it won’t. Because that feeling doesn’t come from not going to parties, or from anything true, it comes from the lies people have been telling you. It doesn’t come from you being a loner, because you’re not. It doesn’t come from you not having a life, because well, truthfully I don’t know of any other 13 year olds that lives as much as you do. You don’t need to do as much as you do! You don’t need to be the best at everything. You are good enough. Pretty enough. Thin enough. Perfect enough. Simply, you’re enough. Give yourself permission to stop up and breathe, and give yourself the opportunity to figure out what kinds of things that you actually like! And then when you’ve figured out what you like, do those things.

I wish I could make you live a little more based on what you want, based on what you like. But I’m not sure this letter can do that. I wish more than anything that I could make you believe that you are worth something, not just something, but so much. I wish I could force the people around you to give you the help you need, so you won’t have to grow up to become like me. Or so you wouldn’t have to grow up suffering as much as I have. But I’m sorry, I can’t. But be strong! I know you are. You have always been. You might not see it, but one day you will. And then, one day, you and I will meet. And maybe I’ll know how to tell these things to you in person. I believe in you. It’s gonna get better.

Yours truly,
Marie

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Peel off my skin and make me feel your love

I feel so desperately bad. So desperately alone. So desperately lonely. It’s not a steady pulsating pain, it’s gasping for air and screaming. I’M ALL ALONE! I feel like no matter what words I use I can never convey what I’m feeling. I’m just so hopeless.

I need someone to help me, to hold me, to heal me. But that doesn’t work now does it? No, because my body, my mind and my heart rejects every ray of light, and turns away all the open arms. I’m wondering if I’m broken! I think I’m broken. And you can’t hear me choking on all of this, on this night, on this life. Fuck. It hurts so bad!

I think the only way for me to feel close to someone, connected to the world, would be if they sliced me open and reached in and grabbed my heart. “Hush, darling, you’re not alone.” Maybe not even then.

I’m gonna say it, what we dread saying because we don’t wanna offend, and because we don’t wanna minimize someone else’s pain: I wish I had been raped and beaten instead. I would have known it all would soon be over, and I would’ve had a safe haven somewhere else and I wouldn’t question whether or not what was done to me was wrong. Instead I’ve lived for two decades believing I deserved it all.

(Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m sure someone would rather have what I’ve had instead. But fact is we don’t know how we would’ve reacted to the other, but it’s still easy to think “if only”. And many end up where I am because of rape and abuse too, I guess the best thing would be to have happy things instead. But yeah, whatever, I think we all think like that once in a while. We image having the ailments we don’t have as better than the one we do have.)

And he doesn’t even know he ruined my life.

It hurts. So. Bad.

This loneliness knows no comfort

Shouldn’t the feeling of despair be less painful since it’s been here so many times before? Shouldn’t we have become acquainted and familiar and close by now and shouldn’t that make it easier? No, I swear: despair is what it always is and always will be: bottomless dread and pain. There’s no such thing as being used to it. I mean, yeah! It’s been here a thousand times before but it’s still as painful as the first time. This loneliness doesn’t get more bearable just because I know it.

I hate that! I absolutely hate that. Shouldn’t there be comfort in knowing what you’re up against? Shouldn’t there be relief in the familiarity, and support in the fact that you’ve been here before? No! The despair is as terrible as ever.

 I wonder if there will ever be a time where my life is free from this kind of suffering. I wonder if I’ll have weeks were I actually believe my life exists with a future. I wonder if I can ever forget to think about my death. I wonder if I’ll ever truly live.

Next to no one

It’s 1am and I find myself questioning whether I’m lying in this bed because I want to or because the high from your appreciation and gentle touch somehow makes the pain disappear, and it’s not really wanting it, but desperately needing it. And does that mean I’m really the one who’s using you, and not the other way around. Does this make me weak, easy, a bad human being? Does this mean I’m compromising who I am and what I’m willing to do, because I’m too starved of feeling wanted, liked and valued? I think I want it because I want it, but how can I really know? And the worst of it all: No matter how many people love me, adore me, appreciate me, want me, need me … It will never be enough, because I can’t feel it.

 

Hugs.

Breathe in, breathe out

So … I’m out. Like, out from hospital.

I didn’t think I had missed home, and I didn’t. I didn’t miss the living room or the kitchen. But I did miss my rooms. I missed being able to sit in my couch and put my feet on the table. I know, I know it’s not very sanitary or whatever, but it goes! I missed my purple home-knitted blanket, I missed the candles and all of my books. So for a little while it felt good, slouching down on the couch, putting my feet on the table … and then suddenly I was filled with despair. The same feeling as before. I remembered how, and why it had become as bad as it did, and it felt as bad as it was again.

I’m gonna be honest: I’m scared! I’m scared that this is how it’s gonna feel forever. I’m scared that I’ll never get better. I’m scared that living is always gonna be so painful I can’t handle it. I’m scared that somehow I’ll forget how to breathe and then die. And the worst thing isn’t dying. The worst thing is living. I’m scared to exist in a world where there’s this strange unexplained pain every day. Where loneliness and emptiness, and hopelessness swallows you. I’m scared that the sun will go down, and the suicidal impulses will be to hard to handle. I’m scared to live.

I just don’t really know how to handle this. I wish it was easier. I wish I had a manual I could follow. Always do the right things and not need to be alone with the pain.

The world is shit

I love the look of painted nails on a keyboard. I love bread fresh from the oven. I love the sound of G sharp and E minor. I love finding words to reach out with. But the world is shit. Utterly, endlessly.

Everything goes too fast. And I want off. I don’t wanna go for another ride now. I don’t wanna take another spin with this planet. The only problem is there’s nothing else.

Game over is passage to nothing, to unknown. And that is scary too.

I wish someone could just reach out to me, and hold my heart until I felt better. Say abracadabra, and it all would feel good.

Gosh, I think I’m gonna cry.

I am too lonely

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t wanna be a cry-baby, but thinking about shit makes me cry. Admitting shit makes me cry. I don’t wanna tell you I’m lonely. It feels like a failure, like I’ve lost in something. Like I’m a loser for admitting it. But it’s true. It’s fucking true. I’m an idiot. I’m mean to myself. Wish I could just be a winner or something. Wish I could accomplish something. Wish I could live in a fairytale, in the happy ever after part.