you only liked me because you thought I was a puzzle. you saw me as a challenge that has to be solved, and you convinced yourself that you can do it. I hated people. I had trust issues, and you knew it. and when you came closer and whispered those sweet things about how you wanted to help me, I thought you meant it. you didn’t. when you offered friendship, I hesitated. you knew how broken I was. you were there, you saw me fall down and break into pieces. you knew exactly how much I dreaded this. I denied you, but you kept on trying. trying to prove that you really care about me, trying to make me feel better, trying to make me happy. and you did. you did. but I didn’t realise that the only reason you do that is because I’m just another trophy to you. another mountain to conquer. when I gave in, you thought you had won. and that’s when you stopped playing doctor. but I have real sickness, and it doesn’t stop just because you got me all figured out and got bored keeping up. you were curious, so you decided to pry me open, and once you did, you just left. you only liked me because you thought there was beauty behind my sadness, even though I warned you that there isn’t. there isn’t. I warned you, but you made me believe that it didn’t matter. look where it got us.
I am so tired of this.
I am so tired of all of this.
When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.
Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”
When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.
Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”
I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.
She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”
“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”
He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”
Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”
When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”
Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”
Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.
He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.
Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.
Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.
One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.
I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”
Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.
It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.
It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.
It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.
There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.
I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.
By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d
It’s November 30th again, but this year I’m surprisingly fine. I never told you this (and perhaps I never needed to because everyone says it’s obvious) but ever since you got on that plane and left, I always looked for a reason to be miserable over you. I would always go down the memory lane, looking for something to convince me that I still have something to hang on to.
Don’t get me wrong though darling, because I did love you. I did miss you. And sometimes I still do. And the first dozen of nightmares I had after you left was real. They were hauntingly beautiful that I was barely awake for the rest of the year. My first kisses with the other boys somehow tasted like betrayal, and I was disgusted with myself that I swore that there would never be another boy. I know, right? And before I knew it, I started writing about love. I poured down everything I know about what you and I had into words, and it felt good. And I guess that’s why it was so hard to let you go— you were my first muse. Feelings don’t come easy to me, and so to feel so in love, so inspired, so alive, my god, it’s like an addiction. You were breathtaking.
But, like everything else of course, the fire cooled down. And the distance wasn’t exactly of help. Slowly, I was starting to feel okay not having you around, and that made me mad. I didn’t want to feel okay. I wanted to be sad, to be miserable, I wanted to miss you every single day and cry myself to sleep every single night because I knew if I stop feeling sad, I’d stop feeling anything. And so I dug into the past, deeper and deeper, to have anything to hang on to. Anything at all.
You wanted me to write again. Something honest this time, you said. So here it is. I’m squeezing every last bit of what I have, so I hope you pay attention. This will be my last writing of you.
This time last year, I was mad at you. Because it was the time when you told me that you had finally completely moved on. There’s someone new. And even though I knew I was more in love with the idea of you, still, the thought of it ticked me off. It was like you closed every last opportunity for us to happen. Or maybe it was more like, “YOU DON’T GET TO MOVE ON BEFORE I DO, BITCH”. I’m not sure which.
(is that a smile I see? ha!)
My dear Alexander, after you got on that plane and left, I spent the first couple of years feeling so lost, not knowing what to do. And then the second couple of years in denial of the fact that it was over, not knowing what to feel.This is the 7th year since we first met, and although I was so tempted to put something about how the body regenerates itself every 7 years that I see has been going around, I don’t want to put something someone else wrote on my last letter to you.
I want to apologize for the way I’ve been clinging onto you. I simply thought that I would never forgive myself if I ever let something so precious go away on my watch. And I honestly thought that was what love is all about, I thought I was only being faithful, being loyal, being so dedicated to you by doing all of that. I didn’t realize that this was hurting you too. And for that, I am sorry. I didn’t understand. And maybe I still don’t, but at least now I know that’s not the way to do it.
And last, but never the least, I want to thank you. For everything that you’ve done to me. I couldn’t ask for a better firsts, and I wish you every happiness. You deserve it.
I was afraid of the night, even though I don’t know why. My body just wouldn’t stop trembling, and every time I shut my eyes I feel like I can see every broken things, every fear, every monsters inside my head chasing me. I had forgotten how torturing it is.
But hey, it’s 6:33 am right now. The sun has risen, and no nightmares can reach me during daytime.
Sweet dreams, people. Until next struggle.
It’s always hard to admit that there’s something wrong with you, I guess. For all these years I’ve lived, there are always secrets that I keep hidden from people. It is not something to be proud of. And it is not exactly something I want my friends to find out, no matter how close we are. I’m just too scared of what they might think of me. A freak, an attention seeker. Ew. Who’d want to be friends with someone like that?
And sometimes, at night, when melancholy hits hard and all I want to do is cry my eyes off, I tell myself that it’s just a phase. It’s just a phase that I’ll grow out of. Everyone goes through hard times during their teenage years, and maybe that’s the case with me too. I always pretend so. I always think that if I pretend hard enough, maybe it will really get brushed off of me as I grow older. I’m an adult now, I’m supposed to be mentally stable. I’m supposed to be better, wiser, happier.
But some things just stick with you, I guess. The sadness doesn’t leave, even when I’m content with life. It just lingers around, waiting for a chance for you to let your guard down and BAM! the cycle starts all over again.
I don’t want to go to sleep, because that’s where the nightmares are. I don’t want to be left alone in a quiet place, because the noises and the whispers inside my head are killing me, and they make me want to hurt everything and everyone around me too. Because I’m dying inside, and because everyone else is not. Because no matter how hard I try, it never works. Because these people don’t understand, because no one understands, not even myself. I want people to stay, but all I ever do is push them away. And then blame them for leaving.
The noises never stop and the nightmares are always there. I have monsters inside of me.