"how much weed have you smoked this afternoon?"
you know what? fuck you.
i'm not sure why, I know that was the part of the conversation that probably made the most sense to you but it hurt me the worst. we can talk about how much weed i've smoked, sure, but while we're at it, let's talk about my "high" pain threshold and how without the weed, my pain is nearly unbearable, I've got no one beating it out of me (including you), and it has nowhere to go. I keep quiet about how much everything hurts because I grew up with a mother that has been in pain for 30+ years and i'm never going to make anyone feel the way she made me feel. the way she still makes me feel. that helpless feeling when you can't fix something for someone else.
btw it wasn't the weed. it was my communication barrier, I thought you'd pick up on it - because I don't know how to express how i'm feeling without feeling selfish. constantly selfish when I would do anything, give anything, all of it, for you, for someone else. i'm selfish. its insecurities - finding someone better to talk to, someone who makes more sense - because that's all my life has been is one person leaving after another even if I push them away - I always expect them to fight to stay but no one ever does. they let me let go, they let go, I let go and everything that was ever there before is gone.
it might have stung a little too - that you weren't really looking for yourself. and you weren't really looking for what you said in your initial message. that's not how it turned out at all and truly wasn't your intention either, as it has come evident, or do I believe what I see? and you clearly weren't really looking for me. I just happened to reply and land in your lap.
that sting turned into a wound pretty quickly. she can come to your home and hang out - probably whenever she needs. but I am the secret. I can't come over on a Sunday night. she's a known name, a known friendship, a known life. she can go to parties with you, out to dinners and drinks and maybe dancing. but me? i'm sitting at home. sometimes wishing for a life a lot different than the one I have now - sometimes wishing for no life at all.
nearly 5 years and I'm just realizing that i'm a secret. your secret tucked into your pocket because you can do whatever you want, right? is that it? you assured me in so many words but that doesn't make the wound feel any better. there's salt and infection now, you said you'd figure it out and take care of it and we've never spoken of it again.
i feel like you're part of the audience. you know - that audience I talked to you about - people who really would like to move on but the series is just too good to turn off. you only called yesterday to certainly talk about details of the party I forced myself to go to - that ultimately only crushed my self esteem even further into the dirt. what an episode. was it one that got you a good laugh afterwards?
time to turn the TV off. who knows when the last episode will air, but probably in the spring, because who doesn't want to end the longest, darkest, heartbreaking winter by jumping into the water and sinking to the bottom. the letters i've written, I'll gather bottles and take them with me when I jump, sending my last words out to float to see if anyone finds them someday.
I wrote you a letter that you'll never read, but it'll be out there floating in a pendleton bottle - you'll know that's the one for you.