Except I didn't write those letters. No, I sit here daily, a puppet on the lap of my enemies.
"If we hate because we are hated, injure because we are injured, we have no freedom; instinct has thrust its fingers up inside us as if we were a child's puppet." -Eknath Easwaran
Here in the warmest room I sit and think of all that's lost and shiver. A mother, two brothers and a sister, a job of over a decade. The husband has been gone for a very, very long time. He exists within the dark solitude of his room, emerging only long enough to tend to bodily functions. The Virginian whore took more from us than a simple sense of family; he's been drunk for three years now. But I doubt she remembers our names.
The family genius, the sister in-law who's supposedly a rocket scientist poisoned the minds of what was left of that side of the family. Back in the midst of his giant fuck up, she read the regurgitated sentiment (on social media, no less) of her brother and his whore that I resented her son dying tragically because it "upstaged" my suicide attempt, and failed to recognise sarcasm. You can't read a sentence of grammatically correct structure and infer its meaning, yet I'm the uneducated, unsophisticated interloper here? Fuck you, Margie. Your brother is killing himself and you can't pick up a phone to say you love him. You sure as hell had the sisterly concern to write him of your love and support and where to find a late-term abortion clinic when I was eight months pregnant. For the sake of the rest of the family I pretended not to know about that letter. I swallowed down my pain and smiled at gatherings, forgiving but never forgetting how you wanted my child dead and for me to just fade into his background. Your ignorance extinguished one more in a swiftly dwindling number of lights of hope.
This year was made up of more and more loss, and taking a daily dose of poison. I'm tired and sad. And I wish I could find my way out of this grave I've dug for myself.
11:24 a.m. - 2016-12-22
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