Monthly Archives: January 2016

What it means that I am still here.

An open letter to anyone who has ever given a damn about me.

I am sick of living. Honest to god, I am. People tell me – “you are loved. You are important. Your life is worth something. It gets better. I’d miss you if you were gone.”

The thing is, none of those things are my problem. I know I am loved, and that I’m important. I know exactly how beautiful and talented and brilliant I am. I know I have so many valuable things I could potentially contribute to the world. I know I’d be missed.

Every day I think about all the hearts I would break if I took my own life. I don’t think I have ever broken a heart before. It’s not something I ever want to do. It’s something that I would do anything in my power to avoid.

I dedicate all of myself to staying alive so I don’t hurt you – you, whoever you are.

My family likes to call my ~selfish~ because I can’t “give” in the same way that they do. To them, “giving” means offering to bake cookies or smiling at the fucking neighbors or doing things for people that nobody asked me to do. But for me, to “give” is to make sure nobody has to find my body, or clean up my blood, or plan my funeral, or grieve my death.  The greatest gift I can ever give anyone – the purest and most desperate display of my love for anyone at all – is staying alive.

And it’s hard. It takes so much out of me, and every time I think I’m running out of energy, I think of the hole I’d rip in everyone’s life if I gave in to exhaustion and I find just a little more. This is why I can’t be like everyone else. I can’t go out. I can’t take too many credits in school. I stay in bed half the day. I keep to myself. I can’t get a job. I can hardly convince myself to leave my room if I don’t have to. I conserve as much energy as I possibly can and I channel it all into not dying. And nothing hurts more than the fact that so many people chalk it up to laziness. My mom calls me “trifling.”

And I just want to scream – doesn’t anyone understand the incredible gift I am giving? Doesn’t anyone APPRECIATE the pain I am enduring for them? 

I’m so, so, so tired.

Not sad. Not angry. Not depressed. I’m tired.

And I know that one day I’m going to run out of energy. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year. Maybe, if you guys are lucky, I’ll last another decade or two. But one day I am going to need to do what’s best for me, and my one hope in life is that when I finally cave in, you can all find it in yourselves to be happy for me.

But right now I can’t bear to hurt the people who love me.


you’re welcome.




I learned what kindness really was in front of a microphone in a room with several hundred other people. Kindness is an expressive art as much as music or writing or dance. And I learned to begin practicing kindness. Just like we need to practice music or writing or dance. I felt good – I felt control. I felt like I could choose good even when everyone around me chooses bad. I became better.

But not happier.


I learned what words really meant in a public library. Words are all arbitrary, and there’s no such thing as a denotation. There’s only connotations, and inflections, and perceptions. I think I fell in love. I haven’t been the same. I think I love words the way I’m supposed to love people. I think I’m ruined and doomed. I am so afraid. I’m a character in a stream-of-consciousness story. Some of the pages have been torn out. Some of the sentences have been scrawled over. Some sections are highlighted. I am in a relationship with stories, and stories are breaking up with me.


I learned to own my anger on a charter bus to New York City, blanket-wrapped and pillow-propped against the window seat, listening to anthems for vengeful, abused girls. Songs that taught me how to blame, how to fight, and how to make suffering sexy. You wrote about your trauma and torn innocence so I wouldn’t have to. And so many girls wouldn’t have to. And millions of girls won’t have to.

Girls find you with raw, bleeding arms and tearstained faces and crumpled up, sweat-dampened sheets of paper with bad poetry on them because we didn’t know how to get the words out without dying. Girls live vicariously through song – I can face him, I can reach down his throat and tear my innocence from out of his body and put it back where it belongs. I can kill him.


A note about suicide, but not a suicide note.

I’ve spent a lot of time – some odd number of years – wondering what I would say in a suicide note. I’ve written a few. Never could finish any of them. Because I really don’t know what to say. I’m sorry? I love you? My biggest fear has always been hurting people. I’m always so quick to apologize, to ask for permission, to check and double check and triple check boundaries so that I never push anyone into a place they don’t want to be, and I don’t want anyone to live a lifetime of confusion and pain and grief because of me.

I wish I didn’t care, honestly. I didn’t give a fuck about any of you so that I could just off myself already. This is exhausting. It isn’t always bad, but it’s bad often enough that I’m tired all the time. Every second is a constant struggle to see the “bright side.” I’m always making the best of things. Always being thankful that things aren’t worse.

I’m so, so, so tired.

Living like this is like never getting enough sleep and always needing to sit down and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I can’t fix this. Literally no one can fix this. I mean. I’m too fucking spent to even bother trying to make this sound poetic. It isn’t poetic. It’s dry and unspecial and basic.

Someone asked me a few minutes ago to tell them about my dreams for the future.

I want to win an Academy Award for best original screenplay. I want to fall in love and sleep next to somebody and not care that I don’t know how to take care of myself. I want to create art that puts a stamp on a year, on a generation, on a perspective. I want to be warm all the time. I want to be okay. I want to be enough.

But I can’t.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I won’t get rid of myself tonight but when I do (because I will someday) I just need for you all to not be sad.