A letter to my beautiful self: you need to accept the truth or you will die soon

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 Dear David:

You loved your partner for a long time and you still do.

She does not.  She does not even think of you. 

Why do you hurt yourself so much for her?  Why do you love her and not me?  She has nothing to give, and I have so much you deserve and need.  I am you, and I'm rich with compassion and respect and gratitude for everything about you.  I value every breath you take.  I marvel as your chest rises and falls as you sleep.  I see the beauty and gentleness of your heart, and long to caress you.  I will never hurt you, and you know that despite your clouded vision.

I am the safe, powerful you...I am what you long for.  

Here are the things you could get from me, if you would reach for them: 

  • acknowledgement that the current political environment is terrifying, particularly for people who live alone like you do.  Radical left discussion has been crushed in the United States.  The government will be coming to our doors very soon.  Yes, it's terrifying to realize no one will be with you--no one will take care of your cat because they won't know--when you are dragged off by the thought police.  I will...and Ceci will be forever safe.
  • sympathy for your pain. You are also afraid of even more pain, with no one to turn to. 
  • a kind word.  Many kind words.  Never ending kind words...in your ears and senses and head.  Kindness inside you. 
  • thanks for the emotional, physical and financial we share. 
  • the peace of sitting quietly together, happy.  You and me. 
I know this hurts, but look at you David.  You are pathetic and weak because you will only accept what you need from the one human being on the planet that couldn't, wouldn't and doesn't have anything to give others.  Particularly you.   

You make yourself impotent by waiting for a doorbell to ring.  The doorbells do not exist for you.  You make yourself a dusty skeleton.  

You have so much more to offer yourself if you would stop sitting by the empty tombstone of your failed marriage.  Nothing good will happen to you in your cemetery.  Those who love you still can't sit in the waiting car any longer.

Your unrequited love will kill you...and probably sooner than can imagine.  I know you're strong.  You've carried sadness and depression and anxiety daily since 2010.  Even you can recognize the miracle of your strength.  But, the burden has diminished you.  

You are so small, and so timid, and you are sick.  Your unused brain has stopped testing the "joy" circuits.

You must stop this, David.  You do not have a choice.  Your therapy and ketamine treatments and study have shown you how.  Self-love is a very wide road but you won't take the parking break off.  Would you let me lift your dead hand and place it on the gearshift?

 Your brain is backfiring thousands of times a day, trying to navigate a version of this moment that will never exist.

I beg you every day, but you won't listen. I show you incapacitated examples of others who stopped trying.  Doron and Joe and Pam.  And still you sit, mute.  

You are the only one who can save yourself, and you won't lift a single finger to move on.  Even while I'm looking into your soul and inhabiting you, you're only thinking of typing love letters to the monster you married.

Look at you.  I'm sorry but I'm bored with you.  I love you, too...so much.  

You have made yourself pathetic.  I can't stay with you any longer when you hate yourself so much, David. Your ship has settled into the muck at the bottom of the deep dark ocean.  I'm out of breath and have to lunge toward the surface, leaving you behind as your oxygen runs out and your open eyes go blank.  Strapped to the captain's chair of a ship with no hull.  Alone.   Forgotten.   Wasted.  

Grab my fingers now...I am your last chance, if we somehow can both make it back to the surface, together.   I love you more than I can ever say...goodbye...please?  Please try, David.  I don't want to lose you.  Not for her.  Not for anything.  We are made to be perfect together.

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