A Love Letter to Myself

Dearest Mia,
I am writing this letter to you, love, so that we remember. The past one year has not been kind to us. Why, you demand. Because we stopped being kind to ourselves. Something shattered and the shards remained buried deep within us; corrupting us, killing us.

We have been so sad. Medication barely helped. After a point, it was easier to give in than to fight. But, remember this, remember this always, depression is not your friend. Depression is a vile, beautiful woman than seduces you into her smothering embrace. She manages to be both the most wonderful and the most horrible thing to happen to you. Wonderful because she persuades you to stop trying, to give into the pain. Her embrace is so easy to get lost into and who doesn’t like easy?

But easy and good are not the same and we failed to understand that.

Depression makes you hate. It makes you hurt; it makes you want to hurt others. It is manipulative and masochistic. You take a knife and cut yourself believing that you are doing yourself and the world a favour. That’s depression.

But, love, you are not doing anyone a favour. You are giving in to hatred and when hating others stops being enough, you turn to yourself. You turn on yourself.

We know each other the best, don’t we? We know where it hurts the most. We know what hurts the most. And we attack relentlessly. The worst part is that we believe that we deserve this cruelty.

Love, I want you to remember that you are human and you are one of the good ones. People love you because of the bits they get to see. We see the entire, completed puzzle and yet we don’t love ourselves.

It’s high time we learn how. I am trying to learn how, you should too.

We have to remember to be kind to ourselves. Kiss that smooth palm, caress that soft cheek, indulge, be affectionate. Forgive.

We must learn to look into the mirror without feeling the bile rise.

We have to stop apologising for looking ugly when we don’t and when we do. There is a certain beauty in ugly that we should learn to notice.

We have to stop apologising for wanting, for needing, for craving.

We must stop apologising for existing.

You, darling, are not a waste of space. If you can convince so many others, why can’t you fucking convince yourself?

You are not the evil incarnate. I’m sure being the evil incarnate takes a lot more than mere jealousy.

Remember, you are worthy of kindness, of compassion, of concern and care. You are worthy of love. You won’t destroy every heart you touch. You won’t hurt every person you talk to. Good things can come out of being associated with you. And your mother sure as hell doesn’t wish you were never born. Even if you do, at times.

Believe me. You are worthy of love, of friendship, of puppies, of birthdays, of a kind smile, of miracles, of luck and of life. You are worthy.

Please believe me.

Love,
Mia.

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Week 1: Numb

Week 1- 6th July 2014 to 12th July 2014

Numb

The champagne must have tasted good but I don’t remember tasting it. That tended to happen when I became like this. Numb.
Our last few dates had been disastrous. He had begun to follow the pattern too. They met the happy, normal me. Then I grew comfortable in their presence and begun to let my guard down. I started taking off the mask I hid under, little by little. And they began to see the part of me that wasn’t quite so optimistic, not quite “normal”. What was normally really? Then began all that bloody criticism. They were soon rendered unable to look past my flaws and I was rendered unfeeling to their awful rants.
So here I was, in a posh restaurant I didn’t really notice, eating food I didn’t really taste and drinking champagne that I didn’t really feel.
And there was he, talking about my pessimism, my walls, and my issues. This one could really hit the mark. He had the perfect ability to grab onto my insecurity of the moment and then pull, squeeze and hurt. I had really hoped him to be different. When I first met him, I had been crying. So, he knew. HE KNEW.
But he refused to believe.
I stared at him with the straightest poker face. He was speaking; I could see his lips move but the sound had been blocked. I was quite bored actually except that I was too numb to actually feel the boredom.
It was stupid to try to inform me about my so called “issues”. I was anal about analyzing myself. So, really, I knew how screwed up I was. I knew every single one of my faults. Reminding me was a waste of time. I was excellent at tuning out bullshit.
Not that he-they ever noticed. Self-important bastards. Every last one of them. They misunderstood my silence for acceptance and attention. A tiny pinprick of amusement crept in through my wall. It didn’t have the power to break out my trance. Though, it was successful in pushing an idea.
I had better things to do. I’m sure he did too.
I took a sip of the tasteless champagne. It was wasted on me. I grabbed my purse. I had actually dressed up for the occasion. I got up from my seat walked towards the entrance and walked out of the restaurant. And his life.
It had begun to rain. I didn’t have an umbrella. I wore a red dress. The wet thing clung to my body. My Louboutins were probably dying due to the puddles. My makeup was probably flowing down my face with the rivulets of rain.
I didn’t care.
Slowly, I got some emotion back. Not enough to start grieving another dead relationship. But enough to become aware about the half-destroyed, soaking Louboutins on my feet.
I took them off and carried them in my hands. I could feel pebbles and slush below my feet. But I didn’t care.
I was roaming listlessly. Was this how breaking down was like? How did it matter? I would find my way back home eventually. I would be fine once I broke out of this daze.
Now, I was starting to become aware of my surroundings. I recognized the area I was walking in. I knew my way back home.
I was in the elevator when it hit me. It was over. I had left my blanket of unfeelingness behind somewhere. I had hoped. I couldn’t stop the tears from escaping my eyes. It didn’t matter. I’m sure I resembled a zombie enough as it was. Tea would make me feel better, I hoped.
The ding of the lift made me aware that I had reached my floor. I exited and took out my keys.
He was sitting on the staircase. As soon as he saw me, he got up, strode towards me and grabbed my hands. They looked so tiny and feminine next to his. Worry and panic was etched clearly all over his. A few more tears slid down my cheeks. I actually found myself wondering about the state of my Mascara.
I noticed that he was wet all through too. The rain messed up his longish hair in a way that had become familiar. It brought back memories. It had been raining the first time we met. I cried harder.
“What the hell were you thinking? You had me worried sick! Never do that again! Never, got it?”
I nodded with the start of a smile on my face and a tear welling up in my eye,
“And I’m sorry. You are a mess. You go zombielike. But you are my mess. And you have my heart and my brain and my soul. You are my zombie and I love you. Okay?”
“Okay.” I said as he bent down and kissed my forehead.