To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, March 8—11:58 PM
Subject: Re: imperfect words
Connor,
Tell me you hate me. Tell me you’re pissed at how selfish and irresponsible I’ve been. Tell me I’m stupid and reckless and crazy. That, I can take. That, I can wrap my hands around and hold and know it is true.
I’ve hurt you, Connor. I’ve taken advantage of your kindness and patience. I’ve made everything about me. I’ve hurt you and hurt you and hurt you, and then I come around begging to be loved again, and you just do it every time. You say you don’t want to ask anything of me, but hasn’t that been the problem? You always giving and giving, and me taking and taking? It’s not fair. None of this is fair. I shouldn’t be able to come back to everyone loving me, delusional about some kind of magic mental illness that gets me off the hook, that takes away all responsibility, like I’m some kind of victim of my brain chemistry. I think your mom has brainwashed my family, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. They have this idea in their heads that everything’s going to be fine as soon as I start seeing a therapist and taking medication, that we can just forget any of this happened and everything’s going to go back to normal and I’m going to be their brilliant little daughter again. But what if I don’t want to take their stupid magical pills? What if I don’t believe in medicine like they do? What if I don’t believe in any of this?
I am responsible, Connor. I’m responsible for all of this. Maybe you all think the best thing to do is forgive me, but you’re wrong. Maybe what I really need is to be punished. Maybe everyone needs to just let me go. Maybe you should just ignore me. Maybe you should hurt me as much as I hurt you.
Isabel