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tony-is-writing-today-blog · 8 years ago

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Letter To Anna

this was a writing piece i did as some venting a few weeks back. i have not written anything in first person in, uh, a few years, so this was a bit of a challenge to get back to. it’s got some rough themes to it, so please be aware of this.

((cw: discussions of r*pe, self harm, addiction, self destructive tendencies, sexual themes, drug use))

A Letter To Anna

Dear Anna,

My therapist told me to write this letter to you as a way to “unload” my problems, a way to try and “identify” the root of my struggles, find some sort of “closure” between us, or some other bullshit like that. I figured that for maybe just a second I could stop being an asshole and listen to her for once.

So, hi Anna.

I’m an addict.

I really hate thinking about myself like that, but it’s true.

I am an addict.

I have an obsessive personality.

Since I was a child, I would become hyper-fixated on certain subjects or some work of fiction to let my mind escape from everything else that supposedly mattered. When I got older, I found it addicting to be an asshole to people—mostly breaking the hearts of those closest to me. After some of that nonsense, I got addicted to alcohol, which, as it turns out, is a bit more serious than any of the things I listed above.

(It might sound bad, but the reality is that I truly don’t care about that addiction.)

(Why?)

(Because I don’t care about what happens to me.)

Following my on going sinful love affair with the devil’s poison, I did something foolishly impulsive one night and made a small one inch cut on my forearm. At first, I was shocked at what I had just done, not really knowing what came over me.

But in reality, when I try to think back to the first time I cut myself, I don’t remember much.

I must have been too drunk.

What I do remember of the aftermath: I was at school with a cruel hangover and wearing my NYU sweater even though it was a typical scorching hot Floridian day. I hid because I was horrified at what insanity I had done to my body. My 17-year-old self was already perpetually miserable at the thought of simply being alive and having to go to a school I hated, but now I had to attempt to hide my dramatics from everyone when I was already paranoid enough that the world hated me.

(Junior and senior year of high school were my infamous debut years as an enormous disappointment to my family and friends.)

Just when I got into the real groove of things (drinking like it was my favorite hobby, because it was), my mother caught me with alcohol (I’m not going to elaborate further on the incident), and I got thrown back into therapy. It helped a bit with trying to figure out how to stop being such a gigantic fucking heartless asshole to the people I loved, but not much with my addictions.

When my therapist would ask about self-harming or drinking, I would immediately become furious.

My most iconic moments in therapy were when he asked me why I was cutting and I stayed silent for the full hour session. He would say, “Look at me,” and I would shoot the most loathing glare I could muster. The other moment was when I showed up to a session already fabulously drunk and almost fell asleep on the couch in his office. I distinctly remember telling him to Fuck Off.

(I think I had a bad day at school.)

I was sober for almost a little bit over a year, but by no means was I happy. I began to cut more to compensate for the lack of alcohol and to try and calm the withdrawal effects of going cold turkey (and it didn’t really work).

My depression got worse, but then I was having a weird few days or around a week where I would feel like I was on top of the world, ready to conquer everything and do the absolute best I could because nothing could stop me. Then, I would crash into the lowest of lows I had ever experienced. I learned to live with the self-harm, the very High Highs and the very Low Lows, the failing grades that did not reflect my actual intelligence, and calmly enjoying the new scars on my skin.

For a little while, I became addicted to toxic relationships. I thought that being emotionally abused was normal and that consent was irrelevant because all that mattered was my boyfriend getting pleasure and I had to lie there and take it, even if I said no. I accepted it as a punishment to myself for past sins I committed against others.

My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good way to look at rape.

Even through all that, by some God given miracle, I actually managed to graduate high school. The only memorable thing about graduation was the overwhelming relief knowing that I would never have to step foot on my high school campus ever again if I didn’t want to. Graduation day was special to me only because I could finally fucking leave.

June 26th, 2015: I cut my hair short, losing about 8 ½ inches. When I almost finished my hair appointment, I got a text that read something like, “IT’S LEGAL!!! EQUAL MARRIAGE IS LEGAL!!!!” I cried a little bit, to be quite honest. I was also incredibly pleased that I looked like Janet van Dyne with my new hairstyle.

When I got to college, self-harm was a friend I had a shamefully intimate friendship with. However, when I started smoking weed, that need to feel pain and see myself wounded abated a bit and the craving for alcohol was lost in the back of my mind. Marijuana, however, never became an addiction. It was like a blanket tucking two toxic lovers to sleep for a little while until they inevitably woke up to abuse each other once more. The difference between falling after the marijuana was that I felt like I had to justify my use to those around me because no one understood that this was the best alternative I had access to.

I once fell into a Low when I was high.

Being the good college student that I am, the setting was during a party in a friend of a friend’s dorm. I went to smoke with a friend beforehand because I knew there was going to be alcohol and I didn’t want the craving to ruin my night. See, my friends know I’m an alcoholic (months upon months of being sober at the time) and so if I had consumed alcohol, I felt like they’d just get front row seats to my own destruction. However, at the party when I was in the middle of feeling pretty good, all my friends were drinking around me. The host was making mixed drinks and everyone kept complimenting him on how good the drinks were. The craving was crawling up my back and I could feel it. I was able to not think about it too hard until my friend (sitting on my right) said, “These drinks are so good!” Then he paused. “Oh, shit, I forgot you can’t have any.”

I froze, but I managed to nod and give him a forced smile, but words were stuck in my throat. I stayed quiet after that while everyone else was socializing and enjoying the loud music. I suddenly felt like I was in a box and the air supply was running out. There was a mix of fury, embarrassment, helplessness, and panic running through my veins.

My other friend (sitting on my left), who was gradually getting more and more drunk as the minutes ticked by, turned to ask me, “Are you okay?”

That’s when I noticed that I had been staring at my hands for a long solid minute and she snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled stiffly and said I was fine. “I think I’m going to go smoke again,” I told her. “You know, to get away.”

She nodded in understanding. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

For the rest of the night, I had the begging intrusive thought of punching my friend in the face to steal his drink. I felt awful. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I love my friends.

That one instance, those few words, made me spiral into a very Low Low for almost a week.

He apologized later on.

I forgave him, but I felt sick.

I hurt myself afterwards.

When it comes down to cutting back on marijuana, it isn’t difficult at all. I wanted to smoke because it’s fun, but in no way does it feel like an addiction. Not drinking is harder because the way disgustingly cheap rum and coke goes down my throat is horribly satisfying. There are two things that I could give up completely and that would be marijuana and alcohol. Do I want to give those two up? Jury’s still out on that, but they for sure want to keep the marijuana.

(Anna, don’t give up marijuana.)

I remember once during psychology class, we were told a story about this severely suicidal girl in a mental hospital who had a ton of scars. She was desperately trying to hurt herself in the hospital, even resorting to trying to cut herself with a plastic knife. When we were told the story, my classmates laughed at her apparent foolishness and I laughed as an imitative reaction, but my heart hurt. There was something killing me in the back of my mind.

It was the word C R A Z Y .

It’s been three years and I still think about the girl in that story and wonder how that ended up being me.

It’s been three years and I have not been able to go one full month, not even a solid three weeks, without self-harming.

For a very long time, I never considered it to be something like, “It’s to take the pain away,” and then cry about it because I thought that was dramatic (I was very mistaken back then). I only wanted to hurt myself so that I could have a lasting effect on my body, like a scar. I enjoyed seeing my body wounded, which apparently is also not a normal thing. I thought that was the only reason. I just wanted to look like I went through a fucking battlefield. Of course, my bitch-ass teenage self was wrong, as per usual.

“You hurt yourself to numb painful emotions that you might be feeling.”

I hate people telling me what they think they know about me.

“These are some techniques to help you.”

I hate people telling me what to do.

“Put some ice on your skin—“

I hate people.

“You have to listen—“

Who gave you the right to even look at me?

I never understood why everyone seemed to care so much about me. I never understood why people would go out of their way to try and make me happy. Didn’t they know that I am never going to be happy? Why did everyone care so goddamn much? That’s disgusting. I don’t fucking comprehend how anyone could hold that kind of love for me.

People loving me?

[Insert SURE_JAN.gif here]

Anyway, Anna…let’s get back to why I’m really here writing you this letter.

Since I got so wonderfully off topic with some unnecessary woes, I realized that trying to quit alcohol is nothing compared to trying to quit self-harming. I have an addiction, a straight up obsession, with seeing my body ruined. It’s a warm curling strange sick satisfaction to see blood trickling down my arms and thighs. When I am at my Low Lows, there is nothing more that I want to see than new scars being carved into my skin.

People do notice, though, and it’s incredibly annoying to say the least. They ask questions, as if it’s any of their business. They even find the nerve to touch me in the middle of their inquiry to emphasize their “concern” and curiosity.

What the fuck do they expect me to say? Do they expect me to sing out a wonderful, “Ah, yes, Karen. These are but silly little scars I gave myself whilst in the middle of contemplating death and its permanently eternal benefits. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put those disgusting sausages you like to call fingers on me, or I’ll have them detached from your palm.”

If anyone thinks I have a kind personality, they need to be directed to the nearest psychologist.

Friends notice the scars, but know better than to address them directly. They look upon my body with small twinges of pity.

Lovers, however, are another issue entirely. They don’t point out scars, but I now have a problem having sex in general.

(Anna, don’t be a prude, now. Sex is a natural part of life. We can talk about sex with each other. I know sex is a difficult topic for you, but sex is important.)

When I was a teenager, sex used to be liberating. Sexual activity used to be fun and happy and adventurous. Anna, I’m sure you remember that time I was once called a “nerdy version of a slut” by some of the girls in my class. That was a very proud title for me because I was proud of who I was and what I looked like. I used to be so ready and so free.

Now, I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed anything relating to sex.

I’ve had to take things step by step with lovers just so I could be relaxed enough to even get halfway to an orgasm. I cannot express enough how grateful I am for marijuana, Anna, because that shit really helps you calm down just enough to let your mind feel your body.

But it’s step by step.

I guess being raped does put a real dampener on things, huh?

Self-harm is an addiction like no other. It’s one that shows plainly for the world to see if you can’t hide it correctly. When people see it, they don’t think, “Oh no, poor you!” they think, “Why are you not in an insane asylum?”

People never look at you the same way. You are now eternally damaged goods.

I think I figured out that my biggest addiction, above everything else, is that I am addicted to making myself miserable and being miserable.

Anna, it’s really hard just being alive. It honestly sucks and I used to think that it sucked all the time without any sort of possible happiness on the horizon. For a long fucking time, a horizon didn’t even exist for me. I thought I was going to be stuck in the same cycle of turmoil for the rest of my life, which I thought was going to be very short. I always saw myself being hospitalized because my bipolar mind was going to do something so drastic on my Low Lows, or I’d just never even make it out alive. I thought that I’d be stuck dragging myself through every single day, experiencing new hardships, repressing traumas, disassociating and not remembering what I was doing or what I was feeling just an hour ago and being so damn afraid and confused. I thought that my manic episodes were going to wring out every last bit of energy that I had in me. I didn’t even think I was going to make it past 18.

But listen, Anna…

I’m 20 now and I’m still very much alive. Am I happy? I’m trying to be. Am I still drinking? Sometimes, yeah I do. Am I still cutting? Yes, at least twice a week. Do I still disassociate? More often than I want to, and God I wish I had control over that shit because it’s a goddamn nightmare. Am I still having issues with sex? Dude, I can’t even hold hands with someone without thinking, “Human contact is absolutely fucking abhorrent.”

I was really focused on the negative aspects of myself before and I never looked at all the good things. So, I’ll list some good things about my life and me.

I’m a good cook. I am a singer and I can dance like a motherfucker in 6-inch heels. I get constantly complimented on how great my eyeliner is. I have a cat named Lemonade and I’m a great cat mom. I can speak three languages fluently and I’m proficient in two other languages. I know how to use a gun and last weekend at the shooting range, I hit the middle of the target three times in a row and then got some ice cream after to celebrate. I know Tolkien lore better than anyone else I’ve ever met in person or online. I know every single opening and ending theme song of every single anime I’ve ever watched (I’m talking full versions of the songs). My hair is long again, so when I braid it I look like Katniss Everdeen (the real Katniss from the shitty books—you know, the Katniss who isn’t white) (God, the Hunger Games trilogy is so shitty). I’m a fucking boss at yoga. I’m a great photographer. I have a great ass. I have great legs (and my girlfriend told me two days ago that she wanted me to crush her with my thighs, so I’ll just add that here). I won a cosplay contest three months ago and I had never felt such incredible nerdy pride in my whole life. My eyebrows are iconic and I don’t even have to do anything to them to make them look good. My eyes are really pretty. I can list every single language in the Indo-European and Altaic language trees. I’ve read the entirety of Das Kapital without falling asleep once and I’m still not sure how I achieved that feat. I volunteer at a children’s hospital and I love working with kids. I’m a debate state champion. I can make the best fruitcake known to man. I’m starting to slowly, very slowly, learn how to love myself.

It’s not easy, Anna. I still don’t understand how or why I have friends and why they stay. I don’t know why my family bothers with me. I don’t really understand why I’m still alive, but the fact of the matter is that I am alive and I have to try and figure out what I’m going to do with my time. I accept that I’m probably going to be on meds for the rest of my life and going to therapy indefinitely and that’s alright. I’m still going to have manic episodes and depressive episodes, but I’ll eventually learn how to work through them and that is also alright. I’m learning a lot of things about myself that I had never considered before. It’s hard, Anna. It’s really really hard, but I’m starting to think that it might be worth it.

I know we’re not the best of friends and we haven’t been for many years. I’m willing to rekindle the positive relationship we had when we were children. I want to try and understand you again, Anna, and see where our future takes us. I want you to accept me as I’m trying my best to accept you.

Writing this letter was really fucking hard, Anna. I hate admitting to my faults. I hate admitting that there are things that are wrong with me. I hate admitting that we almost completely lost each other because of everything I was suffering through.

I don’t think I’m ready to say, “I love you, Anna.”

I think I need more time for love, but I will get there one day. I hope that you will meet me halfway.

And Anna…

Remember to smile.

From your best and worst friend,

Anna Leesman

#my writing #this is about 3.2k btw #oh jeez this was hard to write lol

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