Suicide&;#063;

april 2, 2001

i've written two other letters like this and both times i've started
out with, 'this is my letter to the world - who never wrote to me.' the
line is from a poem, i believe, from sylvia plath (who by the way is my
favorite poet only because she attempted/committed suicide - check out
'tulips.') i'm waiting for someone to rescue me, but knowing my fate, i
doubt that would happen.

i wear this lion ring on my finger to remind me of a destiny that i'm
supposed to follow. and today, i've been sidetracked. i don't want to
feel this pain anymore. not pain on my body but pain that eats away at
my heart and at my soul. i realize that i said i've forgiven my mother
for leaving me when i was younger and i forgive my grandmother
for&;#8230; for i don't know what. i say that i realize that they've
tried their best with me&;#8230; but after twenty years, why does it
still hurt so much?

i've tried to find a replacement to fight off this thing that's gnawing
at me (and it's sort of ridiculous that i've looked up how to spell
'gnaw' in the dictionary - like that's what my priority is).
replacement (school), replacement (boyfriends), replacement (work),
replacement&;#8230; they're all the same thing&;#8230; and they
turn out the same way - like some deceiving item you buy at target that
doesn't fulfill the purpose you thought it would.

so, here i am - monday morning with the same emptiness i've felt for so
long. it's disappointing you know - because this is twenty years worth
of effort (well, not exactly twenty - because surely i haven't been
trying since i was born - but all the same, i
continue&;#8230;).

i look up at god (who's up in the clouds above the saban building) and
i wonder - what's the lesson? what are you trying to say? somehow i'm
not hearing it. god, the traffic is drowning you out.

and by the way, it amazes me that i'm able to write so fluidly when i'm
at my lowest - but can't write for&;#8230; for&;#8230; [fill in
an expletive here] when i want to be creative.

and without further ado (i'm wondering if these parenthetical comments
are beginning to get annoying because i just wanted to comment that
'ado' is one of my crossword words - and by making this comment - i've
countered the whole purpose of 'ado'), on with the letter.

john, light of my life, fire of my loins. my sin, my soul. john: the
tip of the tongue taking a trip of one step down the palate to tap, at
one, on the teeth. (vladimir nabokov, i know lolita won't mind.)

as interesting as what i have to say about john may be - wait. imagine
me breaking character for a moment and stepping out of the world of
letters and words. the realization hits me that this letter is no
longer about committing suicide but about proving the wits of the
writer in me. the line that distinguishes the sadness in me and my will
to write, to live is suddenly becoming very blurry.

have i been defeated again?

oh no, now i'm beginning to edit. (it's a weird feeling to lose a
battle to yourself). and now that the violence of my emotions have
dispersed i don't know where - to the keeper of violent emotions, i
can't express myself for&;#8230; for&;#8230; [fill in an
expletive here] in this prose that i write. and just when i thought
that i had lost all sense to try in this crazy world, there's one thing
- like hope in pandora's box - to keep me going.

my tears have stopped flowing and the traffic is beginning to
clear.