Letters to My Self *suicide, trigger* 6/29/07

Dear Heartlove,

Forgive me, if you will, my familiarity. I have known you for your whole life, although--like one in the deepest of comas-- you have consistently failed to recognize me. I am skin of your skin, blood of your blood, your breath, your everything. And you are mine.

You say you are endeavoring to fit your life together like a puzzle. Yet the puzzle has no pieces and nothing can be glued together. Stop that.

Here is something for you that you can do. Throw out those old puzzle boxes. Your life is an intricate weaving together of diverse elements into patterns. Patterns that defy the status quo. You are you.

You are not your labels, problems, disabilities. You are you and only you. There is no path for you to be on. You are a trailblazer who has been growing new legs. Get up now and walk on those legs, receiving the strength that is yours and yours alone. Then go out and share that strength. Only in the interconnection of all life will you ever find happiness.

Love Always,
All That Is




Dear "All That Is,"

What kind of stupid-ass name is that? I don't much like you. You and your talk about interconnections and weavings and patterns.

I have suicidal thoughts. They are my Plan B. Plan B is persistent and seductive in her constant whisperings. Plan B says,

"You won't find any jobs. Look, see there are no state jobs waiting for you in the wings. You are
scheduled to language away trying to catch up to the grindstone. There is poverty and degradation .
I'm a secret Plan B. You mustn't tell. Anyone."

You try living with Plan B, always there in the background with her twirly sheer skirts and flirty ways. It's not easy to be me and I may die. Still, it is a lot better than being you. You pompous assinine zipperhead. And by the way, I am no one's "heartlove."

In Total Apathy,
spike



Dear Heartlove,

"I always have options. I just don't always know what they are." Didn't you used to say that?

Love,
All That Is



Dear Pompous One,

Bugger off.

spike



Dear Plan B,

You are not a real Plan B. I name you Imposter. You are a collection of lies and old tapes. I repudiate you.

I may not know where I am going. I do know that I will make it through this.

You can bugger off too, along with that "All There Is" Pompous Asshole.

Basta,
spike