It feels wrong to write this. Like I’m talking back to a god that I once loved, but now they hate me.
I’ve always looked up to you, but quite frankly, you’ve hurt me. A lot. And I really hate the thought of saying all this. I fear, that you will eventually find this, and if you do, I beg of you to scroll past, so you can live on in the thought that I never said these words. Go on, and please live in the bliss of not knowing the things I wrote here, because I don’t type these words for you to read, but so I can finally be at peace with all these things that I would never want to say to your face.
Please.
I beg you.
Don’t.
For your sake, and for mine.
Consider this your warning.
All this time, I’ve tried to be there for you. You never let me. When I had a problem, or something else to share, my first thought was always to come to you. When you had something going on in your life, I can’t confidently say, that you thought of telling me first. Maybe that was your try of sheltering me from the bad things that happened to you. An act of altruism. But for me, it always felt, like I was not the first option. I tried to show you that it’s okay to have problems, and to talk about them. Another reason to go to you, but it seemingly never caught on. Then you told me, to stop always running to you with complaints. So I did.
I hid things, in the fear of getting judged by you. A tiny part in me knew you probably wouldn’t, but that voice was very faint in the back of my head.
I also remember how years ago, we talked about how you hated smalltalk. Granted. Neither did I. But especially messages like “how’re you doing?” were a bother to you, so I never really sent them. I saw a lot of small things. To this day, I remember how you want your hot chocolate made. To me, it was the little things.
Now you tell me, that I don’t message you a lot. I wonder why.
If I didn’t have anything but my problems to complain about, I didn’t message you. Why fill a silence with ugly sounds?
Hence I didn’t dare to disturb it. After all, we saw each other once a week when we played our game. But that wasn’t enough.
Time after time, you told me, I didn’t appreciate you enough. I didn’t talk to you enough. I wasn’t grateful enough.
I heard your criticism. Tried to change what was going on. It wasn’t enough. That’s when you told me things. That I’d become as narcissistic as my mother. Had the anger management problems of my father.
And it didn’t just sting. Your words bore their way right into my heart and through it.
I didn’t know what to say, so again, I kept the silence.
Out of fear of hurting you. Because I didn’t want to start crying. I didn’t want you to see the damage you dealt.
Something I do frequently. You keep bringing up things, but I don’t dare to remind you, that it was you, who took away the happiness I had when I was singing.
“Stop your singing, it’s annoying.”
Those were your words. And I listened.
Never again did I dare to casually sing in front of people. Your opinion meant everything to me.
I would never let a bad word about you slip out of my mouth, because I honor you. You were always a role model to me. Someone I wanted to be like.
And then I poured gasoline into the fire thinking it was water.
Like I so frequently do.
I sent another long message (over)explaining myself. That’s how you would put it. But I really didn’t know what else to say. I tried to reach out, just to get shut down again.
And now I don’t know how to proceed.
It’s been weeks since that happened.
I’ve since picked up smoking.
I sat on my living room floor, and wanted to cut again.
Wanted to die.
I was exactly where I was this time last year. Just that this time, I was crying because apparently I lost my best friend. Or sibling as you want me to put it.
I had a breakdown after I saw your post, about how ungrateful I was, when you helped me move. Something you had offered.
I know that I’m bad with words, and that I probably didn’t say thank you enough, especially after you let me move in with you. But those words tore a part of my soul out and burned in a pyre.
One more thing I’ll never tell you, because you probably assume I never saw that post. But I did.
As always, I do the thing that I wasn’t supposed to do.
Somehow I end up the perpetrator. The villain. Not really knowing what I could’ve done differently.
We both have a phone, and it’s not just for me to reach you, you could’ve said too, when you wanted to spend some time.
You had a key, and could’ve just made yourself at home.
I get that it’s a lot for you to walk all this way, but it would’ve been one text message and I would’ve come over for a visit.
Now I have a cup in my kitchen, that no one is allowed to use, because it was supposed to be yours, because I know you hate the thought of someone else having used your things.