I'm not okay...

Are you?

This is ending, I know it is. Maybe I'm crazy for believing in my feelings. Maybe you think we are fine, that nothing is wrong.

Its okay to not see my breaking heart. I don't expect you to open the cavern of my chest to peek at the muscles and ribs. I don't expect you to notice. That sounds childish, sounds stupid, sounds like I'm seeking your attention. Your approval.

I don't need your goddamn approval though. I need you. I needed you. I won't in the future.

I don't need your love, or lack thereof; I don't need you anymore. I wanted you. I wanted something from you that I have to find in myself. I think. I don't know.

I'm not good at being myself. You seem annoyed by that. I can't apologize for that, because I am not an apology. I am imperfectly myself. Whoever that is.

I used to whisper your name, because I liked the feel of it in my mouth. The way my tongue caressed the letters and the whimper of my voice. Now I won't give myself that. Not because it is wrong to love your name, to love you or who I have thought you to be, but because I can't keep doing this to myself.

I am not okay.

Maybe I never was to begin with. Maybe I never will be. 45 second intervals are all I have to relax. All I have to hold myself in place.

I fucking loved you. That is not to say you should love me back. You are under NO obligation to do so. None. I'm not angry that I loved you and received no inklings on your end. This isn't just about one-sided loves.

Its about how you disappear off the face of my earth and casually come back to remind me that you are the sunlight in the caverns of my chest. Its about how you disappear and leave me wandering in the snow, begging for just a glimpse of sunshine. Its about how you leave me behind and then deign to give me a small catch up.

I have tried desperately to hang on. You leave me dangling, like a worm at the end of a hook; knowing I'll still be there when you decide to come back.

I don't care if you love me. I don't care if you want to be with me. I wish I could erase those dreams, desires, wishes, tortures; from my neural pathways. I am Icarus thrown from the sky by the Sun he so longed to worship. You were the sun blossoming against the horizon of my cavernous chest, slowly brightening my skies inside of me. You were rising and then suddenly your light fell from the sky, colliding with the wormholes and the voids of the universe; swallowed up by Chronos' gaping maw.

And maybe that's a problem with me. That I latched onto your small offerings of light like a starving child on bread. Your voice in my ears was like hearing for the first time and I loved you like the created love their creator.

Maybe I was obsessed. Maybe I shouldn't have dreamed about you like I did. Maybe there are many things I should or shouldn't have done.

Would it hurt less if I let you go now? Would all of my questions, my longing, my dying whispers, fade if I just told you goodbye?

I can't let your name enter my mouth. It tastes so sweet, but it is as bitter as poison.

I just wish you'd tell me the truth. More of the truth than you have. You don't lie to me, but you aren't honest either. You leave portions of the truth out when you speak to me now. What happened? What changed from last year when we talked as if there was nothing else to do but talk?

Have you already let me go?

Today.

I'm not writing this for you so much as I am writing this TO you. I doubt you'll ever read this or know that I am shamelessly quoting you currently.

Today has been short, so far.

I'm listening to "Autobahn" by Anberlin. I don't know that you would like it, though it makes me think of you. The simple idea of just driving, dreaming, etc.

I miss you. Miss you more than I have any right to.

I want to steal the title of the last blog you posted, yet I'm afraid it will catch your eye.

You told me once that I didn't know you. I think I know you a bit better than you care for me to. Or maybe that is simply my imagination.

Either way, I think it is unfair that you let me in so far and then not only do you bar the way, but you push me as far back as you can... I'm sitting on the outskirts, wondering what happened?

I am the person who believes it is my fault. I have always felt that it was my own fault if I were left behind. I did something wrong. I'm trying hard not to be that person.

I'm trying hard to not be that person.

Funny thing was that I came here to post about my novel and your last blog post (on a blog you probably only vaguely remember that you have) popped up first in my newsfeed. This wouldn't seem so odd except that I had just found a note you had written me in a notebook from 2005, the year we met.

And all the warm feelings I have for you came flooding back. Not that they ever really went away. If it is possible to have constant feelings for someone it would be for you.

Now I am listening to "Gooey" by Glass Animals... You mentioned British groups. I think you would like them.

I suppose finding that note and then seeing your posts were just meant for me today. I was meant to see them.

Its disconcerting for me, you know. All of these strong feelings and random actions. Random words that make me wonder if you ever really cared or if I was merely a person in a long deluge of people in your wonderland. Truly, your mind is a wonderland I would like to visit sometime.

I over think.
I over speak.
I am far too opinionated and many other things.

I feel like I should make myself smaller when I think about you. Like Alice, shrinking to get through the keyhole. Except, as much as I want you to see me, I'm afraid you don't like me because of what you see. Whether it is my face or my opinions or my writing.

You told me once that I needed to chill.

You told me once that you loved me.

These are things that I hold close when I try not to think about you or how we haven't spoken in months. And how much that really bothers me.

My texts to you have become little diary entries in a long line of silence.

I am rambling.

I never realized how much you write like your favorite author. I loved him before, but now I love him even more. Does that make me crazy?

Coming Out.

Dear Friends and Family,
I'm going to say this as politely as I can.
I am an Atheist. I am Bisexual. I am a Liberal. And I am perfectly happy being who I am. So, please, don't post on my page about God, about hating the President, about how people who love each other shouldn't be allowed to get married just because they are gay or anything else like that.
I don't want to be "saved." I was, once. And you know what? I was miserable. I've never been more unhappy then when I was a "Christian."
Any comments or posts pertaining to the above will be deleted. And if you don't like how I live my life, then you are also free to delete me.
I'm not going to hide who I am or try to change I who I am because other people are "uncomfortable" with how I live MY life.
Its taken a LONG time to say this, but I am Proud of who I am. I think I've turned out pretty well considering the life I've had. And I'm not going to be ashamed of ME anymore.
love,
Sarai.

Letting it Go

I need to know. I need to know if you have feelings for me like I suspect you might or if you are only my friend. A best friend, a wonderful friend. I need to know because I'm obsessive. I'm a silly girl and stupid to boot. I can't let you go if I think you might want to be with me too.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. Resolution? Closure? Some kind of ending to these feelings?

Is it wrong to love you like I do?

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
It is difficult to remain soft in a world that has become hardened against you. It is difficult to remain loving when there is so much hate that you can feel it in your bones. 
The most difficult is to remain sweet when everything tastes so bitter.
I want to be soft and sweet and loving, but it is difficult to do so when you must be hard and jaded and hateful to survive. We never really survive this life do we?

Constant Emotional Confusion.

Dear ____,
I can't stop thinking about what is going to happen if we see each other in May. I can't stop having stupid, girlish, fantasies about it. And, oh, the guilt that follows!

But even you say I won't want to go home. Are you saying that because of my crush on you or because of S______ itself?

Every time I think I know what I'm doing I realize I have NO clue!

What do I want from you?

I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to slow dance with me.

I don't know if I want you to sleep with me. I mean, obviously I do, but I don't. Confusing right?

I really just want to date you! I have already had (already have) a relationship that was based on sex early on. I just want to do the stereotypical boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. Go to movies, for ice cream, hold hands, make-out, go sailing, etc.

Maybe have sex later. Maybe wait longer than I did the first time around.

Childish Fantasies

Dear ____,
You'll have to forgive me, my childish fantasies are getting the better of me.

I have all these little romantic vignettes in my head, that I just can't seem to shake, every time I think about getting to see you.

Childish things like:
You: I'm attracted to you.
Me: I'm attracted to you too.
You: I want to kiss you.
Me: I want to kiss you too.
Cue the romantic kiss; chaste, but passionate.

Or another scenario:
You: May I have this dance?
Me: You want to dance with me?
You: Of course, did you think I would dance with anyone else?
Cue the romantic dance followed by a romantic kiss.

I never fantasize about sex with you. I'm not entirely sure how sex works in other relationships. I've only been with one man and I don't think the girls I've been with count towards sex with another man...

So I just picture kissing you. I've kissed other men before, so I feel confident in my abilities there.

You make me so nervous and twisted up inside, just imagining. And you always skitter around the question.
Are you attracted to me?
Would you kiss me?
Do you have feelings for me too?
Have you ever had feelings for me?
Or am I crazy?

Dear 16-year-old Self,

Dear 16-year-old Self,
Dare you to move. That's the song that describes the summer in which we were 16. Of course, most of that summer can be summarized in that song and "Meant to Live."

That summer you met Adam. And you thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread (fun fact: you still think this and you're 25 now). He was/is funny, smart, sexy and it was inevitable that you would fall for him. I mean, who wouldn't? He was also a little aloof and a little strange, but that didn't make you step back, it made you step forward. And so, when you think of "Dare you to move" by Switchfoot, you will forever picture yourself, in your camouflage t-shirt, sitting on the beach at TRC with him.

That was the summer you admitted to an adult about the cutting. That adult was Adam. He hugged you so tightly you believed that your broken pieces might fall back into place and for a little while they seemed to. You were happier. You adored him (again, you still do). You wanted to be with him, because he was older and he was smart and he knew French and you were so desperate to escape your reality that you wanted to create a new one with him.

Most of all you felt like he dared you to move, dared you to do something for yourself and be the person you were meant to be. So when he wrote "bonne courage" on your hand, you felt it was a sign. I still think it is.

Being of good courage is hard, 16, but you're going to have to be courageous to make it through to 25.

You'll lose touch with Adam for a while, but don't worry. When you finally reconnect, its perfect and far better than anything you had at 16. Even if you are married to someone else, you will still find the nerve to tell him how you really feel about him, still. Because you do still have feelings for him. I think we always will.

love,
Me.

Little Sister

I remember the day you were born as if it were yesterday. I remember holding you for the first time and thinking you were such a pretty baby. I remember feeding you, changing you, watching you grow up.

In March you will be 18 and I feel like it was yesterday that I was chasing you around the house, your giggles echoing down the hallway. I still feel bad for scraping your little heel when I tried to let you ride my bike with me. I still remember the panic I felt when you wouldn't eat, slowly wasting away until you were skin and bones. I remember thinking that I wanted you to get better, but also wanting you to no longer be in pain.

I think of these things, memories made over a lifetime and I wish you were little again so that I could do a few things over. I wish I had played Barbies with you more. I wish I had read to you more. I wish we were cuddled up on the couch watching "Help!" again.

I'm so proud of you though, my beautiful child. Even though I am nostalgic, even though I miss baby cuddles and listening to you playing in your cupboard.

I'm so jealous, darling. I feel like you are so much prettier, so much smarter, so much more interesting than I ever was or ever will be. You tell me I'm pretty, but I can't help thinking you are the most gorgeous person to ever set foot on this planet. And I'm not just saying that because you are my baby sister. I'm not just saying it because I've always thought you were prettier than me.

I'm saying it because I never want you to feel like you aren't pretty. I'm saying it because I want to build your self-esteem up. I want you to always believe you are beautiful; without being a snob, without being a bitch. I want you to believe what I never have; that you have worth and are beautiful.

Il m'aime.

If I were a braver girl than I am, I would tell you just how much I love you. How I have been crushing on you for the past 9 years, waiting for the day when I thought you might return the feelings.

And now that I feel like I can't possibly hold my feelings in any longer, I find I am in the unpleasant situation of being married to someone else. Not to say that I don't love the man I am married to, but that I have so many unresolved feelings for you. Feelings that I was always too much of a coward to go on.

I think back on the e-mails we shared when we first became friends. I remember all the moments we spent together and I think, with painful clarity, that maybe you did have feelings for me at the time, but didn't want to express them since you were so far away. A world away and older than I.

I feel so stupid now. Stuck with feelings I can't seem to get rid of, no matter how much I tell myself I should. And I have countless poems to you, countless feelings written into so many words and I can't tell any of them to you.

Too Much Credit

You give me too much credit. More credit than I feel I deserve. I try not to argue with you, because I know that you are complimenting me. I know you feel the praise is deserved. I just wish I could see what it is you see in me.
And I wish we could be a bit more than we are. And I wish a great many things.

In the mean time, for today, I'll let you praise as much as you want. I won't argue with you.

I'll say "thank you."

A Gift.

Its hard, Aunt Peggy, to accept a gift.

You told me all the time to just accept it, it wouldn't break you.

Its hard to accept a gift when you feel like you don't deserve it. Like, you are so unworthy of the gift. I want to be able to accept gifts, Aunt Peggy, without any guilt attached like a card on a ribbon.

I wish the gift you had given me was more time with you, instead of learning the lesson  you meant to teach me while you lived. I think I've finally learned though, as hard as that is. Its a lump in my throat, Aunt Peggy.

So I'll stifle the guilt, I'll fake a smile and say thank you. Because maybe that person needs to give the gift. Like you felt you needed to give gifts to me. I knew you loved me without the gifts, Aunt Peggy. I hope you know I loved you too.

Missing kind of Night

Dear Aunt Peggy,
There are not enough letters in the alphabet to express just how much I miss you. How much I want to tell you that I love you and that I am so angry that you died so soon.

I am angry that you just gave up. I am angry that I didn't get to tell you goodbye. I am angry that I couldn't do anything to stop you from going. Mostly, Aunt Peggy, I'm angry at myself.

I'm angry that I didn't visit you more at the end.
I'm angry that I didn't finish the "Indian Princess" story you wanted me to find and finish.
I'm angry that I have failed you.

I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you one more time. I wish I could just have a few more minutes to tell you just how much you mean to me.

Thanksgiving.

Dear Aunt Peggy,
In another hour it will be the first Thanksgiving I will spend without you. I still miss you more than I could ever express and I wish you were here every minute of every day. I'm STILL waiting for you to call me. I have to stop myself from calling you all the time.

But if I am thankful for one thing, it is that I got to spend as much time with you as I did. I am blessed to have gotten to spend time with you almost every week for 14 years. Even when you drove me absolutely crazy.

I love you, Aunt Peggy. And I miss you like crazy. Happy Thanksgiving.

love,
Sarai.

Dear Younger Self,

Dear Younger Self,
Tonight I realized something about us, staring at the loaves of "Sunbeam" bread with "Not by bread alone" on the packaging and the little girl's head bowed in prayer.

Donnie said something then, when I refused to buy that bread and picked up a different brand, that made sense. He said that, in a way, the way we grew up was good for me. In that, it caused me to look at things, question things, develop my own opinions, question why I have those opinions.

It was awful, what we went through. I wouldn't change a moment of it though. Everything we have been through, everything we've done was for a reason.

I have to believe it was for a reason.

The majority of the time, you will like who you are. Even though there is still the underlying self-loathing. Even though you still question your every decision. Even though you wish you could just fix everything and make it perfect.

The trials, the tribulations, etc. I promise they will be worth it. At the very least, I believe they will be worth it.

love,
Me.

Making the Best of things

Dear Aunt Peggy,
Every day I can't imagine another day without you being here. I know there is nothing I can do to bring you back, but I so desperately wish there was something. Even though you irked me sometimes, even though you made me want to scream in frustration other times, I loved you so much. You've been gone a month and I am still waiting for you to call me and ask what I want for lunch on Monday.

Tonight I tried my hand at making goulash. Its not nearly as good as yours, it never will be. But its a close approximation. One that will have to do while I try to make the best of things without you.

I miss you, Aunt Peggy. I wish you were here. There is so much I want to talk to you about. I send little thought bubbles to you and I hope you get them.

I love you. I miss you. I wish you were still here. I wish you could try my goulash and tell me whether or not you think it is like yours.

love,
Sarai

Your Absence

Your absence has not gone unnoticed. I still miss you every day since you passed. I'm still waiting by the phone, re-listening to your voice-mails, wishing I had asked you to show me how to make goulash, wishing I could tell you about being able to finally eat rice again, wishing the Mondays weren't stretching out before me in weeks, months and years.

I am still feeling the pain of your loss. I am still waiting for you to call me, feeling guilty for not having called that last week you were here, wishing I could do it all over, wanting to see you again.

I know it sounds selfish to other people. They must not understand what its like to not be able to breath, because you feel like someone just kicked you in the ribs. They must not understand what its like to crumple to the ground, because you suddenly don't know how to stand. They must not understand what its like to lose someone that you believed, foolishly, would live forever.

I want you back. I want you here. I want you to annoy me by constantly calling. I want you to tell the TV people that they don't know what they're talking about. I want you to do that funny little dance you would do whenever you were getting up to go do something. I want to be in your too hot house while you grumble about all the cooking you have to get done.

I want you back, because I'm looking at a calendar full of empty Mondays and I just don't know what to do without you. And they say these things fade with time, but I don't think it will. I don't think I'll ever get over this.

On Monday

Dear Aunt Peggy,
I keep expecting you to call, even though I know you're not going to. I keep expecting you to leave me a voicemail message, saying, you know, "what do you want for lunch on Monday?" And I keep thinking "what am I even going to do on Monday?"

I've had a lot of suggestions.

"Well, you could always catch up on all your reading." or...
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you have plenty of time." and...
"What will you do on Monday?"

My answer is, I don't know.

What will I do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

You're not going to be there and I keep thinking, "man, I kept putting off cleaning those pictures for you. And, man, I kept putting off going and seeing you there at the end. And, man, I did a lot of putting off didn't I?"

And then I keep thinking you never broke any promises to me before now. In one fell swoop, you broke several.

I don't have a picture of you. Besides the one I took on my phone when you weren't paying attention. Can't see your face.

And you broke your promise that you would live to 100, 'cause we still had seventeen more years to go.

And, you know, broken promises. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you'd been able to keep them.

But I keep thinking that you had the spaghetti and meatballs all ready. And that you were so excited we were going to have spaghetti and meatballs because we hadn't had it in a long time.

And I keep coming back to "what am I going to do on Monday?"

Because we're not going to get to share our McDonald's cup of coffee anymore.
And we're not going to get to eat goulash together anymore.
And we're not going to get to rant at Pat Robertson anymore.
And we're not going to get to do any of those things anymore.

So, what am I going to do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

What am I going to do on Monday?

I thought maybe I'd still come and share a cup of coffee with you.
And maybe I'll bring my books and I'll bring a blanket to sit on so I don't get grass stains all over my rear.
And maybe I'll go and buy a chocolate soda.
And maybe I'll figure out how to make goulash on my own.
And maybe I'll use those potholders that you gave me.
I'll put up all the knick-knacks you gave me.
There's a lot of maybe's.

But Aunt Peggy, I'd much rather be with you. I'd much rather actually be getting to see you than wondering what it is I'm going to do.

Who am I going to watch "The Price is Right" with?
Who am I going to banter with about who pays for what?
Whose going to make me ham salad even though I don't eat pork? But I eat it anyway because you made it. The only time I ate pork for a really long time.
Whose going to worry about me while I'm off gallivanting in DC and whose going to ask me what "erectile dysfunction" means and whose going to ask me all these questions I don't know how to answer?

Its not fair, Aunt Peggy.
I love you.
I miss you.
I'm sorry I didn't come and see you at the end.
I'm sorry.

30 in a 50

Dear gentleman in front of me who went 30mph in a 55mph zone,
Thank you.

Honestly, thank you. You gave me a moment to let all the emotional craziness settle, a moment to just enjoy the nature around me. I wasn't even angry that you were going so slowly. I feel like I haven't really breathed in days and you gave me an opportunity to do just that; breathe.

Truly, I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.

sincerely,
Sarai

With love to Russia

My darling Russia,
next to the United States you have been my biggest supporter on my blog(s). And, truly, it isn't your fault that Vladimir Putin is such a jerk-face that he has now relegated Homosexual/Bisexual/Transgendered people into a myth that Christians tell to frighten their children into submission.

Be brave, sweetheart. The world is changing. We are the ocean and we are shifting. Take heart in that there are those of us who believe in LOVE, no matter WHO you love or WHY. Be brave because one day there will be people, like Mr. Putin, who are no longer taken seriously and are merely ignored. I don't know when that day will come, but it WILL.

In the meantime, I still love you, dear Russia. And I still can't wait to visit you someday.

with much love,
Sarai