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.

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.

I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.

Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.

I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.

I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.

I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.

Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?

I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.

I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.

My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.

I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.

I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men

I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?

I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.

I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.

I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.

I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.

I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.

Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.

Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.

Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.

I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.

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.

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.

Its the same as lying...

I just can't deal with the emotional upheaval you cause me.
If you tell me that you are going to do something, DO IT.
If you aren't going to do something, TELL ME. Don't feed me a fucking line.
Telling me you will and then you turn around and don't is the same as lying to me.

You'd think I'd have learned by now. You'd think I'd know better than to believe you, but I don't apparently. I'm a stupid girl who puts her faith in you over and over and over and over. Far more than I should. Its not just that you let me down. Its not just that you change your mind.

Its that you say one thing, but you do another.
Its that I was looking forward to these things. I had put my hopes into your hands and you threw them on the ground.

And you know, it was your fucking idea in the first place, so I shouldn't be this upset, but goddamn, I was looking forward to it.

You wonder why I don't ask you to do things with me. Go places with me. Etc.

You always bail on me. I can't trust you to follow through with something. There is always an excuse. Always. Sometimes, its a valid one, but more often than not it just comes across as a fucking waste of breath. Don't tell me you are going to do something and then not do it. Don't tell me that you are going to do something and then give me some flimsy excuse later. It isn't fair to me.

And its the same as lying to me.

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

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

A God Complex

Dear God,
My mother wonders why you and I aren't on speaking terms. She wonders why I no longer believe in you. It's obvious to everyone that I wanted to. I've tried to.

The reason, God, is that I can't trust you. It all comes down to that, really. I can't trust you to be the "loving" and "benevolent" God people claim you are. I can't trust the God of the Bible. I can't trust in you at all.

You don't wonder why, because you are omnipotent, or so they say. But in case there is any confusion, I'll spell it out for you.

When I was a little girl I was molested by a friend. A girl friend. And I realized that I liked girls. I was intrigued by the idea of a vagina and breasts. I wanted to touch and caress and prod these things. I wanted to learn more about them. I wanted to be sexual with these body parts, even though I had no idea what that meant, because I was far too young to know what sex was.

I wasn't completely naive. I realized, quite quickly that being with girls, while being a girl, was very wrong and that I shouldn't be having those feelings. So I prayed that you would make me a man. I asked you to make me a man, because then I could be with a woman and you wouldn't hate me. I could speak in Church, be a pastor, do anything I wanted to; if I were a man. I developed the worst kind of penis envy.

As I got a little older, I realized that becoming a man would actually make you hate me as well, because I would be changing the person you had made. The person you created would be altered and, in reality, I would still be a woman sleeping with a woman. And then there was the pesky problem of my attraction to men as well.

If you created me, then am I not perfect as I am?

The other reason I can't trust you, God, is because of ___. You allowed him into our lives. You allowed him to abuse us. You allowed him to break us. You allowed that. You didn't have to. You didn't have to stand by and just watch. You could've saved us, because you are all powerful, are you not?

Instead, we were beaten, starved, abused, etc. for fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS, God. Are you listening? FIFTEEN. Not two or three. FIFTEEN. My mother believed you wanted us to be there. That you brought him to us. That you are good and know everything. You had a reason, a purpose.

What kind of purpose did you have?

What possible purpose could you have, allowing a tyrant to belittle, berate, beat and abuse two small children? What reason is there for that?

What greater purpose was served while my brother screamed for mercy? While he cried out to YOU? What greater purpose was served there, God?

You allowed men into our lives. Men who claimed to be of you. You allowed them to play puppeteer with the tyrant you had already given us. You allowed cruelties that still give me nightmares.

___ used to say that you were a gentleman. That you allowed everything to happen because it had to happen to make us who we are. He would say that while he made excuses for his abuses. He was abused, so he didn't know any better. His sexuality was damaged by his parents, so it was okay to damage mine and my brother's. He was damaged, so that gave him the right to continue the damage. He made excuses for everything, even for you.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm an atheist because I am angry. Because I have lost all the belief I ever had in you.

Can you blame me?

Mon frère

Mon frère,
I am sorry. I am sorry that I didn't protect you from ___. I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you from _______ or ___. I am sorry that I let my own fears prevent me from being strong when you needed strength the most. I am sorry I didn't rescue you and that because of my weakness you were so damaged by someone who should've protected us.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that saying it over and over isn't enough and that it won't undo all the damage that has been done.

I feel so guilty. I hear you screaming in my nightmares. I hear you crying out to God for mercy, even though I cover my ears and I run as far as I can. I can still hear it. I hear it all the time. How could anyone not understand your lack of faith in a God so cruel that he allowed such abuses to continue? That men who claimed to be from him would prescribe such cruelty?

I see your poor little burnt fingers. I see your tears and your anguish, staring at a plate of vegetables from last week. I hear your stomach growling because you've not eaten in two days. You eye the cabinets and the refrigerator, all padlocked to prevent you from eating until you've eaten those withered vegetables. How could anyone not understand your revulsion? How could anyone question?

Even when I stuck up for you, even when I tried to protect you, I failed. I failed miserably. He still tortured you. He still hurt you and I still hear you screaming when I close my eyes.

How could we believe in a God that would allow such horrors? How could we trust ever again, when the person we had trusted the most abused us?

I am sorry that ___ believed he had to be the dominant one, the alpha male. I'm sorry that I was incapable of protecting you, when I should've fought with tooth and nail. I remember being so scared for you and so scared that I, too, would be punished so severely. That I would be starved. Weren't we all starved anyway? Starved of love as well as food. I was too scared. I was a coward.

I'm still a coward. I can't stand up to him. Even now I can't protect any of us from him. I'm so sorry, mon frère. I'm sorry that saying "I'm sorry" is never going to be enough to undo the damage, to stop the hurt and the nightmares. I'm sorry that I've never been strong enough to protect you.

Pomegranate

To my dearest Pom Pomme Pomegranate,

This is an exciting, and terrifying, time in your life. You have finally found a man you really and truly love. You are embarking on a grand journey, an adventure, because it is time. Your time, not anyone else's. It is time to rise up to the challenges that are waiting (ooo, that sounded like a fortune cookie fortune, maybe I should send that in?).

Seriously though, even if you are a Gumiho and you have already given your precious bead away, I will always love you. However, I'm not a rich person so I can't afford to buy all that beef.

I want you to know that I am always here for you, no matter what happens. No matter what you do. Even if you aren't my real daughter, you are my kid. You always have been (even when we were legally separated) and you always will be (however, I get to keep Lee Jun Ki in the event of a divorce).

No matter what anyone says, honey, you are an AMAZING and WONDERFUL and BEAUTIFUL human being. You are childish at times, but you are mature in a lot of ways. Even if I get frustrated with something you do, I want you to know that I will always love you.

You can do anything you want! (Okay somethings you can't do, but damn it you can sure as hell try!) Who cares if you are a size 0? Who cares if you sometimes trip over your English (which is fucking adorable, by the way)? You are amazing because of what is inside you! And who cares for just the exterior? You can wrap shit in a bow and make it look pretty, doesn't make it pretty. Luckily, you are gorgeous, inside and out.

I'll stop, I know you are going to start crying in a minute. But my God, you are such a great kid. I am the luckiest Umma ever. Really! I can't imagine my life without you in it. You make me smile, even if I am feeling down. And I'm glad I've been able to do that for you too!

Fighting, ai!

lovers,
Umma

To my non-existent daughter.

My darling,
I am writing this so that one day, in-between the pages of a favorite book, you will read it and know just how much I love you.

As of yet, you have not been created. That isn't to say that you won't, one day, come into existence, but for now you are a sparkle in my imagination.

Sometimes I imagine what you will look like. Will you have my curly hair? Will you have my father's chin and flat feet? Will you look like your father?

The majority of the time, however, I wonder how I would raise you. Would I do a good job? Would I be a good enough mother to you? Would you grow up believing the things I always wanted to believe?

If I were lucky enough to have a daughter, I would tell you that you are beautiful, every day. Well, I'd at least try to tell you that you were beautiful every day. I know what it was like to want to hear that you were beautiful and the feelings when the words never came. Most of all, I want to tell you that you are beautiful because I want you to believe it. I want you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are one of the most beautiful people ever born and no one can make you feel less than that.

I would read to you. I would want you to read and write and explore the world around you. I would want you to believe in Re-incarnation and the mythological gods. I would want you to believe that every story has a happy ending, even though it sometimes doesn't. I will teach you that life isn't always kind, that it will often be crueler than you can even imagine, but I still want you to believe that it is worth the living. I want you to believe that there is a happy ending waiting for you.

I would teach you that men can be liars, cruel and heartless. I would teach you that women can be conniving, heartless and backstabbing. I would teach you that men can be gentle, kind and caring. I would teach you that women can be confidantes, loving and supportive. There are two sides to every coin, sweetheart, there is good and bad in everyone.

I would want your father to be a part of your life, as mine wasn't in mine. I wouldn't want you to have the same insecurities about yourself that I had because I believed my father had abandoned me. I would want a good relationship with him, even if we weren't together, so that you would grow up knowing what a real relationship looks like.

I would teach you that even though your virginity is precious, that you are not a failure if it is given to the wrong person. I never want you to regret. Though you will do things in life that you'll wish you hadn't. That includes sexually. I want you to be able to talk to me about your sex life. Your concerns, your fears, your desires. I want you to be uninhibited. I want you to be whomever you will be.

I want you to love more than you hate. I want you to strongly dislike, never hate. I want you to make friends and travel and wish on stars. I want you to be brilliant, I know you will be. You are perfect. You will always be perfect, even if you fail. Even if you feel that your shine has been dimmed. You will always be the most amazing person to me.

I would expose you to all different types of music. I want you to be well-rounded. I want you to be eclectic like I am. I want you to find the beauty in everything, even when no one else can.

I have such high hopes and dreams for you, dear one. But I don't want you to live them out for my sake. I may have dreams for you, but I want you to have dreams of your own. If you don't want to be a doctor or an astronaut, I will support you, no matter what.

I want you to feel comfortable in your body. I want you to do whatever you want to your hair. I want you to pierce your nose and your ears and I want you to talk to me about tattoos. I want you to love someone as much I love you, as much as I love your father.

I want you to be politically active, never just accept something because someone says so. I want you to fight with me on things. I want you to argue your points. I want to be friends with you, while at the same time still being your mother.

I want you to grow up believing that you are beautiful and intelligent. And you don't need a relationship to make you happy. You don't have to have the latest everything to make you smile. I want you to be content with sunsets and the smell of hyacinths and the way the ocean looks after it rains. I want you to be perfectly imperfect and imperfectly perfect. I want you to be YOU.

I love you darling. I love you so much and I hope that one day, I am able to share these dreams with you and that you find this tucked away in your favorite book.

love,
Mommy.

A Liar, by any other name.

Dear ___,
Its fitting that you changed your name to Jacob.

Especially since it means "liar." You've spent your whole life telling lies, being hypocritical, two faced, etc. Its fitting that Jacob lied and stole from his own family. You lied about your love. You stole my youth, stole my everything.

You had Leah, a perfectly good wife, and you still kept lusting after a Rachel. Oh you were faithful, faithful in that you didn't have sex with another woman. But you were never faithful in your heart.

You believed you would be the father of nations, a king to rule. And then my mother turned out to be a Rachel in a baby sense. Unable to carry five children to term. And you stood in that pulpit, crying, mourning as if you were the only one affected by the loss. You act as if you are the only one who has ever been abused or hurt.

You talk about how your mother and father harmed your psyche (a word I'm sure you don't know how to spell or even pronounce), your "manhood," your sexuality.

What about my womanhood? My sexuality? Or _____'s manhood and sexuality? What about ______? Did it ever occur to you that you have damaged us in more ways than your parents ever damaged you?

You make excuses, hide behind your terrible childhood, adolescence.
"I was abused." You abused us.
"I was damaged." You damaged us.

Why don't you be a fucking man and own up to your mistakes? Why don't you stop whining and boo hooing?

"Oh, poor Jacob." Oh, poor you! Stop hiding behind your pathetic excuses and be a real man.

If I were a man, I would fight you. I would say all of these things to your face, because you are a coward. You will bow out. A man so deep in the closet because he hates what he doesn't understand. I wish I could make you see.

I wish I could shove your nose in all the shit you forced on us. All the pain, the heartache, the heartbreak. I wish I could force you to look at yourself and see.

Wishes are useless, however.

In the end I am left marveling at the irony of your choice in name. "Jacob hath I loved," said God. So you imagine yourself beloved by heaven. Jacob is a liar and a thief. How fitting that a "jealous" and "angry" God would love a liar like you.

Impossible

Dear ___,
You have made it terribly difficult to trust. You have made it impossible to not question, not fear, not loathe. You brought this side of me to life.

Did you hate me the entire time? Or is it just now? I can't believe anything you say. You are a liar. A pathological pervert.

Did you touch me? Did you do something to me? Those nights, when I woke up and discovered that my night-shirt had been unbuttoned and pushed to the sides, was that you?

What is this hatred that you have kindled inside of me? What am I?

I am so sick of myself. So sick of men. So sick of YOU. I can think of innumerable things I'd rather do than see you again. I can imagine numerous horrors I'd rather face than you. And you have always had the audacity to try and force your way back into my heart.

You are a worm. Lower than a worm. You disgust me. You frighten me. You make me sick. You force me to look back on our lives and see the torture marks. The scars you have left still bleed periodically. Even if you pretend they don't exist. Its almost funny, you denying all the pain you caused. Its almost humorous. Almost.

I think of our days together. I think of those times. You are a poison and I'm pushing my veins full of anti-venom. I'm trying to flush you out of my system and I can't do it. I can't rid my heart of your taproot. It is stupid that you can still make me feel like this still.

You made flying an impossibility. You dragged me out of the sky and staked me to the ground. You banished me to the darkness, left me to wither without the sun. You made love a risk. You made living a hazard. You sank all the dreams, tied me down with weights so that I would drown.

You clipped my wings so that I'd have no desire to leave the earth. Does it bother you that they have grown back?

To my unborn daughter/son

Note: I am not pregnant, nor do I foresee myself being pregnant in the near or distant future, but if I ever had children this what I would say to them.

To my dear daughter/son,
The world is an odd place, dear one. It will infuriate you, dazzle you, sadden you and hurt you. It will be cruel, conniving and flippant. And it will be beautiful, sweet and constant. You've been born into a world of contrasts dear one. It is a world of contradictions. Life is a contradiction. But it is worth it. Even if it is painful.

I want you to have the same passion for life that I do. I want you to embrace the world and all its contradictions. I want you to be willing to learn, willing to make mistakes and fall down. I want you to have a thirst for knowledge, a desire to learn, a hunger for anything new and different.

I want you to be respectful of other people's differences. I want you to experience all there is so that you can best decide who you want to be. I want you to be whatever you want to be! I want you to experiment and not be afraid to explore. I want you to kiss the lips of gods on pedestals, I want you to soar.

Most of all, my love, I want you to know how much your mother loves you. I love you more than life itself. More than all the stars in the sky. And I want to teach you how to say I love you and mean it, not just because someone else says it to you. I want you to speak elegantly, plainly, respectfully. I want you to mean what you say and say what you mean, no matter what anyone else says those are two different things.

I want you to know that you will never be merely pretty or merely handsome. You will be intelligent, you will be amazing, you will be creative, you will be passionate. You will be beautiful, inside and out no matter what anyone says. And I'm not just saying that because I am your mother.

I want you to be comfortable in your own skin. You only get one body in this lifetime. Be kind to it. Don't abuse it like I did. Love it, cherish it, make it something you are proud of. Be proud of yourself! Love who you are! Cut your hair, don't shave your legs, get tattoos or pierce your nose. Its YOUR body! Be comfortable in it. Embrace who you are and don't let anyone else say you aren't beautiful.

When the time comes, I want you to be comfortable enough to come to me before you give your body to someone else. I promise not to judge you. I promise to tell you the truth. I promise to not spare your feelings if I feel you are making a poor decision. And I promise to do it with love. I promise to always love you, no matter who you give yourself to. I promise to accept whoever you are. I promise to stand behind you when you truly believe in something and even when you don't.

Most of all, dear one, I promise to be here for you, no matter what. Because I love you and I will always love you. No matter what you do or where you go. I will adore, cherish and love you. More than love you, though there is no word to describe it.

Love,
Your mother, Sarai. 

Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,
Over the years, I have thought of many things I would like to say to you. Some of them kind and full of love, some of hurt and some of anger. There are so many things that I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I'll start somewhere and go from there.

It hurt my feelings when you told me that I needed to give up my "whimsical attraction to other women." It isn't whimsy, Mom. I am genuinely attracted to other women in a sexual manner. I can't change who I am, and I'm not sure I would want to. I suppose in my mind I thought it would be easy for you to accept me. Uncle Dick, Aunt Janice, Aunt Becky and Uncle Kevin are all homosexual. The statistic in our family is 1 in 3 is homosexual. Somehow I thought that would make you more accepting of my own sexual proclivities. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that just because we have that statistic that you would be accepting. After all, your grandmothers never came to terms with it either.

It hurts that you are gone so much lately. I feel like I never really get to see you or talk to you. And I feel like when we do hang out you are mad at me. I feel sometimes like you just use me to take care of Chris when you aren't there and that is both annoying and angering.

I'm mad that you stayed married to W. as long as you did. I suppose it's time to admit that. I know you kept clinging to the belief that God gave him to you and I know you keep saying I need to stop being mad at God for it. But if God gave W. to us and God is omnipotent, then God is cruel. He knew what W. was going to do long before he did it. He knew that he was going to starve Chris and beat us. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of you. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of me. He knew W. was going to try to turn Hannah against us. And that he would mostly succeed. But you stayed. And I know you loved him, I know you thought it was somehow God's plan.

I'm not angry that you couldn't defend us anymore. It wouldn't have mattered. W. was going to do what he would, regardless of your intervention. He would have just shamed us into not telling you anyway.

There were good times, though Mom. I do remember some of the good points. Like learning to play chess and trips to the Children's Museum. Learning about Sacajawea and Corrie Ten Boom and heroes of the Bible. There were fishing trips and moments where I felt really close to you. I feel closer to you now than I did then.

I was afraid to be close to you. I was afraid you would die, especially after your massive miscarriage. I was afraid that if I cared more than I already did you would die and I'd be all alone. Sometimes I still feel that way. I'm afraid to love you because I know it will hurt more than anything when you are gone. And we all go at some point or another. I couldn't stand to see you deteriorate the way Grandma Bobbi did. I just couldn't.

I still feel lingering guilt from some of the thoughts I had when I was younger. Thoughts that if you, Chris and Hannah all died that you would all be better off because things were so terrible for a while there. I felt like a terrible daughter and sister because I wanted you to be gone so that you wouldn't suffer. But at the same time I couldn't imagine losing you. And I was afraid to lose you. I'm still afraid to lose you.

You're my best friend, Mom. In spite of hurt feelings and anger and fear. In spite of all that, I can't imagine what it would be like to not have you. And I can't imagine not talking to you on the phone for silly reasons or going to O'Charley's all the time. Or sharing some of my random music with you.

I suppose all of this has just been supposition to say, I love you Mom. More than any other human being on this earth. More than I could ever fully express. And even though you have hurt my feelings and pissed me off, I wouldn't be the person I am today without you. And, most of the time, I'm pretty happy with the person I am. Bisexuality, hatred for God and religion, lack of forgiveness for W., currently divergent political views and all.

love,
Sarai

Dear God,

Dear God (specifically the God of the Christians),
As my darling girlfriend has said, you are one of the most genuinely unpleasant characters in all of written fiction. You're followers are some of the most hypocritical and some of the most foul individuals I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Not to mention the ones who are just plain batshit insane.

People murder in your name, you know. They use you as a convenient excuse for all their petty bullshit. They hide their actions behind your book. It's a funny thing really, because more than half of them have never read the thing all the way through.

I used to believe in you, you know. I wanted to be a minister. I used to take my bible out and I would preach to the trees. However, a woman shall not have dominion over man. I still have more of your word memorized than I would like (i.e. Matthew 4:4). At least it comes in handy when I'm pointing out the hypocrisy of your followers.

I used to be afraid of going to Hell. And I felt such massive guilt for my attraction to women and my burgeoning sexual affinities. Yes, Lord, I have sinned and fallen far short of the glory of you. That used to bother me. Though, to be brutally honest, I tried to be bothered by it more than I actually was. I haven't been "on fire" for you in a long time.

Mom says I need to forgive you and start talking to you again. She says you are good. I don't believe it. I don't believe in you at all any more.

Previously to this moment I used to believe that you existed in some fashion or other. Recent events however have made think otherwise. Though there are still good things that happen, making me wonder if you are behind it trying to lure me back. Like Obama winning the election. That made me wonder if you weren't real after all. Because I cried out louder than I ever have that he would win. To anything out there. Of course, if that is true, mayhaps it was Krishna or Ra answering my prayers.

Mom says I need to talk to you. She encouraged my desire to be Muslim because she believes you and Allah are the same being. Which I also agree with, for the most part. She tells me that I need to pour my heart out to you. I tell her that I don't believe in you. She refuses to believe in my disbelief. I suppose she has a right to that.

I have never felt more like an atheist than I do now. And I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing. But I am dried up. I have felt this before. I know believing in you won't make a difference. It is just the way of things. I hate you, but I want to believe in you. Why is that?

Why do I care?

Because the little girl I was survived Hell and wants to believe it was for a reason. I want to believe I have come this far for a purpose and not because you enjoyed toying with me or because you didn't exist at all. I want to believe it was all for a better world. When in reality, I think it was because the world is sick. And I wish I could be like the girl in my favorite series and destroy the swollen and rotting portions of this world, save it from itself. I can't. I can't save the world. And you have left me with this gaping hole where my heart should be.

I tried to give it to you. It wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough. I tried to be perfect. I couldn't shake the desire to be a man. The longing to be with a woman sexually. I couldn't deny those feelings and I couldn't deny the love I had for things that were not of "you." Maybe I have been led astray. Maybe I have been wrong. But I tried. I tried, God. I tried to be a good and faithful servant. And I give up. I'm tired of fighting who I am because I am scared of some being that may or may not exist.

If you can't love me for who I am, for who YOU created me to be, how will I ever survive?