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

To the Edward Cullen in my life.

Dear Stephen,

Sometimes when I think about you I feel a bubble of the attraction and affection I had for you. Other times I wish I had succeeded in killing myself so that I wouldn't have to think about you anymore. That may seem very drastic, partially because it is. I should've never gone with you. I knew it was wrong from the beginning. I knew it wouldn't last.

I wanted to want you. I wanted you to want me. It was stupid and ridiculously impetuous of me.

Eight years my senior, a convicted child molester, on probation for said child molestation, divorced, need I go on? You were all kinds of wrong; for me and in general. You made me crazy though, crazy aroused and crazy "in love." I drew blood while we were broken up, because I couldn't take the explosion of feelings bursting out of me.

I listened to those dark lyrics in those Kelly Clarkson songs because they fit "us."

Can you believe it has been  seven years? Can you believe that I was willing to marry you?

Shall we start from the beginning of our "relationship?" Shall we discuss all the signs and warnings that I ignored?

Meeting you was the highlight of my month. I was on the verge of seventeen and so ready to fall in love. In truth, I had already fallen "in love" so many times I wasn't even sure what it meant anymore ("I'm hesitant to say I'm in love... How many times have I said that about other guys?" Journal entry May 30th, 2005). Here you are probably saying "We hadn't even met in May." Which is true, but you see my point. I was thinking that line of thought long before you and I met. Also, I have "conveniently" misplaced the journal that holds all my entries about you. Actually it is rather inconvenient, because I wish I could tell you all that I was thinking, better than I can right now. I'm rambling now.

I met you and you seemed so smart and practically perfect in every way. I adored your grandmother and your uncle. It seemed only natural that I adore you too. And you seemed so interested in me. You seemed to genuinely like me. Not just because of my overtly large bosoms or naivete. We talked and you said you could give me an orgasm from a foot massage (or was that later?).

I remember telling you that I didn't want to leave (church that is) because I had to go and see my grandparents and my grandmother hated me. I told you I was afraid she was going to say something cruel about my weight (which she usually did). I gave you an emotional opening. After I let you in that far, it was easy to let you in ever farther.

It wasn't even love, Stephen. I ran into your arms because I was missing someone else desperately. I was missing a guy friend that I could never admit to liking, even though I adored him. He was the reason I wrote that journal entry about love. You were my rebound in almost every sense of the phrase. It was infatuation and the desire to be in a relationship with someone I knew I shouldn't be.

You stalked me. You belittled me. You whistled for me, as though I were a dog, in front of my mother. You touched me inappropriately. And, worst of all, I let you. I let you touch me in places I knew I shouldn't be touched. I let you do things I shouldn't have. I let you get me tangled up in so many messes I thought I'd never escape.

I was addicted. I was addicted to your kiss, even though it tasted like cigarettes. I was addicted to your touch, even though it made me sick to my stomach. I was addicted to the attention you gave me. Or didn't give me, depending on your mood. I was addicted to the drama it caused when I was with you. Because everyone said it was a bad idea.

Did you know that the pastor's wife actually took me out to "discuss" you? She bought me lunch, took me on a drive and explained to me that you weren't the best idea for a boyfriend. She tried to be gentle and kind. It only made me rebel. It only made me want you more. Everything anyone said about you, I ignored. I pretended not to hear or, worse, defended you.

You made subtle threats and some not so subtle actions. Getting mixed up in the gang was the worst. I still freak out if a car is behind me for more than a block. I'm so glad we don't live where we used to. Having just gotten home from school and fixing an afternoon snack, seeing a random car at the end of the driveway, the windows tinted. Just sitting. They never came down the drive. Just sat there, watching the house. Always when you knew I'd be home alone. That was the worst part. The feeling of being unsafe and not being able to tell anyone because I was afraid of you.

Too much to contain in one letter to you, Stephen, so I suppose this is all for now.

I hope I never see you again.
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?

Dear A,

Dear A,
I'm afraid to send you my stories.
I'm worried that you won't like me once you actually read all that is inside my head. And I know I shouldn't put that much stock in other people's opinions of my work, of me, but I do. So if I seem shy about sending you things that is why.
I felt like a little honesty. A little randomness because you have no clue where this is coming from, but I can't help it because it is something that has been pestering me since I sent you my other story "The Ring of Roses" back in February.
I don't know why I sent you my blog. It has so much more truth than I feel comfortable with you reading, but I wasn't thinking. I did it. And it has been bothering me because I care about you and I don't want you to read my stuff because I want you to still care about me.
I'm afraid you will find me a monster and run from me. Run because I have so much darkness swirling about in my head.
I'm afraid that you will realize my feelings for you, feelings that neither of us can follow because I am married (and I love him, I do) and you are so far away, not just in physical distance. You are so much smarter and wonderful. Too wonderful. And I have self-esteem issues. Issues that have become debilitating because I keep pushing myself out there. Pushing because I want to live beyond myself and because that is something you admire about me. I'm not used to being admired. I'm not used to the attention you have given me before. And it scares me, but I want it. I want you to like me. I want you to admire me. I want you to love me.
Damn it. I want more from you than I have any right to, but I need it too. And when you tease me and say "come visit" you have no idea how I soar on that, how much it makes my world brighten and then darken.

A Birthday Letter

To my darling dearest baby sister whom I love and adore,
Tomorrow, at 1 in the afternoon you will be officially 17.
17 years ago you came into this world, the baby sister I always wanted. The one who kicked the palm of my hand whilst still in utero. The one who I would always find hiding inside the bottom cabinet with her baby dolls and her Shirley Temple curls.
And, 17 years later, you are still the little sister I absolutely love.
I can't believe you, my baby, are turning 17. It is both sweet and bitter. I miss you. I miss you being small enough for me to carry around and swing up above my head so that you could touch the sky. I miss you being with me all the time, even when you would annoy me. I miss talking to you about randomness. I even miss our petty disagreements.
I remember when you first started walking. I used to taste your baby food before I would feed it to you, because I wanted you to have the best. I used to change your diapers and give you baths. I used to read you books and chase you across the yard. And I know we can't do any of that anymore, you being 17 now, I still miss those days.
I am excited to see the young woman you are growing up to be. The one who isn't afraid to speak her mind, even though sometimes she should think first (it's a love!). The one who is a good friend. The one who is so beautiful. The one who is well read and has interesting musical tastes. I can't wait for you to enjoy your 17th year of life and I hope it is one of the best ever.
I love you darling.
Happy Birthday.
love, Me.