To everyone who’s ever hurt me;

Thank you for the scars. Thank you for the blood and pain and tears and screams you allowed me to release. Thank you for the low self-worth and reminders that self esteem is just for delusional idiots anyway. I really didn’t need that heart anyway. I mean, what would I do with it? Give it away? Better that it’s torn to pieces and destroyed. And confidence? Hah! Waste of effort. We’re all worms’ meat in the end, aren’t we? Isn’t that what the Bard said?

It really touches me that you were so considerate as to make sure I could never truly trust another person. That was one of those “if I can’t have you, no one can” things, wasn’t it? Or was it more of a “no one wants my trash once I’ve used it up”? I guess it doesn’t really matter, the result is the same. Thanks for destroying my ability to trust.

And thank god you got to me before I’d decided to have any silly dreams or hopes for my future. Now I can never be disappointed because I know nothing good will ever happen. I don’t hope for the best and then sob because reality kicked in, not me, I’m cynical and pessimistic (though that’s a good part disease, too) and I know better than that.  I don’t deceive with belief. I don’t seek greener grass next door. In fact, you’ve taught me that it’s far more realistic that there’s no grass at all over there.

Your most considerate actions (of course) were your betraying, abandoning, lying to, and breaking promises to me. Each of you was a person I had every reason to trust, a person I’d expected to have in my life until I died. Well, I suppose a few of you did kill me emotionally on your way out, so you kept THAT promise, at least. The rest of you? Need to work harder on your emotional wounding skills. I mean, that last one? A mild emotional gutting at best. You were doing a lot better with the emotional abuse and using me. And you, you! Physical scars don’t last anywhere close to as long as emotional ones, surely you know that? Do I need to lend you some of my books on mental health?

I’m sorry that I made you hurt me, but couldn’t you have done a better job of it? I’m healing again, I mean, what’s with that? Even those mental wounds I thought were too badly infected to ever heal are starting to close up. How did this happen? It’s just not right. One of you needs to come back and finish the job. I’m still alive and fighting. I’m bleeding and missing a few pieces, but I can stand – much straighter without your “support”.

your former friend lover victim s,

nutmeg

p.s. Yes, I do still love you. Sorry for that, too.