April 30, 2017
Jeff,
I don’t like to ask you questions. Because I’m afraid you won’t respond. Because sometimes you don’t respond. But I just wish I knew if you even cared about me. You must. You read my emails. I don’t think you do it entirely for your own sexual gratification. Because you can rent a movie and get that. I must bring something unique and interesting to the topic. So, I imagine, and maybe I’m just imagining, I imagine you look forward to seeing my emails in your email box. I certainly don’t think you dread them.
Anyway, the truth is, the bottom line is, I send them for me more than I send them for you. I send them because I don’t have anyone else to share with. And I like to pretend you understand and empathize. But maybe it’s just like mailing a letter to Santa Claus. Maybe it’s just a futile meaningless gesture. Something I do that’s never going to bring me any satisfaction, happiness, or benefit. Let alone return.
It’s really hard to imagine you being young and in love and getting married and having all that wonderful life stretched out ahead of you. To know you now, you’re so sad and you love your family so much, but you are resigned to never be happy again, that it's a foregone conclusion
I think it’s the same way I feel about my mental illness. It will never go away, it has always been with me, it is my constant companion. I have let go of the idea I will ever have the great fortune to not spend a large of time thinking about how I can act so nobody knows I’m crazy. And when I’m not so good at that, thankfully, people just see me as having a quirky personality.
And I think about, fuck, I just think too much. I have to go to sleep good night.
I love you, I think.
Coco
Photo by petr sidorov on Unsplash