Moved on?

I knew this would be hard, we both did. But I didn't think it would be this hard, because I didn't think you would ever stop trying.

And no, you haven't stopped trying. But it feels like you're trying less an less every day.

I absolutely love that you are having such a wonderful experience in college. And I love that you have such a good network of friends.

But what I don't love is that I can never talk on the phone with you, or skype, or FaceTime. I understand when you have homework, but I wish you would put aside some time for me ahead of time. And I wish you would step away from your friends for ten minutes to check up on me and hear my voice. 

I try really, really hard. I want you to know that you never leave my mind. I post pictures of you on Instagram all the time, I write about you in my blog, I send you random thoughts over Facebook, I wrote and sent you a letter... Plus, in case that wasn't enough, I made sure you had a journal of all our memories together, filled with pages telling you how much I love you that you could read everyday. I try so, so hard.

I don't think you're doing this on purpose. I don't think you are trying to not talk to me. I don't think you love me or miss me any less. I do think that you've stopped trying as hard to stay in contact without realizing it. 

You've gone on to a new life. You're done with this city, with this school, with this life. You've moved on to a new stage in your life.

The problem is, I haven't. I'm still in this city, I still go to this school, and I still live this life. And I can't help feeling a little left behind and abandoned.

I want to tell you ever detail of my every day, and I want you to tell me every detail of your every day. I want to come home and call you on skype immediately, even if we both have homework to do, even if we both just do what we have to do and not say a word, just so I could see your face. I want to fall asleep on the phone with you every night. I want to know you're thinking about me the way I think about you, I want you to remind me of that in little random ways. 

You've moved on from this life, and it's starting to feel like you've moved on from me, too.

-Beaskie

Believe Me

Last night was terrifying. It wasn't the worst night of my life, but it was up there.
Nothing will ever come close to the worst night of my life.
But last night was terrifying. I can't remember the last time I felt that alone. The girl is back, and she won't leave. And you aren't here to make her leave or even try to talk her out of staying so she's back for good.

I knew this would happen. I knew she would come back.
When you were here, I needed you every second of every day of every week of every month. And you were there instantly and then I was okay. Somehow you put up with me needing you like that, somehow you put up with my "issues". Maybe you just kept telling yourself it would get better, that one day I'd be okay and you wouldn't have to put up with it anymore. Maybe you kept telling yourself that you were leaving soon, so no matter what--whether I was better or not--you wouldn't be here to put up with it, you could love me from afar and take the good parts and not the bad.
I don't blame you, I would want that too.

But here's the thing, I'm not better. In fact, I feel worse than I did before. I didn't believe it was possible, but I do. So now I need you more. I need you more than every second of every day of every week of every year. But you are 1016.3 miles away and I can't have you like that.

I wrote you a journal. And in that journal I wrote down every single good time we had over the summer. My hope was that it would remind you why you put up with me when I was like this. My hope was that it would give you some motivation to not give up. My hope was that even if I couldn't give you good times, I could give you the memories of them.
It's almost like a will--the journal. The good me wrote it as a will, because I knew that once the summer ended and you had to leave the good me would die and the bad me would inhabit my body. It's the good me's will, because the good me is dead now.

I tell you I'm scared and I can't loose you and that I'm sorry more than I should. And I don't know how much of it you believe.

But you should believe me when I tell you I want to kill myself.

Talking yourself down from killing yourself, it isn't easy. It isn't possible, in fact. You need someone else to do it, someone who cares about you. I needed you to do it, because sometimes I feel like I'm losing you when the bad me is here. Sometimes I feel like you just don't want to deal with the bad me. And when she's here, when she's me, when I'm her, I don't know how much of it you believe.
But you should have believed me last night.
I still want to kill myself, Flyer. More than ever before and the only way I'm stopping myself from doing that is telling myself that I can't get up from my bed. If I don't get up, I can't get to the knife I so desperately want and I can't use it to slit my wrists and my throat and anything else that will bleed.

There's no end to this. This is who I am. A big part of me wants to let you go, because I know that all I'm doing is holding you back. I knew I would. Because if you did everything I want you to, it would be holding you back. I want you to call me when I feel this way, but you can't because you have your own life. And I want you to be here to stop my hands from strangling myself, but you can't because you're gone. And I want the next 55 days to disappear so I can skip right to the part where I'm with you again and can feel happy again, but you can't because nobody can.

Please, take this seriously, and believe me. You can't see the pain I'm in so it isn't real to you, but listen to me, and believe me. This pain isn't going away. This is who I am now. Do you really want this? Do you really want me? Do you really want a dead body for a girlfriend who is 1016.3 miles away, constantly doubting everything and hating everything and trying to commit suicide? You're only 18, you have so much love. You can't possibly want to throw your life away on me. I don't deserve that. I want it, yes. But do I deserve it?

-Beaskie

Round and Round

It's a way of hurting myself. Not saying no.
I don't say no and it hurts. I hate myself because it hurts. So I want to hurt myself as punishment. So I don't say no because I know it will hurt and that's my punishment. But by not saying no it makes me hate myself again. So I want to hurt myself again. So I don't say no. And it never ends--the hating and the hurting.

I'm spinning at your expense.

Round and round and round it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows.
But I know--nowhere. It stops nowhere.
How could it? How can I?

How dare I...

How dare you...

No. It's not your fault, it's his.
No, it's not his fault, it's mine.

Well who's fault is it anyways? Does it even matter? It wouldn't stop the circle from going round and round and round. Nothing would. It stops nowhere, remember?
Someone put it in motion, spun the circle, gave it momentum. But it's been going for so long, who cares who spun it in the first place? The one thing I know is whoever it was, they can't stop it.
Maybe they're surprised at the force they put behind the push, maybe they're proud of how fast it's spinning.
Regardless, they can't stop it.
And even if they could, would they want to?

-Beaskie

She's Back

I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.

I told you last night. I'm the girl again. And you said I wasn't and it was just a phase and I would be ok because I got through it before but it isn't true.
I act like her. I talk like her. I feel like her. I am her. I am the girl again.

And before, when I was the girl, you would come and she would leave. You made her leave and you saved me.
But now you can't come and she won't leave. Now I don't know how to make her leave and I don't know how to save myself.

So now you're in love with the dead girl again.

I can't ask you to understand. I can't ask you to deal with it. I can't make you put up with this again.
It was hard enough last time. It'll be even harder now. Are you sure you want that?
You might think you want it now, but we have 67 more days of this. Do you really want to deal with 67 days of dead girl 1,601.3 miles away?

No. I can't ask this of you. And I'd get it, if you changed your mind. I would. Really. I wouldn't want to deal with 67 days of dead girl.

I can't promise I'll be nice. I can't promise I'll be good. I can't promise anything except more pain because I know it's coming.

How can I put you through that? You are out there, living your life, being happy. And I am here, calling with tears and doubt and fear, being depressing because I am depressed and making your happy life not so happy anymore.
People aren't supposed to do that to each other--make them less happy. I'm supposed to make you more happy. And I did, when I was happy. I think I did make you more happy. But now I'm not happy and I'm making you less happy and that's not okay.

You're in love with a dead girl again. What can I say? I didn't ask for this. And neither did you. I can't ask you to want this. I can't ask you to love this.

I just hope you still do.

-Beaskie