To the Me it Might Concern,
I’m addressing this letter to you because it has to be done, for the sake of my own sanity, our own sanity. To prove that we are real, that we existed in a universe where yesterday can’t really be proven to have happened. Memory is just a series of neurons firing in a very specific order recreating an image instead of just recalling something stored away impervious to time. Every time you recall something a detail is different until finally only the bare bones of what your actually experienced can be recalled – that you went to a concert and not exactly what happened there. Even the most profound moments that defined your life can be so easily lost. And so I’m writing this letter filled with an urgency and compulsion that I’m sure that you, I will understand, because that part of us that needs vindication is rearing its ugly head.
You’ll remember this day, the day when you made this decision and hopefully you’ll remember it as something good even if this marks the beginning of one of the darkest eras of your life. Do you remember what I did today?
It’s the day you got your hair cut, sucked it up and went to the Sports Clips off of Camp Wisdom as soon as it opened. On the way you realized that you’d irritated the ever loving crap out of your face and as you’re writing this now, as I’m writing this to you, you still haven’t gone to CVS and picked up something for it because this came first.
Mother’s gone to work but before she left you did something, do you remember?
Well the point of this is that you’re terrible at a handful of things and one of those is remembering. You asked if you could borrow her dumbbells and the first thing that she said was an accusation, as if she doesn’t have things everywhere and as if the dumbbells haven’t been around for a while. As if you haven’t had multiple opportunities to see them behind the love seat and when you tried to explain that the reason you know where they were there is because of your sister – well, you should have just given up and not said a damn thing to her.
Mother will never have anything positive to say to you, not for as long as you live. Very rarely has she said anything that was positive or encouraging in a way that wasn’t vague and “being the best little you that you can be” isn’t encouraging. Especially when it comes on the tail end of a lecture about how you’re not working up to your potential or that you’ve changed or whatever. She doesn’t know how to leave things alone and doesn’t care about how you feel and that’s okay because I have decided that I’m going to make her the enemy that she thinks that she has always been because I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
As you well know I’ve got all the self-depreciation and negative comments covered thank you very much.
But I’m writing this letter because I’m not going to listen to her. Maybe you will. Maybe you will one day trust her. Maybe one day she won’t ambush us with conversations we clearly don’t want to have. Maybe. But I don’t think so. So I’m going to do what I’m good at. I’m going to write. Let me know how well this goes.