Dear Bear,

Dear Bear,

I suspect you stop by here occasionally. I am not sure of it, but maybe. If not, I imagine you will one day. I would much prefer mutual communication, but I tried directness, and you were unresponsive to it, so for now, I am settling for keeping all topics emotional where you will only see them if you seek them.

If you are reading this, then the possibility of mutual communication remains, because reaching out while trying to remain unnoticed speaks both to a continued desire for connection and a simultaneous fear of it. To act in defiance of the fear suggests that the desire is stronger than the fear, and might, given time and encouragement, prove strong enough for you to choose to reach out directly. Or for you to seriously consider the possibility that you can heal, and commit to it, whether or not we communicate.

I have no desire to see you hurt, much less do you harm. In recent months, I have held back referencing any of the harm you’ve done, because of my concern for you, and my fear of hurting you in any way that might lead you to harm yourself. But I think that is a dysfunctional belief, that acknowledging when you do harm is the same as hurting you. I think withholding truths you might not want to hear harms us both.

I still care about you, more than I think you ever allowed yourself to believe. Or were able to believe. I know that not to love yourself is not to believe anyone else can or will love you. I know.

I love you all the same.


My belief in your better self persists, even as the evidence to the contrary was so overwhelming – and is. Maybe you imagine you did a better job with deception than you did, and that I am unaware of the worst, and you tell yourself that unawareness makes what I am saying meaningless. Whether or not I am aware of every harmful thing you have done, I am aware of plenty, and that does not alter that I love you. If there is more or worse, it will not alter that I love you. Whether I trust you is certainly affected, as is how I believe you feel. I haven’t forgotten the things you have taken. I am hurt that you are behaving the way you continue to do. I am also still worried about you, regardless of that. And I love you anyway.

I am aware my belief that there is a fundamentally decent human being at your core who is interested in overcoming all of the shit that causes you pain, and causes you to cause other people pain, without feeling true remorse and changing your behavior, might just be some dysfunctional defense against an ugly truth.

I can’t pretend my feelings have never led me wrong, that I have never been mistaken. But when a feeling is powerful and persists, I have to consider it might actually be based in something more than wishful thinking. If I am wrong, then distance and silence will remain between us; even if I am right, maybe that will still be so.

Whether or not there ever comes a time when we speak, whether or not we ever mutually wish to be in each other’s lives again, and even if I am wrong about your better self, I love you anyway.

One of my most overpowering desires is for that to matter to you, for that to reach you, for that – for something, anything – to get through to you, so that you believe in your own worth and the possibility of better things for yourself, both in how you feel and in your life beyond the boundaries of your interior, believe that it is possible to learn to act from positive emotions and in spite of fear, instead of from negative emotions, directed by fear. Hopefully strongly enough that you feel able to go through the process of getting there.

I am not claiming saintliness, I am only human, too. I have faults. I have limits. I cannot, could not, indefinitely hold on in the face of prolonged, relentless stresses and escalating destructive behaviors. And of course I want you to feel and express remorse for the harm you did, but whether or not you do, I still want you to be well. Which I don’t imagine happens while you armor yourself in the lie that my expressing positive feelings toward you means you did no harm, or that I am okay. You did, and I am not.

I know on some level, however deeply buried, you know the truth, because that has to be so for you to construct relevant (if not believable) lies. Which means the only way I can see that you are going to be able to change how you feel about yourself, to have your dominant emotion be something other than fear, to actually feel good, do good, be good (instead of waging a dishonest campaign to be seen as perfect with lies that never change the behaviors you are clearly ashamed of, or at least fearful of the consequences of their revelation), is to begin with honesty, follow honesty with action, take honest note of the apparent consequences of your actions, and repeat.

And though I don’t think you ever allowed yourself to believe it, in spite of all the evidence, I really do want you to feel good, do good, and be good, and not see those things as impossible, impossible for yourself, or unable to exist simultaneously. And yes, even if you never try to make right all the things you made wrong, I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want you to feel good about about causing harm, either, to yourself or to others, I don’t want you to feel indifferent to it. Because either would make it rather unlikely you would stop doing so, and I want better than that for you, and for the people around you. Unconditional love does not mean love that feels no pain, pretends not to feel pain, has to subject itself willingly to repeated harm, nor love that believes pain is inconsequential if it is caused by the loved one.

Be honest with yourself. Start there. Within the confines of your mind, where no one else ever has to know the words, own the truth. Own that you did things that caused harm. Own that you sometimes did things knowing you would cause harm. Own that you did things that caused harm, also sometimes knowingly, to cover doing other things that caused harm. Own that you continue to do harm. And not, as you would have it, for “self-protection.”

Try to be honest about how you characterize your motivations. You feel vulnerable, yes, and your feelings matter, but they are not all that matter; reality includes the space we share with every other living creature, and in that shared space, whether you feel vulnerable does not necessarily mean that you are. When you are the person with all the power and all the privilege, all the material and physical and social advantages, you are not vulnerable to someone who has none of those things. Your lies are not “protection” against an external threat. They are told to receive what you believe are the benefits of being perceived as your lies paint you, and/or to evade the consequences you believe being perceived based on the truth of your actions and their results might bring.

There is also the possibility that doing harm and getting away with it result in you feeling powerful. I wanted to believe this isn’t so, in spite of everything I have experienced with and because of you. I acknowledged it as a possibility, but I didn’t want to think it is true of you. Now I am more willing to admit that I believe this is at least part of the truth – one complicated by the fact that I believe you also, at times, maybe even simultaneously, feel yourself to be helpless. If it is so that doing harm, that not being held accountable for doing harm, are things that you experience as feeling powerful, I imagine beneath lies fear, and the harmful things you do that give you that feeling of power are maladaptive coping mechanisms for converting that emotion into or masking that emotion with one that feels more bearable.

Whatever your motivation, the cover-ups themselves are harmful. To you, and to others. Subjecting a person to true actions and dishonest words about those actions is gaslighting. Dishonest accounts shared beyond the scope of those present to experience harmful actions is an attempt to redirect the negative consequences of your actions from you onto those harmed, as well as being manipulative of those whose reactions you are trying to control. Being dishonest destroys any chance of intimacy, whether or not those you are dishonest with are ever aware of it – because you are aware of it, and live with the knowledge that others’ feelings about you are not based in truth, and the fear of the truth being revealed.

That is very likely to keep you feeling not just isolated, but afraid. We are social animals who need each other, particularly when we feel vulnerable; if you feel certain no one truly knows and thus no one truly cares for you, when you feel vulnerable, the certainty – however accurate or not – that there is no help to be had is likely to exacerbate the fear inherent in moments of vulnerability. And anyone who is trying to help you, anyone whose help you seek, will be doomed to almost certain failure when they lack honest information upon which to base their advice and assistance.

I think your fear is so overwhelming that you are unable to see your actions outside of that internal context. I think your fear is so overwhelming that you might not even be able to recall your actions as angry or threatening or abusive, that you might not, even in retrospect, be able to see your tendency to respond to expressions of emotional distress as if they pose a physical threat. Negative emotion, including sadness, whether your own or someone’s else’s, seems to be so inextricably linked in your nervous system with violence that it seems likely your mind simply does not draw a distinction between the two.

I think most likely, doing harm is, for you, a side effect of your inability to control extreme, reflexive fear. Including the fear that feeds your unwillingness to risk exposure, whether in a moment where you feel vulnerable in the presence someone else’s apparent unhappiness (because you associate it so strongly with a concomitant threat of physical violence); or in calmer times when help is available but you won’t avail yourself of its full potential, because your survival response is also triggered by even thinking about admitting out loud to behaving poorly or causing harm or having acted in defiance of what you yourself believe to be right, since you were so often hurt when you were young, including when you honestly expressed perfectly normal, healthy responses to the things you were experiencing.

“Being bad” would be my guess of how your unconscious labels all of the things you won’t allow yourself to admit, whether to yourself or to others, since these are fears rooted in an abusive childhood in which one of the cruelest abuses was convincing a tiny, beaten child that he could deserve to be hurt, and had the power to make another person hurt him and therefore, logically, had the power to stop that harm from happening.

And both things being, to his mind, true, if he got hurt – “in trouble” and “punished” –  it was his fault, not just because he “caused” it, but because he failed to do the secret thing to “make” it stop that he was apparently supposed to inherently know how to do without ever having been told, or failed to do a variety of impossibly contradictory things that he was told that he could do to stop the violence that never stopped, and was convinced he could have done but failed to do because he was “bad.”

In addition to being mentally, emotionally, and physically abused, you were taught that cruelty could be justifiable, and that you were to blame for every bad thing that happened to you and every bad thing that anyone else did. That not only were you getting hurt, but you “deserved” it,  so in addition to all the pain being inflicted you had (have) the additional pain of believing you were (are) not “allowed” to lay blame where it belongs, and blaming yourself for something you were powerless to stop; the pain of not being “allowed” to feel sad or angry at those hurting you, which of course you quite naturally and justifiably felt, but expressing those feelings was “punished,” so you suppress(ed) those feelings, which then, of course, bled (bleed) out in less-than-constructive ways, because what we bury in ourselves we carry with ourselves, and the emotion unexpressed tends to get amplified and distorted more the longer it is locked up instead of let out. And you felt (feel) badly about feeling badly, because you were taught that the bad things and bad feelings were all your fault, and you didn’t deserve to complain about them.

And of course your grasp of reality around emotion and suffering, and your ability to trust in yourself, and to value yourself, and to see yourself as a separate human being with limited power, and possessed of flaws, and worthy of kindness and respect, and never deserving of pain, and capable of loving and being loved, as all people are, were all thoroughly undermined as you were being hurt, being told it was your fault while also being told it wasn’t even happening, being told you were loved while your were being treated hatefully, being told those who had and cruelly misused power over you were powerless, and being told you were all-powerful while every single day was full of tangible evidence that you were helpless.

If you were not helpless, if you were capable of causing and stopping abuse, you would have stopped it. You didn’t want it, you didn’t cause it, and you certainly didn’t deserve it.

Is a life in which you seem to be constantly frightened, to feel hatred of yourself, in which you act out when you feel petulant or powerful or disconnected or despairing  or terrified enough to act without regard to the harm done to yourself or someone else, and then spend the rest of your time trying to construct and maintain a shield of fabrication, omission, and twisting of bits of truth, really what you want for yourself?

I don’t believe it is.

Is that, in part, at least, an accurate description of what life is like for you? Of course I can’t speak for you, not even where I am echoing things you have said, because I do not know when you were honest with me, but I do think that what I have written here is true, or part of the truth.

I don’t think that where you feel hurt or cause hurt are all that you are. I don’t mean to paint a caricature of you. I am just trying, still, to understand, and not just for my own peace of mind, though I am trying for that, too. I am trying to understand in case there is the slightest chance it might be of help to you. I am trying to understand in case there is some truth in my feelings that you might be a very different person at heart than the person who has his back turned to me. In case that heart might turn you around. In case there is a chance that out of the ashes there is a played-out phoenix metaphor I will actually have cause to use.

I certainly hope so. I have had too much of pointless suffering. Suffering that serves a purpose would be a welcome change. If real good came out of this for both of us, I would consider it well worth it. For now, I just feel like hell. Like that is where I am.

I think maybe you are wrestling with a belief born of abuse, that is mingled parts fear and desire – that it is possible for you to control everything, that somehow you control things when what you don’t want happens, or when you are in pain, without knowing how; and that when you most wish to have control – to be able to stop pain, or avoid it – you somehow fail to achieve it.

I know words can’t really begin to touch emotion posing as reason, and I know how powerful this particular knot of pain can be, but I stop here to ask us both to consider this: the notion of control includes awareness, agency, and certainty, not ignorance and helplessness and doubt. How can we “make” things happen without having any desire to or understanding of how we do? How can we be said to be in control when we have no ability to affect the outcomes we do want?

Even if you never do what you want, even if you follow every dictated or inferred “rule,” you cannot control every outcome. I suppose in part that is what fuels the harmful behavior – because I think your primary motivator is actually wanting not to feel or be hurt, and somewhere early on you got convinced that when those things happen it is your fault, that you can be to blame for what another person chooses to do, or for an act of nature, even. So no matter how much you try to discern or invent and abide by an ever-shifting list of “rules” which mirror the gaslighting bullshit some abusers subjected you to when you were small and caught in the inescapable trap of needing them to survive while having your life constantly endangered by them, you don’t always get what you want.

Sometimes people get upset with you, or don’t like what you do, sometimes you hear things that don’t flatter you, and you equate “displeasing” someone with them intending to do you serious physical harm. I think your central nervous system was twisted up so that any expression of negative emotion is tied to the experience of violence and the concomitant possibility of permanent injury or death –  which makes honesty difficult for you (because you showing negative emotion was one a countless false “wrongs” you were taught were the cause of the pain inflicted on you) and intimacy impossible.

And not just because you know that what exists between you rests on a dishonest foundation. When another person knows you may be telling the truth sometimes but are lying a lot, they have no chance of knowing when what you are saying is meaningful; while knowing that you lie is incredibly meaningful as a sign of disrespect, and when the lying is prolonged, a sign that you are indifferent to inflicting suffering, because as you well know, gaslighting is one of the most lastingly damaging forms of abuse.

And I think sometimes, when once again you come up against the reality that you cannot always get a positive response from people, when by your standards you have been “good” (whether by their standards you were is not something you are really capable of hearing, if your fight-or-flight is triggered when you witness criticism, anger, hurt, sadness…), and you feel helpless and out-of-control in the way that frightens you most, you “act out” by indulging a desire/deliberately acting to hurt someone else…or hurt yourself.

Probably part well-fuck-it-I-can’t-do-anything-right-so-I-might-as-well-do-something-wrong-if-I-am-going-to-get-hurt-anyway, part externalizing blame for your own unpleasant feelings and actions and exacting a kind of “payback” (you “made” me feel this way/act this way/I am “punishing” you/I hide what I really think or feel or want and you don’t see what I hide and that is your fault so I will do something to get your attention and “make” you see me), part a misguided belief that having been the victim of abuse you cannot be its perpetrator, part the unconscious assumption (that I think is the base belief of many who were/are subjected to the prolonged, inescapable kind of violence Judith Hermann categorizes as “captivity”) that someone else hurting you is inevitable, and it is better to cut short the agony of waiting for it to happen by trying to “make” it happen somehow.

I have already gone on at length here, as I imagine I might again. If you have read this and made it to the end, I hope somehow I have managed to get through to you. Because for everything that has happened, for all the time I spent trying and failing, I still wish that I could.

Please take care of yourself. And, if the time comes when you are ready to have an honest conversation, please get in touch.



p.s. I just want to add that no matter what has happened to you, no matter what you have done, you do not deserve to suffer. No person does. You deserve to be healthy and happy. I hope you are, and if you are not, that you will never give up on yourself, and keep trying until you are.


Dear Kath, (3)

Dear Kath,

I am in a kind of whiny mood. So I am going to vent that shit to start with.

I did go to sleep eventually, after I unwound with a little “Good Place,” but I kept having terrible dreams, and waking up. My sinuses still feel haunted, same as they have been for over a month, and now I am afraid whatever it is has spread to my lungs. I can’t stop worrying about everything I have to worry about. Tomorrow is a birthday that just makes me sad, because we are not speaking, and recent events have given me some painful perspective about that relationship, what is has been, what I wish it was, what it likely will and will not be. It is one of the places I feel stuck between hanging on to hoping for what I want, and acknowledging what seems to actually be as what is.

I don’t know if venting it feels better, but I guess at least a little. Beats ruminating. Although if you were here listening, I would feel free to get into more detail, and you would give me the feedback of someone who knows everyone involved and the whole history there. That is one of those areas where it is harder for me to imagine what you would say. Kind of. Maybe because there are some truths there I don’t want to hear. Which I probably need to hear, but there is no one other than you I would listen to on the subject.

And I was also thinking about these letters, and about a lot what I have written of late, and part of where I feel it sucks is that I am being vague, to some degree because I am not ready to share, some because I feel morally obliged not to take the miniscule chance that people who did me massive harm might read it one day and have their feelings hurt. Even the extreme vagueness above, I worry might cause hurt. To someone who hurt me a great deal and seems unbothered about it. But I hate causing pain. And I don’t want to be a massive hypocrite, and pretend what someone else does justifies my behaving cruelly. And I am so lost at this point I don’t even know if that is me being principled, or me being way too concerned with how other people feel, and way too little concerned with how those people behave, how I feel, and the impact their actions have had on my body, my emotions, my life. I don’t know if the vague bit I have said here is too much or too unkind. Or not enough.

And that is the biggest reason, I think, I hesitate to share overall: doubt. Of all the things I have gotten into that are in the we-usually-don’t-share-these-things arena, it took me a while to name it, because it was a tone, not a topic itself. I am full of doubt right now, and it seems generally that people just don’t acknowledge uncertainty. Not just about the future, about anything. About the present. The past. Beliefs. Feelings.

In a non-public forum like this one, in face-to-face contexts, I have experienced people imagining I must feel a bond because I will matter-of-factly mention things many people keep secret. And I am comfortable acknowledging I don’t know everything, even if my tendency toward pessimism is, I know, a kind of defense mechanism against the reality of uncertainty. (One more weird thing about being people, that what we know and what we feel can be so far apart.) But right now my life feels like uncertainty in every direction. And the doubt I feel makes sharing anything feel difficult. What do you say, how can you speak honestly, when you question what you think, what you feel, everything?

I feel a lot of doubt. I am doubting myself – or, more accurately, I have allowed myself to internalize abusive people’s narratives deflecting blame for their actions and the outcomes of those actions solely onto me. The odd thing is, once I start thinking about it, doubt is far more indicative of being rational than certainty is. Certainty in a world of uncertainty is a form of delusion. The willingness to question, even yourself, even your thought processes and beliefs and actions, is, I think, actually pretty healthy. It is how we can begin to address those gulfs between knowing and feeling, or between what we know or feel and external reality that may be at odds with those.

I really wish I had started writing these letters sooner, and had written them more often. You are the person who I needed to talk to. Doing this lets me sort of return to the space we held for each other. And while I can’t deny I am cognizant of writing in the potential view of strangers and alienated acquaintances alike, still, the idea that it is you I am addressing makes saying what I need to say, and getting some perspective, a lot easier. Goddamn, I miss you. And talking to myself gets kind of boring. We would talk about your life, too. We would joke. We would reminisce. We would talk easily about all the things and people and bullshit that would be hard to talk about with most people, because we were both there for so much of it, and knew each other so well.

I hope you knew, and worry you didn’t, that I cared about you, your life, that was what was most important to me, not that you would die one day. The latter felt like a selfish focus to me – a focus on my own future loss. And of course I feared it happening. But I didn’t say or do things just based on the fear of you being gone soon. Everything I said, everything I did, came from wanting every minute of life you got to be as good as you deserved. Came from wanting you to have someone in your life who loved you and cared more about your health and happiness than whether you were pissed at me, who knew without a doubt that you deserved only good things.

You missed out on a lot in life, I think, because of the many people who focused on your future end, and not your present existence. The older I got, the less I understood that, because the fact is, anyone alive can die at any time, and if the way they treated you was based on the fact that you might die, then that is how they should have treated everyone, because we all die, and we don’t know when it will happen. Reaching old age is a matter of luck, not a given. We both watched other people whose lives were assumed would be long die younger than you did. Life is fucked, isn’t it?

I am tired, Kath. I am tired of fighting. I will, when that is the only path forward I can see, but jesus, I wish an easier road would appear. I will fight, but eventually, things are either going to get easier or I am going to collapse. If you are where you believed you would be, and you are still down with helping me, I could use some help. I could use some strength. I would like some luck. I would like to be pleasantly surprised. I would like some of the weight to be lifted, to be allowed to move forward from a place of greater tranquility.

And still, I am grateful to you, because this has once again helped me get a little farther down the road, so to speak. I think that sharing our doubt is a lot wiser than feigning certainty. I think if more people would give up the facade the world would generally be a better place. There is just so much heinous shit that people will say and do and create and inflict in service to the fears that drive their need to maintain a mask of certainty.

I will try to be okay, even, living in the doubt-space of loving people who have not been good to me, and wishing they would be, and not knowing, at this point, if that could ever be – even if they sincerely changed, tried, would I ever be able to believe, to trust? I don’t fucking know, and that is alright. Given reason to hope, I would probably be willing to try, to find out. I have no idea what will happen in the future, or how I might feel about what does happen. Which, given how I feel in this moment, is not the worst thing to acknowledge. It means that things could be better than they are right now. Uncertainty and change go hand in hand. Can’t really have one without the other. And change, for the better, is what I am hoping for, asking for, now.

I love you more than my own life. If I could be sure you knew that, I would be pretty happy. I always tried to treat you with love, to the best of my ability, in the circumstances I was in. And writing that is a reminder, again, that really, what I need is not so much from you, but myself. I need to forgive myself for being human, and imperfect. I really did the best I could. Truly. I gave all that I could and more to the people I loved through long years of traumas and losses and illnesses and all kinds of difficulties, gave long past the point where it was detrimental to me…and I know, really do know, that where I fell short, where I failed or fucked up or broke down, it was truly because I could not do otherwise. I never let myself off the hook. I never gave up. I pushed myself, or allowed myself to be pushed, past my far-out breaking point. We both would probably have had at least a slightly easier time in life if we let ourselves just take a fucking break and be a little more selfish sometimes. Wearing yourself out constantly is still a form of self-destruction, not just some praise-worthy form of martyr-y morality. I sometimes wonder if you had less stress and more support, if you had ever felt entitled to rest, to put yourself first when you were sick and in pain and fucking exhausted, you might still be here. That you might have gotten a little longer, at least. And then I wonder if I could have done more. If I contributed to your pain when I fell short. If I did enough to shield you from what stress I could. If keeping things from you that might add to your stress was the right call, or if that made you worry more than if you knew.

And you, of all people, of all of the people I love, you really loved me back. You actually saw me as a whole person, with flaws and fragility. I know you would forgive me for not being able to do what I could not. Of course you would. You were as hard on yourself, or harder, than I was. Am. And I never stopped telling you to cut yourself a break, to acknowledge how strong and amazing you were to do the things you did, and be the person you were, in the midst of everything you suffered. And you were a more forgiving, loving person than me. There is no way you would have been less understanding of me than I was of you. I just wish things had been better for both of us. And that you were here with me. I feel lost without you. You were in my life from the day I was born. I don’t know how I do this alone, Kath, and without you, I feel so much more alone than I have ever been. I have no idea how I do this. But I am trying. I will try.

I fucking miss you, though. I would give up anything, everything, just to get to talk to you again. To hug you one last time. There is part of my mind that just can’t accept that, after all the years you defied the odds, you are gone. But, man, we were so similar in so many fundamental ways, because you were not a person who pretended “won’t” and “can’t” were the same thing. You fought til you collapsed. You never gave up. That you are not here means you could not be, not you would not be. Help me, please, to hang on to that truth, Kath, and help me to be as strong as you, to leave it all out on the field, to pick myself up every time I get knocked down or fall down, every time, until I can’t any more. Not til I won’t, or don’t want to. Til I can’t. Help me to make the sort of life for myself I wished for you. Help me to make you proud. Help me to live as much and as well as I can for both of us, because for all you gave me, I owe you that and more. I am the half of our pair that still breathes. I get to live when you don’t. I will do my best to honor you in the way I live. Just never let me lose your voice, please. I have no idea how to live without it.

I feel like I am going to be crying over you forever. I am not complaining. It is a small price to pay for the enormous gift of having been the person you called your sister. I would go through worse than this to have been here with you, to have been there for you. It was a gift and an honor.

What would you tell me now? Well, for one, you would be crying with me. I don’t think either of us ever wasn’t set off when the other cried. And for some reason I just remembered running with you on my back in the freezing rain. Maybe it is my unconscious mind coughing up my own personal “Footprints in the Sand” – you carried me, too. You carry me still. You would let me cry. You would tell me it was alright. You would tell me to give myself time. You would tell me I deserve better. You would tell me if you could do it, you could survive, I can, too. You did tell me that. And you loved me, and you knew me well, so I will believe you. You understood and believed all the ugly truths virtually no one else was willing to hear, much less accept. You would reassure me just by hearing me and not questioning that what I experienced or felt was valid. You would send me a card and then laugh when I got surprise confettied. Because I would tell you about it so you could laugh about it, because I knew how happy it made you. And I would know I wasn’t alone, and I would be able to get through it all.

You are still the reason I have made it through this far.

I love you always,





Dear Kath, (2)

Dear Kath,

I was thinking about picking this up again, then thought “I am fucking tired,” then thought about what you would tell me, which is what I always told you when you were exhausted and not letting yourself get rest: go to bed. Getting rest is important. Your health is important. Take care of yourself.

You got it, bitch.

This really is endlessly helpful. You are really endlessly helpful. All I have to do is think of your response, and tah-dah! Better choices. Everyone should be so fucking lucky to have someone in their life really love them. Thank you. Every fucking day from my first to my last, thank you.

So for now I am going to embrace the wisdom of “fuck it,” and put this aside, and get some rest.

I love you, you brat. I hope you got the afterlife you wanted, and it is full of awesome naps.



p.s. Goodnight. I love you.