I'm writing you this letter today because we came very close to a tragedy the other night. We had a moment of weakness, wherein old habits and self-destructive behavior came right to the surface. I am very proud of us that nothing catastrophic happened, but, like so many other times, we could have fallen into that abyss, and we have worked too hard to let that happen again.
I see you shaking your head, pleading "No, no, you've got it all wrong, it would feel so good to just do a little, just a tiny bit, no one can see, no one will know, it's all our little secret, locked away in our memory to release some of the angst, the bitterness, the agony. Everyone slips a little, it's not the end of the world, just…just let me do this. Just one more time."
But you see, self, I cannot let you do this. Whatever comes from this activity but pain? And not just searing emotional pain, but true, physical pain, palpable pain that burns our eyes and makes us shiver as the tears of shame trickle down the sides of our neck? We can't ever TELL anyone, the shame would be too great, no one would understand. It's better if we stay strong, keep it completely out of our system. Reach out for help, self, please. You don't have to go this alone.
What follows are my cries for help as I wrestled my demons back, THIS TIME. But the temptation is so great, the grief so palpable…It was a close call to say the least.
Self, do you see how reaching out and talking about your feelings helps you through the tough times? I'm not going to sugarcoat this. You? Almost wrote poetry that night. You can't handle poetry. You've tried and tried but, and this is coming from a PLACE OF LOVE, you…you SUCK at writing poetry. Anecdotal prose, THAT'S what you can write, NOT POETRY. Your poetry is so bad it makes small children weep and adults shoot heroin to make the pain go away. Your "why doesn't he love me, I shall write this in blood on black paper" poetry is so abysmally bad that we actually BURNED some of it, remember? You tried to write poetry responsibly, and you just can't. You can't let yourself get into that mindspace again.
A 12 Step Program for Bad Poets. I think I've found my calling.
Saying this out of love,