A letter to and from an untrustworthy person

To an untrustworthy person, 

I don’t trust myself.  Not only do I not trust myself, but I don’t trust you either.  It’s not that your an untrustworthy person, it’s just hard for me to believe that the words you’re saying to me have any strain of truth in them.  

When I first met you, the kind words you would say to me were so genuine and would make my heart sing.  You said them without an agenda, without any real reason, the words just flew out of your mouth and surprised you just as much as they did me.  But now I feel like you only give me compliments when I beg for them.  You tell me I’m beautiful, but only because I said I was ugly first.  You say I’m smart, but only because I said I was stupid first.  I can hear the tiredness grow in your voice each time you have to repeat one of these phrases to me.  Your just as tired of my insecurities as I am.  

The longer we get to know one another, your compliments appear less and less genuine.  One of the first days we met you might’ve said something about how my smile reminds you of someone you loved, or how you found the sound of my voice comforting.  You don’t seem to recognize my details anymore.  I don’t seem to inspire intrigue or ingenuity in your thoughts of me anymore.  

That’s how my brain works.  I don’t trust the people who have known me the longest.  I’d rather be told by a complete stranger that I am beautiful than from my mother.  It’s irrational, yes, and I’m trying to change, but I don’t know how.  

Not only is it you I don’t trust, but it’s myself.  I don’t trust my ideas or reasoning of things.  I don’t trust my interpretation of situations or scenarios in my life.  I don’t trust myself to take proper care of myself.  I don’t trust my feelings and never seem to know why I’m feeling or what I’m feeling.  

I’m telling you this because you’re a friend, a parent, a sibling, a person who I know loves and cares about me, but please, I beg of you, don’t tell me to change.  Don’t tell me to just keep working on myself.  Don’t tell me that you are speaking the truth when you tell me these kind words, because that doesn’t work.  It only makes me feel more wrong and more distant from you.  It only makes me resent you more.  

I know you’re tired of how my brain works, of my inability to trust you completely, I recognize how it frustrates you and complicates a moment in your day, but I’m even more frustrated and tired of myself than you are.  It isn’t just one moment in the day, one fight, it’s every time I sit in my bed feeling small and big all at once, contemplating who I trust to call, only to recognize that it is no one.  

From, 

   An untrustworthy person 

An Apology to My Fingertips

To my fingertips, 

I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that I bite and gnaw at you when I’m feeling bored or nervous.  I’m sorry that I pick and chew at you until you bleed.  I’m sorry that I rip the scabs from your body only for the bleeding to start again.  

My constant grooming of you bothers me too.  I think its gross and quite painful, but unfortunately I can’t seem to stop.  Is it satisfactory? Rarely.  Most times when I pull the skin back from your shoulders, I am only left with the remnants of more skin to be pulled.  The satisfaction of a clean, concise tear of the skin, that leaves behind no excess flesh is rare indeed.  

I even bought special clippers, you know, the ones they use on you at the nail salon? Yes, those.  Those nail clippers that can get each and every little bit of skin that my large front teeth can’t seem to reach.  Even with those fancy clippers, I can’t help but get over excited with my clipping and clip just a little to much, causing the skin to break, and blood to flow.  You are so raw and tender to the touch, I can hardly bare to look at you. 

Yet, even while I’m writing this apology to you, at every pause in thought, at every punctuation marked, I look back to you and begin to pick, pick, pick.  So, while I’m saying I’m sorry, with a heavy heart, I cannot promise that I will stop. For I find you at my teeth before I have had the chance to think about the pain I am causing you.  Before I have had the chance to think of the pain I am causing myself.  Because something about that biting and picking is comforting to me. 

My apologies, 

Madison 

A Letter To The Restless Girls

To the restless girls, 

I see you fidgeting in the classroom waiting for the bell to ring.  I know what it feels like to lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen.  I’ve heard the thoughts of self doubt and excitement run through your mind because they have run through mine too.  I know what it feels like to want to grow up now, to have your life together and be done with the pains that being young demands.  I feel your pain of wanting, of wanting that person to notice you, of wanting everyone to know your name, of wanting to change the world and wanting to be invisible all at the same time.  To those restless girls, to those restless kids, I feel stuck just like you do.  I feel the weight of time pass me by as I stand in the same spot, unmoving.  I know the frustration of feeling bigger than your body, but not knowing what to do with the emotion.  I feel that desire to create, to talk, to dance, to sing, but thinking that I don’t have the ability to do so.  That I don’t have anything interesting to create, or anything new to add to the conversation.  That I’m not a good enough singer or dancer or writer.  I feel just as scared as you do that everything has already been done.  That I’m already washed up when I haven’t even gotten the chance to start.  I know all these feelings because I’m a restless girl too. Boredom and anxiety seem to rule my mind, all I seem to do is sleep and watch.  I don’t act.  I was never taught to act, but how to observe.  Is that the same for you? I watch these boys play loud music, push to the front, move their bodies with zero inhibitions, and I crave what they have.  I crave their ability to push, to move without worry if their dress is hiked up or if their bra is showing.  Restless boys do reckless things, while me, a restless girl, sits in her room and observes the world.  Do you feel the same way? 

Madison