A Whole Lot of Crazy

I had it all planned out, the little 23mm f2 Fujinon lens was going to be my little gift to me. I've been working every day since October 24. Originally, my plan was to save enough to buy a new camera, new lights, the mentioned lens, and to retrieve what is still in pawn, but certain fortunate things did not happen and certain unfortunate things did happen. Sadly, a seven-day work week isn't enough for me to save a dime and in fact, I am still in debt. I thought I had this, though, the $495 to gift myself that itty bitty bundle of metal and glass, the minuscule kick in the ass of motivation I desperately need to hit the streets even harder, camera in hand.

Yeah, I know, suck it up, sometimes you can't get what you want, don't make excuses for your inaction, you've been through worse, a least you can pay rent, you are not starving, and thinking about what could have been won't get you anywhere. I know! But I let myself get excited. I had this thing to look forward to in the abysmal dream sucker that is my life and now I don't. You need that sometimes. A carrot dangling in front of your drooling mouth only works for a bit. Eventually, you stop chasing it unless you're given the occasional nibble. I just wanted a nibble.

I have been lucky, some would say. If you look at all of the second chances I have been granted then you are correct. I managed to raise some money due to the kindness of strangers. That was enough to get my gear out of the pawn shop, but immediately following that gust of good fortune was a tidal wave shit storm of mishaps, fumbles, and bad people doing bad things to me which resulted in a need to once again pawn my gear. Then I landed a decent job. Sure it is seven days a week and at first, it was way more than full time. It was supposed to be enough to put a bit aside and start my life off on a good foot, prepared for any type of photo work (the kind that I could make money doing), ahead on bills, and even a real suit that fits and is not falling apart at the seams. Nope. Nada. Did not happen. My delicately assembled house of cards crumbled and I can say that it was not my fault. Really? Can I? Oh, but everything is my fault. Doing the right thing, being patient, is not enough. Expecting from others what they expect out of me is obviously a huge mistake.

I always say that I will never make this mistake again when I make huge mistakes and when people treat me poorly I swear I will start treating them the same. I don't do either of these. I can't put myself first and I can't fuck people over even though they may deserve it. I know they would not put up with me if I was anything less than I am. I am a push over. That is the label you deserve when you are considerate, understanding, forgiving, and generous. Those are the traits of a loser.

Think about people who win. It can be at sports, business, relationships, and anything else. The people who win are cut throat. They do for themselves at any cost. They don't slow down to pick up the fallen. They don't give the big account to the guy who is struggling to make a dime. They don't tell the truth if it makes the other guy look good and they look bad. They are backstabbers, cheats, liars, and shit talkers. They exude confidence, bravado, heightened masculinity, and lack empathy. My nature is to empathize irrationally, give until I am broke, and then I secretly expect some karmic reward for good behavior. The reward is not what motivates me. I am always punished with a rotting ache in my belly when I walk against my cursed good nature. It's not that I am a good person, really, but if I act any other way I get sick. I have acted poorly. I did so for quite a length of time and it did nearly kill me in a real way. This "do the right thing" shit is manifesting itself in a mountain of resentment towards those who don't return the courtesy. I guess, that is how I know I am not a good person. If I was good I would not mind the suffering. But I mind, I mind like a motherfucker!

My expectations are lingering, haunting, venomous, and ultimately silly. It is left over from the child I was. The idea that if you are good to others they, in turn, will be good to you. The idea that life is fair. This, we all know, is bullshit. In no way do I believe that but the sting is there. When that action, which I know to be entirely of fiction, does not occur I am left in two--saddened and betrayed. I want that psychotic sense of entitlement to die already. I hate that part of me. He's ugly and stupid. I don't do anything for a reward. That is not my motivation, I swear, but it feels like it is because the pain is real. I guess it is not a sense of entitlement. The anger doesn't say, "I deserve my share of good stuff, where is it?" It is more like a whimpering, "please, just a taste, can I have an itty bitty taste, please? I promise I'll do even more. I will never stop sacrificing my happiness for others, but just for a second could I see the beauty, feel the warm air, taste the sugar, know the sensation of a day without fear, sadness, discomfort, and this nagging emptiness pulling me into the darkness?", yeah, it's more like that.

Understand this, though, if you understand nothing else: I realize that what where who and how I am is not that bad hard or unbearable I could easily give up on my dreams and do the living breathing going through the motions this is what life is so enjoy what is on television tonight learn to watch sports at the bar with your new buddies while drinking cheap beer and after awhile you will save up enough money to buy a reasonable car and you'll get your credit in good enough shape to buy a reasonable house someone will love you enough to want to be your wife this could be your life easily and it won't happen overnight but if you stop wanting to take photographs with meaning and feeling that people will see and if you stop trying to help people and if you stop caring about total strangers then you could easily find a spot at the table of mediocrity it is a huge table with plenty of seating so why don't you just sit down and quit the griping for you know that every problem you have is your own your fault your doing therefore all of your pain is your fault your doing therefore you are always in complete control of all and you are the biggest obstacle in the way of your happiness for you know it really is not that bad you are not a suffering soul it really is not that bad it really is not that bad really it is not. 

BUT

WHAT YOU MAY NOT UNDERSTAND IS

THIS PAIN

FEELS

LIKE PAIN

IT CRIPPLES ME JUST THE SAME

HURTS JUST THE SAME

AS IF IT 

WERE LIFE THREATENING.

There is the frustrating part of this. You know what you are feeling is irrational and wrong but it still feels like it could kill you, and it still hinders your ability to do those usual things you shouldn't have trouble doing. There really is not anything wrong. That is what everyone thinks about everyone who is exactly like me. There are millions of us. We all feel pain and on top of the hurting is the humiliation that we are this weak and stupid to be susceptible to What? Depression? Mental illness? 

We all say we believe in these things and that we know their effects. We ignore those who suffer, though, and treat them as if they are well. We tell them to cheer up 

STOP TELLING ME TO CHEER UP. 

knowing that words do not heal illness. We don't walk up to paraplegics and tell them to stand up? We don't treat the mentally ill like sick people. Unless you are balls to the wall, throwing your poop, wearing a tin foil hat crazy, or you have a shotgun in between your teeth, we tell you to get over it. 

Now, I don't know what my diagnosis is anymore. I've been labeled a lot of things. I've been in hospitals and I have seen doctors. I have been on more medications than I can name. I know that most psychiatrists, the ones you get when you are poor, suck. They write you a script after talking to you for two minutes and tell you to come back in a month. Psychologists of the same brand seem to let you say whatever you want and then blame your childhood and offer the solution of finding another psychologist that you can see once a week. They never know of one that takes your insurance, mos def not one that does free work, and the price range for a bargin-basement-associate-degree-carrying-I-mean-fuck-my-guidance-counselor-in-high-school-had-a-masters-and-he-was-a-dufus-"therapist" is still $70 an hour. I can't afford $70 a week, and I don't want that person giving me advice anyway. I want a doctor. I want someone who has really studied mental illness. If I am sick I want a doctor. Why is that so hard to understand? Then there is the whole, "Well if I am sick how come you expect me to work like everyone else, live like everyone else, and be fine without treatment?" 

The truth is that no one believes you. 

"You are lazy. You have been your whole life. You are weak and you have been ever since I have known you. You are pathetic and I am sick of hearing the same shit over and over. You always have the same problems. Do something about it and quit making excuses. Get a normal job. Learn how to be happy like everyone else. It's about time you straighten out your life and start behaving like an adult. I know you. You are just trying to be different. You are trying to get attention and you want people to feel sorry for you. I can't take this anymore. Bye."

The mentally ill are the only sick people that it is okay to walk out on after telling them to, basically, get better by sheer will power. They are the only people who get blamed for being sick. I mean, there is a whole billion dollar industry of FDA-approved drugs for the treatment of mental illness, so it is a real thing. As real as cancer. Try calling in to work with depression or borderline personality disorder, I dare you. That is it, though, you are definitely ill, and it's serious, in some cases proven to be life threatening, but you are supposed to walk around, act normal, be normal, go to work, smile, and be fine. You know just fucking be fine you sick fuck. Be not sick anymore now. You are getting on my nerves with your illness, god damn it. All I am doing is being irrational. I need to be practical. I hear that a lot. I think that a lot. But I don't know what I need. How could I? I don't know what I am? Everyone seems to think there is something wrong with me from doctors to my family and friends but nothing is too wrong, because why? Because I am not quite batshit crazy? Because I am not homeless? Because I am not dead? That is the really sad thing about mental illness. No one takes shit seriously until someone fucking dies. Then everyone says the same thing, "she could have come to me for help. Why didn't she tell someone?" Fuck you. What would you do if someone came to you and said, "I think there is something wrong with me. I feel sad all the time and I don't want to go to work or get out of bed. Nothing makes me feel better." or "I can't handle even the slightest bit of stress, I nearly black out at work. I assume everyone hates me and I think they are trying to ruin my life. I even think this about you. I can't trust anyone and I want to lock myself in a closet." What would you do for that person? Nothing. You would brush it off because that is just what "crazy Judy" does or "paranoid Frank", and they will be fine. Until they are not. Oh well. But that is what we tell ourselves, too. It is not just the well misunderstanding the sick. We, the sick, don't understand ourselves. I think that I will be okay until I am not. That is how I deal with whatever this is. I will be fine until I am not. It's not much of a solution. 

Eve of Disappointment

I guess when we get older, for some of us, this time of year is a reminder that the good days are gone forever. The joy we felt as children will gather dust stored away in the file cabinets of our memories. As much as I try to forget that tonight is Christmas Eve, that anticipation, the giddy tickle in my belly, lingers like a phantom limb. As I feel it lightly, quickly it's chased away, my brain realizing that he is here now and that there is nothing to look forward to tomorrow. Only a day like all the others bearing no significance and certainly not that shining new camera the boy in me daydreams of. In this house, there is no tree. Nothing smells of cinnamon. No menorah, either. No hint of the holidays. Something I thought I would never miss and obviously it is not the lack of decorations or aromas, presents or religion, that catch me off guard with a gut punch but the souls, hearts, and faces of those who annoyed the puppy puke out of me for so long with their traditions and sentimentalities that I foolishly long for. It is not simply the passing of the past that hurts me. It is that my presence is not in their present and while I am presently presentless they share each others presence and exchange presents. If only they were gracing my home with their presence for an instance. The distance is a hindrance. My home couldn't handle their attendance. Enough.

I miss my family. This sucks.

My Question: Part 2

What am I doing? Isn't that where I left off? 
What I am doing is:

wasting time

feeling sorry for myself

being scared

of embarrassing myself

and of failure

of trying

giving

all of myself to this

the dumb act of photo making

which no one gives a fuck about

like me

the one who

always fails

is always broke

is always in need of a hand

because nothing works

and when

I bend over backward

for those who are supposed to care

I get pushed down

runover

forgotten

what I do does not matter

how dare I expect something in return

I am not giving up

why am I not giving up?

That is not the answer, though. I do all of those things and those thoughts are ever present; always bouncing around my mind. My days are a battle with negativity, doom, despair, the hopeless, torturous humiliation, and stabbing nagging feeling that not only do I not belong but a "how dare you walk this earth with us?" weight which gives me an ache in my gut to apologize for each sad step I take on their property. 

Who the Fuck are "They"?

You know, the nameless, mugging, masses who, when they think I am not looking, break me down using psychic weaponry. You know, "they"? What?

They are age defying. They have been following me, watching me, my entire life. They are the reason why I don't achieve. They poison every chance I get. They whisper rumors about me. They spread lies and even worse--they tell the truth. Their mission is, of course, to ensure my failure. Well, not just my failure; that wouldn't be good enough. They need me to experience the wrath of hell's most vicious demons here on this plane of existence. Fulfillment will not be felt if they do not witness me burning from the inside out, begging for mercy, finding none, losing my mind, finding it, then quickly losing it again only to spy it smashed between boulders, tossed into acid, devoured by rabid guinea pigs, digested then expressed and stomped by booted thugs who then beat me wildly for getting my mind shit on their shiny boots. There does exist a hero who can save me from "They". This hero is tiny. Some have never seen the hero. Some don't believe this hero exists but the hero does, I promise. So, who can defeat "They"? Only one can, only "HE" can Defeat "They"!

Yep, "HE". 

He is hard to find, kind of a wanderer, doesn't speak much, and stands about two inches tall. He, like They, has always been here with me. I remember He first appeared in dreams, or rather he appeared in nightmares but He made them dreams by acting all heroic and shit. He, some would say, is the opposite of me. He is all I am not, and much shorter. He has confidence, He is always honest, He never backs down and nobody pushes He around, down, or at all. He takes all of my good photos. He is the reason why I get paid sometimes. He is too small to carry me. He can't do everything. It is frustrating to watch me second guess myself, to watch me cower when I am afraid, to witness my voice cracking under the slightest bit of pressure, and the repetition with which this shit happens gets old fast. So, He leaves. He walks away without a warning. He does this a lot and every time it kills me a bit. He cares but its too much. I am too disappointing. Don't get me wrong, He always comes back. He promised my mother that he'd watch out for me. He does not want to disappoint her. He does his best and sadly that just isn't enough. Dolefully, He lowers the brim of his hat, gives a slight wag of his head following the horizon, left to right, turns on the heels of tattered shoes, and walks away. "C'mon, what do you want me to do? I'm two inches tall. 37 years of this bullshit is too much. Yer on your own, kid," and like He came into my life, without notice, He disappears.  
"Where are you...you can't just...dude...but...wait! Please!" I call out, but He only becomes smaller, smaller, smaller until he is gone.

Now, I Am The Only One Who Can Save Me

ME.

I don't consider that good news. This time I don't think He is coming back. I have to defeat They on my own. I don't want to but how much of my life is "me" doing shit I don't want to do? Most of it. So, what's the big deal? There isn't anything to be afraid of. If I fail I am like everyone else. That is what I forget. That is what I always forget--most people don't do a damn thing. Most people are ambitionless, lazy, and soul-satisfied with being mediocre, mundane, boring, vanilla, flat, toast for breakfast, pop music, light beer, couch potato, hum-drum, C student, and common. This life of mine is not about other people. My life is not "how do I compare to everyone else?", and it is not a competition. I don't feel like a failure owing to the fact that others are better than me. I feel like a failure by virtue of me not doing as much as I know I could if I were given a chance, if I were given the opportunity, or if this field of play were level. I know I could do great things, but I don't have the means to get to the right places or I don't have the equipment or by the design of this society, I am merely not allowed.

Excuses? Excuses. Excuses!

No, those are reasons. Yes, some people defy odds, but those are not necessarily people of overwhelming skill or talent. Those are people who, like others, got lucky. Um, you know how some people win the fucking lottery and most people don't? You know how unbelievably against you those odds are, right? Oh, but when someone comes from nothing and "makes it" it is by virtue of their skill and talent, and if you do not do the same, well, I guess you are not as skilled. You are not trying hard enough. He did it. He made it. What the fuck is wrong with you? Now, take that same tone with somebody who plays the lottery and does not win. 

Most of the artist who "make it" are from wealth and privilege. Do you want to argue with me? Are you going to throw out the names of some dead dudes? Posthumously doesn't count, okay. I don't want that. I also don't want fame or riches. 

All I want is to exist and do what makes me fulfilled for it would help others feel the same and could save lives but instead I have to do drudgery which brings elation to none and matters not. 

And there are simple ways to make this so

And the world around me will loudly say "NO"

"but with your abundance, I can show

hidden beauty of the status quo,

turn chaos, malaise, to flawless snow"

WE don't want that here now GO!

They yell as they watch their money grow.

People can do what they want with their money. Who am I to say that instead of driving a fancy car or going on a cruise or buying a huge house or any of those things I seem to think are unnecessary and meaningless, that instead of that, people should give to me so that I can make art that I think (key to it all is this I THINK) matters. Well, apparently no one else thinks that it matters. Oh, well, some think it matters enough to remain hobby, and to my face may encourage my quest. Behind it is a story which goes differently. There has never been a conversation about a joint effort to invest in me. There is positivity given in the form of polite action. Not wanting to hurt my feelings, or break my sobriety, maybe, but not a system of support where there could have been one. It's like giving a homeless man a buck every day for ten years when if the first fucking day you met him you would have given him $3,650 he may not have been homeless for ten years. That is the past. Who cares about "but if" and "if only"? I really don't. I only think about how I could blame others due to the fact that a lot of others have urged me to seek the counsel of mental health professionals and whenever I do all those professionals tell me is that (after hearing me tell of my past) it's not my fault and that this person is to blame for this and that person for that and on and on. I leave thinking,"fuck, I never looked at it that way. Maybe, they're right? It kind of makes sense, I mean if I think about it? They did fuck me up!" No way. Sure, people may have made some mistakes with me. I am a weird one. It's not their fault. Fuck that. It's not their fault. It's not. I've made my choices. I know where I am and I know how this works but I choose to fight instead of falling in line. 

That fact doesn't make me special, or better, or smarter, or more interesting. All it does is make me hurt. It disrupts my sleep, ruins my appetite, pushes people away, and leaves me generally alone and unhappy. 

Okay, do you understand what I am saying now? Now, do you get why I constantly ask myself

what am I doing?

My Question: Part 1

What am I doing? Every day that question stampedes through my brain. Knocking shit over, breaking mementos from the past, leaving hoof prints on the rug, and doing more damage than I can afford. As many times as I have asked myself this, still, there is no answer. I, at 37 (closer to 38), haven't even come close, I don't think? There, the last  bit of the former sentence, "I don't think?", may be a clue. Now, of course, I do not mean "at all". What I mean is that I ask "what am I doing?" so often, machine-gun rapidity, that it has become meaningless. Its omnipresence has rendered it unanswerable. Therefore, I don't think about actually answering the question anymore and then it morphs into frustration to anger to sadness to guilt to depression to madness to me pulling my hair out and screaming while tears pour down my face, "What the fuck am I doing?".

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

?

Not having the answer has been torture. For a mind like mine that is already confused (every minute takes delicate attention and I must dissect details to ensure they are being processed the correct way and not misinterpreted) adding a universe of cloudy confusion makes matters significantly worse, as one could imagine. It is a balancing act for me to simply function and appear "okay", "normal", whatever it is that most people are. I thought this was hard when I was an alcoholic but this, being sober and only mentally ill, is Hell. I could guess that this is what it feels like to be in a war zone. You have to be on your toes every moment for bullets are whizzing by and one wrong move could be your end. I am not facing death every day but as anyone who suffers this can tell you, fear is fear. 

Real or imaginary, doesn't matter, and people will always remind me that anxiety can not kill me or that my delusions are exactly like hallucinations and all I have to do is tell myself, "this is in my head", but it doesn't fucking matter. Every night ends the same. I am exhausted, tense, horrified that all of my tomorrows will be just like today. All I am doing is "doing" for the sake of. I am going through the necessary motions to live to go through the motions to go through the motions again until I can't do this anymore. That is my life. I am only doing until I can not. 

This feels like a life wasted. All I want to do with my life is to help people by taking photos that change them, remind them of beauty, inspire them to create, move them, and/or improve their understanding of the world and its people. I know that seems like a lot, or maybe it doesn't? Maybe, what I want is impractical? Remember what I am having a problem with, "what am I doing?", and the "wasted life" feeling comes from the fact that I can barely help myself. If that is a fact then how can I help others? It is hard to do the work that I believe can help because I waste most of my time doing the necessary toil that allows me to subsist. I  think it is fair to blame this on society or, at least, the one I live in. 

This country places no importance on art. When I speak to people in other countries they are astonished, amazed, confused, and baffled by the fact that I receive no support from the government or the community for producing my work. Sure, we have NEA grants and the like, but what are they? What will $1000 a year get me? And they don't give them to everyone. My odds are not great that I will receive a grant, but let's say I receive every grant that is available to me this year. Do you know how much that would be? Not even $10,000. There is no chance in hell that I could win every grant that I apply to every year and even if I did there is no way to live off of that imaginary money. Even the jackpot $1000 grants are shit. That is not enough to create and live for two weeks. 5k wouldn't be enough, 6k, 7k, 8k 9k, 10k, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 18, 20k, fuck now we are talking if we are talking every six months and if we are talking for every artist who is producing. Cut the fucking shit, the shit, the phony fifth grade god damn essay contest style selection process we use to decide who is eligible for, which artist is in need of, meager money to do nothing worth while with because you know what? Do You Know What? FUCK YOU AND YOUR SOCCER MOM CULT COLLECTIVE OF COUNTRY BUMPKIN CRAFT MAKERS. FUCK YOUR ESSAY CONTESTS. WHAT IS THIS AND WHO ARE YOU? CALL IT WHAT IT IS. BECAUSE IF A GRAND IS WHAT YOU NEED TO MAKE SOMETHING GREAT THEN YOUR IDEA OF GREAT IS MUCH DIFFERENT THAN MINE. It has to be twenty grand every six months. To me, that is a reasonable amount of money to create, live, and exhibit ones work. That means from concept to culmination. Trust me, if you are reading this and thinking to yourself, "Why that is forty grand a year for an artist? That is too much. I ain't forking over my tax dollar for some artist to sit on his as and draw bullshit." Dude, that is nothing. That is low low low low low, but if you give that small amount you will see some artists busting their asses. They will show, not just their people, everyone in this country what they can do with the minimal, and they will gain the attention of the world. There would not be a human who would not be awaken. Who wants to be awake though and why doesn't our country give a fuck about art? Why, is this country alone, is the title Artist synonymous with doing nothing; with being unemployed? How come, when I tell someone I am an artist the next question is, always, without a doubt, in every situation, not 9 times out of 10 but 10 times out of 10,"but, what do you do for a living? You know, how do you make money?" and my reply is normally something like, "I suck your mom's dick",which goes over like free cupcakes. My point being that it gets old. Like being skinny and everyone telling you that you need to eat something, or as I imagine, being tall and everyone asking you if you play basketball. What fucking hits you in the cunt is that they are right. What do I do for money? It can't be this:

Why would photographs of our day and age taken by an artist of proven talent be of any value to a society? Why should I be paid to document this world, the way I see it? What does it add to our culture? Art defines our culture. The three questions I put forth should not be questions that any adult human should have trouble answering. Those questions shouldn't be asked for the answers are, to most, evident in our existence, too obvious for contemplation, or the type that fall into that category of questions of which there is apparently no category--stupid questions (blah "there are no such thing as stupid questions"). Oh shit, you are struggling aren't you? You, being an American, are having trouble with them, seriously though, those questions for anyone in any other civilized country on the blue green round world we live upon would be for a kindergartner, maybe younger, and not a particularly intelligent one at that.
And, you think I joke!
If that doesn't depress you then you are part of the problem. We Americans (not me of course) think nothing of culture. We place no value on it. We will notice when it is gone. As it is disappearing, being tossed away, booted or to use a phrase you all might understand we are saying "You're Fired" to our culture. Art matters more than weapons. Art matters more than sport. Art matters more than titties. Art matters more than distraction. Art matters more than you know. Art matters more than you care. Art in America is in danger of extinction. In order to stop this from happening America has to pay attention to its artists. She has to start taking care of them, nurturing them, pushing them, and supporting them. The Artist needs a place in America. France, Germany, The UK, Spain, Italy, on and on, they all make a place for artists who work hard at their discipline. We are too busy building better bombs. If that doesn't depress you then you are part of the problem. 

I am going to stop there. I am not done. Really, I have not even started. fa

Because You Still Owe Me

I did not pay attention to the date. I am sure it was about this time last year that you disappeared.You left without warning to most but to me, you gave them by the millions. I did not pay attention because I did not want to. You would, in my mind, live up to your promise. You owed me. You would pay me back. Like all the days I gave you with smiles, you gave me with frowns. You were supposed to be all that you were not but still I trusted you. Although, in every sense, in every way you were the personification of betrayal, I still believed in you. You let me down. You broke every rule. The six and I, you would leave behind-unapologetic. Always unapologetic. While the world saw you as giving and selfless, I knew that you were neither. I can not forgive you. I hate that I miss you. You don't deserve that. I did not want you to be something that you could not be. I wanted you to be happy without me. You could have done that easily. I am not that special. I am not that hard to get over. You were a strong woman when I met you and that did not have to change. It was you who gave up. In the simplest way, you quit doing those basic things which were necessary for your survival. You died lazy, stupid, and weak. You died an uncaring, evil, cunt who abandoned those little ones that you swore were your life. No one should think kindly of you. No one should feel sad. I should not miss you. You owe me. I gave you your life when you should have died. I sacrificed my happiness so you could become what you once were, once again. You still owe me, and you can never pay me back. You owe me and what did you leave me? In the end, you left me for your loved ones (the ones who were where when you were so sick?) to blame. You gave them the gift of a clear mind. To them, it was my fault you died. You could have left them the truth that I gave you what only a god could have. I gave you years that you did not deserve. You probably thought this would be about how much I still love you, that I made a mistake when I left, that I wish I could still be in your arms, but that would not be the truth. I left because I realized that you were not capable of loving anything. Your whole identity was a lie, and those who surrounded you did exactly what you would have done--they left when it got hard and uncomfortable. I did not do that. I stayed through the discomfort and the difficult. I gave you a million chances and you fucked up all of them. Now, you are dead. Yes, I wish you were not. Only, though, because you owe me.