May 2018
Dear 2020,
I’m sorry I write to you so much. It must be pretty annoying, having to go back and read all these. And maybe I’m writing to you when you don’t even exist anymore. Hmmm.
Even if you aren’t alive in 2020, I still like writing to you. Like I said last time, it kind of gives me a little hope. And if you aren’t alive, then I guess Connor might want to read these… I mean they are kind of depressing sometimes so maybe that's not the best idea and I know he probably doesn’t care this much about me, but if he does care about me like he says he does… Then I think he might want to read these. It might help him better understand why I had to go.
And if he reads these, he might know that I was never angry with him, or the world, or anybody really. I was just angry with myself for not being able to live up to everyone's expectations, especially my own. He might understand then that it didn’t matter if he did care for me, I am too paranoid to think anybody ever could. And even if I knew he cared for me, it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, but the world is just not the place for me. I can’t handle it. I’m not strong enough. And if I hurt you by saying this, then I’m sorry. But it’s the truth. I’m not trying to make you upset by saying these things, I’m just trying to be honest, and honestly hurting you right now won’t matter because whether it’s in a week, a month, or even a year, you’ll forget me. And that's okay. I’m not trying to tell you that you should remember me. I don’t really deserve that, in a way. I’m the kind of person who just needs to be forgotten. To disappear. And I know that.
And I know fully that saying what I’m about to is either going to be too stupid or too late, but… I always wanted to be buried in the Lower Pasture, with the dogs. But I guess… Unlike them, I don’t really deserve it. So maybe not.
I don’t really like thinking about what happens after you die. I mean, I had of course always wanted to go to heaven, as we are taught we should want to do, but I don’t want to rely on hopes like that. I have learned already that living on hopes doesn’t work out for me. And of course, I don’t want to go to hell, either. I just like thinking that after death I just get to stay in that comfortable third space forever. That… sounds a lot more enjoyable than staying on this planet. I don’t like thinking about my funeral, either. This is because I had always pictured people being sad about my being gone, bringing casseroles to my parents, and crying half-heartedly at my funeral because let’s face it: only Connor and my mother ever really knew me. But then I think to myself, oh Holli, you know that people didn’t know who you were. You just said that. And yet you still believe that people would be saddened by your absence. You still think that people would cry at your funeral. You still think you would be remembered, and that you would linger in the minds of those around you. But that's a little selfish, a little rude, isn’t it? To think that after being who you were, and admitting that only two people got even a glimpse of who you really were, after you lied to all the rest, that people would still care about you? You know, don’t you, what happens to people who die after not being very well-known. You know what happens in the hearts of those who attend the funerals of suicide victims they did not know very well. You were one of them. You, yourself, did not know very well Jackson’s father, and you yourself, knew that his death had affected Jackson. You knew and cared about Jackson. You hated his father for doing this to him. You hated him. You know, now, that it was not Jackson’s father who did anything wrong, but the world, and you only know this because you, yourself are also being crushed underneath the weight of the world and living in it. But the others will not know that. They care about Connor, and they care about your mother, and they will hate you for hurting them. And Connor and your mother will hate you, too, for doing that to them. Do you hear that, Holli? The only people you know you love in this wretched world will hate you, hate carrying around the burden of you in their minds, hate you, hate that you existed, and maybe hate themselves for being near you. And I ask you: Do you want that?
And I start to cry. Because I don’t want that. I do not want them to hate me. But I am helpless; there is nothing I can do anymore. I am doomed. I was born to die. That’s why I peaked in second grade, why I had always lived my life to the fullest and was true to myself. I bet that somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew that I was born to die. I know it is my own fault. And yet I want deeply to believe that it is not. If they end up hating me, then I am sorry. I hate me too. But I was born to die, wasn’t I?
I apologize for this letter being as dour and grim and ridiculous as it was. Haha… I really am a pessimist, aren’t I? Oh well. None of this will matter in the end, anyway.
Love,
Holli
I’m sorry I write to you so much. It must be pretty annoying, having to go back and read all these. And maybe I’m writing to you when you don’t even exist anymore. Hmmm.
Even if you aren’t alive in 2020, I still like writing to you. Like I said last time, it kind of gives me a little hope. And if you aren’t alive, then I guess Connor might want to read these… I mean they are kind of depressing sometimes so maybe that's not the best idea and I know he probably doesn’t care this much about me, but if he does care about me like he says he does… Then I think he might want to read these. It might help him better understand why I had to go.
And if he reads these, he might know that I was never angry with him, or the world, or anybody really. I was just angry with myself for not being able to live up to everyone's expectations, especially my own. He might understand then that it didn’t matter if he did care for me, I am too paranoid to think anybody ever could. And even if I knew he cared for me, it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, but the world is just not the place for me. I can’t handle it. I’m not strong enough. And if I hurt you by saying this, then I’m sorry. But it’s the truth. I’m not trying to make you upset by saying these things, I’m just trying to be honest, and honestly hurting you right now won’t matter because whether it’s in a week, a month, or even a year, you’ll forget me. And that's okay. I’m not trying to tell you that you should remember me. I don’t really deserve that, in a way. I’m the kind of person who just needs to be forgotten. To disappear. And I know that.
And I know fully that saying what I’m about to is either going to be too stupid or too late, but… I always wanted to be buried in the Lower Pasture, with the dogs. But I guess… Unlike them, I don’t really deserve it. So maybe not.
I don’t really like thinking about what happens after you die. I mean, I had of course always wanted to go to heaven, as we are taught we should want to do, but I don’t want to rely on hopes like that. I have learned already that living on hopes doesn’t work out for me. And of course, I don’t want to go to hell, either. I just like thinking that after death I just get to stay in that comfortable third space forever. That… sounds a lot more enjoyable than staying on this planet. I don’t like thinking about my funeral, either. This is because I had always pictured people being sad about my being gone, bringing casseroles to my parents, and crying half-heartedly at my funeral because let’s face it: only Connor and my mother ever really knew me. But then I think to myself, oh Holli, you know that people didn’t know who you were. You just said that. And yet you still believe that people would be saddened by your absence. You still think that people would cry at your funeral. You still think you would be remembered, and that you would linger in the minds of those around you. But that's a little selfish, a little rude, isn’t it? To think that after being who you were, and admitting that only two people got even a glimpse of who you really were, after you lied to all the rest, that people would still care about you? You know, don’t you, what happens to people who die after not being very well-known. You know what happens in the hearts of those who attend the funerals of suicide victims they did not know very well. You were one of them. You, yourself, did not know very well Jackson’s father, and you yourself, knew that his death had affected Jackson. You knew and cared about Jackson. You hated his father for doing this to him. You hated him. You know, now, that it was not Jackson’s father who did anything wrong, but the world, and you only know this because you, yourself are also being crushed underneath the weight of the world and living in it. But the others will not know that. They care about Connor, and they care about your mother, and they will hate you for hurting them. And Connor and your mother will hate you, too, for doing that to them. Do you hear that, Holli? The only people you know you love in this wretched world will hate you, hate carrying around the burden of you in their minds, hate you, hate that you existed, and maybe hate themselves for being near you. And I ask you: Do you want that?
And I start to cry. Because I don’t want that. I do not want them to hate me. But I am helpless; there is nothing I can do anymore. I am doomed. I was born to die. That’s why I peaked in second grade, why I had always lived my life to the fullest and was true to myself. I bet that somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew that I was born to die. I know it is my own fault. And yet I want deeply to believe that it is not. If they end up hating me, then I am sorry. I hate me too. But I was born to die, wasn’t I?
I apologize for this letter being as dour and grim and ridiculous as it was. Haha… I really am a pessimist, aren’t I? Oh well. None of this will matter in the end, anyway.
Love,
Holli
I often regret things I send in letters after I've sent them... but that's just how letters are, aren't they? And you shouldn't change primary documents...
