Dear 2020,
Although I am fully aware that there is a moderate chance of you not… existing… in the time to which I am writing, I still like writing to you. It… gives me hope, in a way. I like to think that you are there, looking back at me and knowing everything will be okay. Or, watching from above because you know what happens next.
In these letters, I may sound as if I am not expressing much emotion as I write to you, but this is not the case. I am experiencing a bittersweet sensation currently. The reason I cannot properly convey is that I am simply not that good at writing. I take many sad pauses as I write to you, but do not know how to express these with my words. I apologize.
I have not been writing or drawing lately. My writing never really goes where I want it to, and I simply do not possess the stamina, hope, and courage to try to draw. Instead, I have been loading myself up with lots of other academic work like reading advanced books, reading long books I may not ever finish, and setting extreme goals for myself like being happy and completing huge projects. With these, I am usually very tired and don’t pay as much attention to science and math as I perhaps should.
My health is poor; I have been overeating without any willpower to stop myself, not sleeping very much, and tennis was a complete bust which left me flabby. I do not keep up my hygiene as well as I should. (I am pushing myself so hard, yet look at all the things about myself that I must improve!)
I often need breaks from life, and though I take one day off school each week for doctor’s appointments, I am still weary. I find that my fatigue and lethargy do not come from lack of sleep or stress as much as just being tired of this dull, repetitive life that I have been trying so hard to make interesting. I find myself often wishing to take a break to a third place, a void where I float alone in the darkness, without bothering or being bothered. That place sounds so nice. But I shouldn’t say things like that. I probably sound like I want to die. Which I guess is true.
For nostalgic reasons, I suggest you listen to Francis Forever and Sober Up. These are two songs I currently like. But perhaps you do not want to become flooded with memories from this time. If so, I think I understand.
The main point of why I started this letter to you was to talk about Floor Day (this is a nickname I gave it since I forgot the exact date of when it happened. I know Floor Day took place this week, but I have forgotten whether it was Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday). Floor day was the time when I lay on the floor for an hour, and then later Mom didn’t believe me (this is not an in-depth summary). I suppose I will tell you more in the next paragraph since it seems like a different idea than this.
I had been getting ready for bed, when I had selected and watched a fanart speedpaint of Doki Doki Literature Club (I believe it was called D o n ‘ t f o r g e t u s). They had drawn the girls in their weakest moments: Sayori grasping at a noose around her neck, Natsuki with bruises and a black eye, a broken Monika, and Yuri. I am sure that all of them hit me in a different way, each reminding me of something terrible, but I know that Yuri and Sayori did the most damage to me then. I had always felt like I had related to Sayori, having hidden my depression for a long time and all, and had even looked for a place to hang a noose in my room once. Yet, somehow it was Yuri that really shook me the most.
She was… Covering her eyes… crying blood like in the game… But it was her arms… Her arms looked so fresh. Not as in they were still actively bleeding, but so, so recent had been the wounds inflicted upon them… I was really shaken up… I kept imagining… remembering… how my own shoulder, my own wrist had looked like that… I couldn’t get this picture in my head or my wrist, my shoulder looking like her arms.
It was really overwhelming… So I decided to lay down. I hadn’t even thought of making it all the way to my bed, I just simply laid right there on the floor of my bathroom, my face there on my new bathroom rug, my mouth open, gasping for air as I breathed in and moan/mutter/shout/screaming as I breathed out. I felt so heavy. It was like the entire weight of the world at that moment was weighing me down. I couldn't get up, I thought.
So I just lay there. I knew if I kept screaming softly like this, drooling on my rug, wailing to myself, then I would get all the feelings out without having to hurt anyone. But I still felt heavy. And I knew it was getting late. I have wanted my Mom to come in my room, see me there silent on the floor, and gasp and help me. But I have wanted to just lay there for infinity, drifting slowly into that third space I always dream about.
Eventually, I texted my Mom to come here to me, thinking that she would be both surprised and beside herself with worry, helping to nurse me back. But she didn’t. She thought it was weird and stupid that I would be on the floor without being able to get up by myself, and didn’t believe that I could’ve been laying there for the whole hour. I think this kind of broke me down a little bit, so I started crying. I guess I also thought that this might gain some sympathy. ( I really am the **** of the Earth, aren’t I?) Anyways, I just told her repeatedly that I was really, really tired, and then went to bed (where I cried for another half hour or so). The next night I was really stressed about her taking away my phone for the night (I wouldn’t be able to talk to Claira, even if I was dying or something). I tried to explain to her that me talking to Claira was both rare and vital, but she didn’t seem to understand. She doesn’t want me to talk to her about that, I don’t think. She said to talk to her instead (which of course I’m going to do when she totally understood what was going on and was super worried the night previous).
I used to tell myself that even if Connor didn’t think of me the way I thought of him, or didn’t think me very important, then I was still living for my mom. But, not even my mom understands me now. So I guess I better hope I’m important to Connor. Because I’ve always wondered: I’ve always thought that everything would work out, you would be happy, things would be good, as long as you have love. But now I am wondering what is my life, without love? I am always that one that loves someone else deeply. I am the person people only have idle crushes on when they don’t know who I really am. No one really loves me in the deep, bonding way. The real way, No one. So what am I living for?
I guess you could say I am living for you. As in, I’m living so that I can become you, future me. Actually, I don’t know. All this thinking has made me want to lie down on the bathroom floor for a while and relax. It's kind of my safe space, I guess. I can let my feelings out there.
I guess you know you’re broken when they have to give you drugs, and the drugs don’t even work. And here’s the real answer, to all of you who’ve asked: I’m vegetarian because it’s kind of like saving a life every time I deny meat. I know that no one, especially me, could save my life, so I want to save theirs. That sounds really stupid, doesn’t it? But whenever someone asks why, I always think, “Because I know I won’t be able to save my life.” I guess that's dumb. But so am I, so…
Sayonara,
Hollu-chaaan
P.S.: spoiler alert: I made it to bed this time.
Still typing, still typing, still... typing...
