Letters

I love to write. There’s something beautiful and wonderful about words, a magic that goes much deeper than pen, ink, or a digital image on a screen.

It is unfortunate, but words don’t really pay a whole lot and the human body needs food to live. The brain is a story producing engine that requires fuel — food, sleep, a surcease from stress. And lately I have felt very run down and afraid.

I am fairly open about my mental health issues. It’s not something I feel a need to hide — I might not wear the tee shirt, but I’m not ashamed either.

There is a part of me that is desperately afraid of attention and success. I want to do well in life, but at my core I feel as though I need to be punished. I do not deserve love or comfort; I should live in squalor and do without food or sleep.

I cannot explain the part that hates myself. That’s why it’s called a mental illness. There’s something living in my brain and it is mostly outside of my control.

It makes me afraid of people. Even with all of the love in my heart, I cringe away from those I care about. One day vivacious and alive, the next a dull and empty shell.

I wash my hands compulsively. I cringe away from the sound of people eating. My skin breaks out in sweat when I notice the eyes of strangers LOOKING at me.

I cover myself in heavy layers and I hate, hate, HATE the things other people think of me. With a single look my whole day can be ruined, and I don’t know why my fears affect me so.

My mood shifts and change, taking my personality with it. Open and alive, joyous in every moment. Frenetic energy, destructive need to please. Cold fear and quiet despair, sucked down into the darkest depths of melancholy: Why am I still here?

Each day is an adventure in finding out who I am and who I’m going to be. Happy-go-lucky party girl. Wailing banshee with a mouthful of profanity and rage. Shy introvert struggling to hold on. Or blank automaton sleepwalking through the hours, unable to even care.

I try not to let my mental illness control me, but that’s part of its sick trick. It holds me captive in my own skin, unable and unwilling to ask for the help I need. “I can handle things alone. I don’t need anyone. Today is going to be a good day. I can’t let anyone see what a mess I am. I don’t deserve help anyway.”

* * *

It’s sad, but I can’t trust myself. My own brain fights against me. My moods are a liar.

That said, I love to write. I am filled with stories of other places and people. And as my mood shifts and bends, wonderful characters are created and born.

Would medication take them all away?

I do not trust myself to take care of me. How strange is that? How frightening, to wonder if I will come back to myself and find my life in ruins — it’s happened before, it will happen again. I am an explosion caught in time, already ignited and waiting to burn.

The only thing I have of worth is my words. They’re the only constancy about me, my only means of displaying my love — for life, for me, for you.

And so I write my stories and I send them out into the world. It’s the way I say “I love you. I cherish you. I want you to love me too, just don’t say the words or I will run away.”

Kimichee, AO3, LJ — it makes me happy to post my stories and see them read. Even knowing that I should not give all of myself away for free, I cannot help myself. I love so much with my words. I just want people to see the real me, even if it’s only on occasion, even if it’s only parts of me.

So I write and write, and I share and share. And I’ve accepted that that’s who I’m destined to be.

And I trust myself to all of you. That those who love my words will buy my books even if they can get the words for free.

Because at the end of the day I am only human. And humans need food, water, clean air and sunshine, a place to lay a weary head, clothes and shoes to wear, and the peace of knowing that when I leave with my mind someone will make sure my body does not die.

I cannot trust myself. So I will trust you.

Thank you.

Love,
~ HarperWCK