31.3.2000

I found myself thinking today: "I loved him." It sounded so true, so convincing.
I loved him. Maybe I did. I always wondered if I did. I've never really understood what love is supposed to feel like. But "I loved him." It was right there, waiting and still it shocked me. It made my heart jump into my throat. It felt like someone had just poured a bucket of cold water on me. It's so clear now. Of course I loved him.
I didn't expect that thought. I didn't expect that truth to come up. I was just thinking of him, how he had spoiled me, almost, and there it was, "I loved him". It's rooted inside me now, that thought I didn't know I had until it was too late. It's there, harboured deep inside me. I know I loved him.

And it feels like a huge relief. Because it explains things. It explains everyhing. And it makes a lot of the pain fade away. It corrects bad memories, almost. Of course I loved him. And that makes everything alright, that makes everything more undestandable. I feel like something had gotten loose inside me and it makes me feel so much more calm, so much less like I was stuck somewhere. I loved him and that is all. There's nothing else that matters.
And, yes, it was in past tense. No, I don't love him anymore. Not like that. But I still miss him sometimes. And perhaps that past tense was what made me feel so relieved. "It's over, move on. You're entitled to move on."
It's like I had paid back. I always felt like I owed him something.

I first talked to him when I was 16. I had discovered the wonderful world of newsgroups that summer, and through some crosspost or another I drifted to that newsgroup. I read it for months because I thought it was funny. I still think it is but I read it less. It took me a few months to bother to click the link to your site. It was always there, available. You weren't there, you didn't post there anymore. I don't know when you did. So I read a bit of what you had written and I felt the need to belong. I e-mailed you the exam and you answered the same day. I was proud. There were people who had to wait for months to get the number. It made me feel so proud and happy and positive. So I e-mailed you back. And you still answered :) I was happy. Talking to you was the best thing that had ever happened to me. You were the first one to take me seriously, to talk to me. And I had a wonderful time talking to you. So wonderful I didn't give a shit about school anymore. So wonderful that I fell in love. And we talked about stuff, about everything. And you told me things, things I never thought anyone would tell me. I was nervous, I was afraid you wouldn't accept me. That I'd be boring or I'd piss you off. And sometimes that happened, of course. And I got used to it. And I still loved talking to you. Until the shit hit the fan.
I didn't tell you about it. I didn't tell anyone about it. Why would I have? I had failed miserably. I was still alive. There was nothing to say about it anymore. And suddenly I ran out of things to discuss. I was too tired and too dizzy and the eight hours of school every day didn't help a bit. There was the guilt. Again, the guilt. There's always the guilt after I fail. I couldn't talk to you anymore. I didn't bear to look you in the eyes.

Then A came along. Her miserable suicide attempt that was so much like mine that I had to laugh. And I didn't ask her why she did it, there was no reason to. She thought she was a good liar but I saw right through her. That's why it wasn't a surprise. I had to talk to you about it. Even if I knew to expect it, it still sweeped me off balance. And you were so kind, again. Too kind, again. I didn't deserve it. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't talk to you again. I was the terrible one, the miserable one. I could look at you even less than before. I couldn't even stand on my own feet, I had to ask for your help. I felt like shit for bothering you again.
I think I despised her. She was pathetic, even worse than I was. But she was the only one like me. The only one I could count on. So I hung out with her. I couldn't bear going back home after the school day had ended. I just couldn't.
I learnt to cut myself that spring. At first it was pathetic, a few scratches. I hardly broke the skin. Then it was more, and then there was too much. It was relieving. It was so much better than hitting myself. It didn't hurt but it left scars. I adore the scars. I need a manifestation of how much it hurts. I need to show someone. I need some of it outside of myself, I couldn't handle it alone anymore.
And I told you. I still didn't tell you everything. I don't remember if I told you about self-injury. I doubt it though. You said you already knew and you made me cry. I took a long trip that summer, with my friend and my to be lover. It didn't help at all. It only made everything worse.
I had to scream. I screamt out of the train windows in the tunnels and no one but my friends knew. My friends laughed.

What happened then is too fresh. I have to talk about it some other time. Not now. It's too early to deal with it. It takes me years to say anything, it took me six months to write that e-mail about my life. I didn't tell you that either. By that time I knew I was lying, was being secretive. I apologized for it and you said it was okay but it didn't make me feel better because I still hadn't told you what I wanted to. And I still haven't.

If I dared, I'd send you this. I hope I will be able to do that, some day. And I still haven't made you the paintings I promised. I will, some day.

Thank you for letting me vent. Thank you for teaching me how.
Love, L.