Loathing

Dear S,

I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say to you anymore. I know I’ve been rude to you lately, but sometimes I just don’t want to look at you, I don’t want to talk. The thoughts are all mixed, I can’t make any sense of my life.

You’re better off without me. I’m childish, selfish, paranoid, neurotic, moody, pessimistic and angry. I’m not there for you nearly enough, I don’t visit your house nearly enough, I don’t ask you about your day, I’m vain and attention seeking and self-obsessed. I wait for you to text me so I can ignore it. I think of you as my enemy rather than my boyfriend – I don’t think you’re on my side, I don’t think you’re interested in me, I feel like you’re always more interested in dvds and my computer than you are in me.

I’m not good-looking enough, I think you could do a lot better, and I take your interest in other people as proof of my own inadequacy. I think you’re a bit of a hypocrite, you want monogamy but you’re always checking other people out online, in movies and in real life – to me it’s the same as actually sleeping with them. You’re a lot better looking than me, I get comments all the time, and sometimes I wish you’d cheat on me or tell me to fuck off. I want you to hit me instead of have sex with me, I want you to call me fat, stupid, lazy, selfish and pathetic. I think I gave up on us a long time ago, before we broke up the first time. And in 2008 I guess I gave up on ever being in a relationship with anyone again.

I missed you, but I got used to the idea that I was going to be lonely the rest of my life. I can’t function sexually anymore, I don’t want anyone to ever see me again, and I don’t want to be touched. I can’t get you off anymore, I’m not what you want.

I want to kill myself – I think about it a lot – I don’t want to make it to 30. I imagine hanging myself, setting myself on fire, walking out in front of traffic, overdosing in the bath. Sometimes I actually try it. I’ve started throwing up again. At the UniQ conference in Auckland, while the rest of you went out clubbing, I went to the park and made myself puke out everything I’d eaten that day. I spent a little while crying, and then when I ran out of tears I climbed on the motorway barrier and tried to will myself to jump. What stopped me was not a will to live but fear of pain and the fact that couldn’t ruin someone else’s life that way.

I feel like I’ve boxed myself in, painted myself into a corner – I’ve made sexuality my whole life, stupidly, knowing that it’s something distresses me, that sexual satisfaction is something I can’t ever have because my life situation prevents me – now I’m too old, fat and ugly, I have too many mental health problems, and my body doesn’t work. I wish I was asexual, but the more I want it, and the more my body keeps responding sexually – though never fully – the more sex disgusts me.

I have made myself a laughing stock by being openly bi and polyamorous, people don’t want me and it’s because I’m fat and ugly. The gym won’t change that – neither will dieting – all that happens is that the skin gets looser and the stretch marks get worse. I’m sorry I ever mentioned it to anyone – I’ve probably embarrassed you too. I never want to be seen again, I just want to die. I keep thinking about suicide but I’m scared of getting it wrong and ending up even worse off. I have every intention of doing it before I turn 30. And I don’t want anyone to know what happened – I want to just disappear. No funeral.

It’s hard to look at you because I think you’re beautiful, and you make me look even uglier. When we go anywhere together I think I hear people laughing at me, calling us ‘fatty and skinny.’ I never want you to take my photo again, I want all photos of me erased or burned.