You are probably my oldest friend— seems strange to call you… friend. You are my longest relationship. I have slept with you and fought with you; dined with you and called you name as I shot a load on the flesh of strangers. I have downed whole bottles of gin with you. I tried to silence you by removing us from this world, but here I am writing to you— still here.
The greatest thing I did for us was to tell you that you were too heavy for me alone. That I could accept your existence, but I couldn’t bear your presence by myself. The days of not showering or eating because you told me I was worthless; the bodies that I went after and souls I devoured because you told me no one could want me; the jobs I let slip through my fingers and assignments and classes I avoided because you told me I couldn’t do it— I could no longer stand naked with you as you whispered or shouted that I wasn’t worth it. Our relationship could no longer be the two of us anymore.
The greatest thing I did for us was to bring us to her office and tell her about you. To admit out loud, to a professional therapist, that I was suffering underneath you. That my body would not survive this world, that my spirit would not survive you if I continued with you as my secret.
As you sit next to me during my commutes or hog the blanket after the sun has set and I attempt to sleep off the day, it’s easier to live with you because you are no longer just a “random” mood swing. You are no longer a bad day or a bad week or a bad month. You are no longer the silent killer severing ties to people who say they love me— you are no longer a hidden burden. You are my longest relationship and it is not always easy, but acknowledging your existence out loud has made it easier for me to share a life that I finally embrace as worth living— even when you don’t.
You are my longest relationship and the weight of most of my worry but every day I speak of your existence and live in spite of your taunting, I grow more equipped and able. I illuminate a bit brighter. I love deeper.
I am still here.