opheliaslastletter

[opheliaslastletter]

The Rot

I thought the rot that infected me was purely internal. A fungus turns my insides into a brown, withered mush. Pectobacterium eats away at my essence, leaving its fragile bark splitting and porous. However, that rot has now spread to my outsides. A mitospore created little purple and pink crevices on my left wrist; the word unfortunate comes to mind. Mushrooms form on my face, creating purple bags under my eyes. The weight from their chunky caps pull my mouth downward, forcing me to use all my face muscles to create a smile when needed. The rot eats me alive, only leaving bones in its wake. Sometimes the rot overgrows; I am filled to the brink with mushrooms, dead wood, and sour soil. The rot has taken over my life, defining me inside and out.

There are times when I look in the mirror or in photos, and I think that I am perfect just the way I am. I am happy with the way my face looks, the interesting color my wide eyes are, my slender fingers and wrists, my hair (both naturally and dyed), my blinding smile, and the moles that litter my body. I am happy with who I am on the outside.

Lately, I feel that my body has changed drastically, even in the span of a few weeks. My wrist disgusts me, who would want a girl who is sick enough to ruin her own body? My legs, arms, and waist lost their muscle definition and are now covered in a layer of fat; who wants a girl who isn’t lean and sharp? The look on my face has been perpetually sad for the last few months, who wants a girl that looks like she is always on the brink on tears? My hair is two different colors and will not stay in place, even when styled; who wants a girl who can barely keep up her appearance. I now experience physical pain everyday, who wants a girl that only feels pain inside and out? I cannot completely control the way my body currently is. The damage is done, some of it irreversible. I must learn to embrace the rot.

I hate you, I mouth to myself in the mirror. I wish you died. You are ugly inside and out. Mom is right, your wrist will ruin the way I look in my wedding dress, if someone is brave enough to marry you. Your first serious boyfriend was right, your scars are unfortunate. He was right, you are too sweaty to touch, no one will ever touch you. You are a slut, a psycho, a bipolar mess, a alcoholic, a stoner, a narcisist. You are too much, I wish you would just leave.

I don’t want to love myself anymore. I do not deserve to tell myself that my face, body, and hair are fine just the way they are. For everything that is right with me, there is something wrong that overpowers it. I want to crawl out of my body, and reposses an untainted one. I desperately want to start over, I want to redo my whole life with the knowledge I have now. I want to love and be loved in return without exposing others to the rot. I want my everything to be a green meadow, with earthy soil cultivating poppies and stargazer lilies. The only crevices on my body are the wrinkles on the outsides of my eye and lips, formed by the joy of being loved. Dew coats my skin and the hills of the meadow accentuate all that is good.

Only then I am perfect. 

[opheliaslastletter]

Stages of Grief

As a young teenager, I was always told I got stuck in my head. It was always the excuse for not doing well at a swim meet or getting a poor grade on an exam. I fought everyone who said that to me; I don’t choke because I stress myself out too much, I’m just not up to standard. 

However, going into my freshman year of college, I realized that I do get stuck in my head. I realized that I stress out too much and hesitate and exhaust myself. It has impacted my life in so many ways, yet I still leave a little piece of me inside my mind. 

After the attempt, I moved into my head. I decorated it with Nicki Minaj and The Smiths posters, forest green blackout curtains, a queen bed with a thousand throw blankets, and a smart TV. I hung up my clothes in the closet and folded underwear into wooden drawers. Extension cords were plugged into sockets, with chargers conveniently next to my bed. I am here to stay. 

I barely leave now. It seems like I only step outside for work and the occasional conversation. Due to my blackout curtains, I am blinded by the sun each time. It burns my skin, leaving an uncomfortable, itchy burn in its wake. There are times when I think why I even bother getting burned each time I engage with my self. I am constantly shot down, ignored, disrespected, or just plain bored. It isn’t worth the pain or the energy that it takes me to get out from under the plush throw blankets. Every time I go out, my “home” calls me, promising a warm embrace from the burning sun. 

I have found myself locking the door from the outside. I am both the evil stepmother and Cinderella, except this time Cinderella gives up and wants to be locked in. I now sit and stare at walls and out of windows for hours throughout the day. I thought these solo staring contests would end once I recovered from my attempt. Even though tears don’t make their appearance as often, they still leave me lifeless for hours.

Although I sometimes miss engaging my self in my life, I find comfort in my thoughts; even the bad ones. I don’t find funny videos or my favorite show or my books entertaining anymore. I just want my thoughts, because they soothe the ever-lasting, gaping wound in my soul.

I usually think of him. And I like to think that he thinks of me, too. I purposefully search my story views for his brother, hoping that he would relay to him that I still think of him. In two months, he pulled back the curtains and put lightbulbs in my lamps. He dove into the depths of my sea of blankets, rescuing me from my own creation. He allowed me to enjoy movies and shows without the overwhelming feeling of guilt I usually get. I had my hand held, my body embraced, my lips kissed; he has brought light to every inch of my body, and I loved him with every single one of those inches. I wanted him to feel the same warmth he gave to me, the feeling that maybe there is someone who can love me. He was the first person I fell in love with, and it felt so, so real. With his love, I felt like I could finally love myself, like I didn’t deserve to chop my self into a billion pieces. For those two months, I would call him my home. 

Given that he had my whole being in his grasp, it was inevitable that he would break my heart, too. It was both of our faults, but I am still angry. I’m angry that he broke up with me in the library; I’m angry that I had to walk through the entire campus with thick tears rolling down my cheeks and a belly full of hiccups; I’m angry that there were times that I molded myself for you, and it still wasn’t enough; I’m angry that whenever I got upset with him, his first reaction was not to work things out, but to break up with me; I’m angry that he would manipulate me; I’m angry that he never called me beautiful, even though I tried so hard to make myself naturally pretty; I’m angry that he would never compliment my outfits, but find a way to find something wrong with it; I’m angry that he wouldn’t reciprocate during sex, even when I tried my best to pleasure him with my limited knowledge; I’m angry that he would tell me he loved me, but would change his mind immediately after; I’m angry that he would base his opinions and actions from his brother, even though I have never met or spoken to said brother. I’m angry that I tried to give him my everything.

I know he is angry at me, too, especially after the attempt. I know I ruined the “potential” friendship I could’ve had if I hadn’t swallowed the pi11s. I know he is angry with the way he last spoke to me, quietly shouting his feelings in the library, yet still leaving me in the dark. 

There has not been a day in almost three months that I haven’t thought of him. Everything around me reminds me of him: the movie being advertised in the library with his name, the grey Tacoma that chose to park next to me in a crowded parking lot, the Thai restaurant he liked haunting me on the way to the YMCA, his black sandals that sit in the back of my car, the loud ASMR Spiderman that pops up on my for you page, the weightlifting accounts I followed for him on Instagram, the intersection of Colima and Mar Vista that takes me to his house, Cane's chicken, John Wick, Cocaine Bear, black flannels, Arm and Hammer deodorant, blue light glasses, The Boys, La Mirada, always-full blue Hydroflasks, frequent bathroom breaks, scenic photos I take, DJ Khaled, Everlong by Foo Fighters, the Ace cider we shared on St. Patricks, grocery store flowers I begged him to get for me, the mini chocolate heart I purposefully set aside for you, the Girl Scout cookies he shared with me (making me realize that I was in love with him), the pink Valentine’s Day shortening bread cookies I brought to return the favor, my beat up silver backpack I hid our hands under when we first held hands, the sweat that heavily accumulates on my palms, the Dodgers shirt that is intentionally buried in my closet, the condoms that still sit in my nightstand, Italian noses, beauty marks, downtown Brea, movie theaters, aviator sunglasses, British accents, the color green, the yellow nail polish he hated, red slushies like the one he purposefully put two straws in for us to share, Italian pastries, the Bengal region of India, chiropractors, Bullet Train, my own eyes, my purple throw pillow we propped the laptop on, my purple lavender-scented stuffed hippo, the wide-eyed stare I learned from you, the word ‘bruh’, the silly straws I put in my soda cans, and the small plant with the striped pot with his name on it that sits on my windowsill closest to my bed. When I said everything reminds me of him, I literally meant it. He was my whole world. 

In my new home, I fantasize about what could have been. I wish I didn’t get upset at you for not paying attention when I was trying on dresses, I knew you were tired. I wish I didn’t try to X myself. I wish I didn’t tell you the only two of the four lies I ever told you: that you were exactly like my ex, and that I didn’t love you anymore. If I didn’t do all of the above, I would still be holding your hand while watching movies, going on dinner dates every Friday, holding and kissing you, making love in my single dorm room under one of my many throw blankets, eating pizza with your family on Fridays, laying in bed with you while you play with my hair, introducing me to your grandparents, taking off all our clothes and allowing just our skin to touch. Not a day goes by when I think about deeply apologizing to you. I practice my little speech I would give while I corner you in the library the same way you did to me. I want to tell you that my actions weren’t your fault, that it was building up even when we were together. I fantasize that you forgave me, even if it means we are just friends. However, I highly doubt you would ever forgive me; I don’t even forgive myself. I ruined it all, and our happy lives together will only now exist in my home. 

For a while, I was unhappy with my new home. It was lonely, cold, and empty; I desperately wanted to go outside. Now, I have come to terms with my loneliness. I know I don’t have many friends, and the people I hang around with literally are disgusted by me (which only amplified after my attempt). Respectfully, I don’t like both sides of my family, either. They can be self-centered, attention-seeking, dependent, thieves, and hoarders. As much as I don’t like them, I know I have a little piece of all of them in me. Along with my short height, extreme near-sightedness, horrible mental health, and a predisposition to various health issues, I believe those little pieces are the worst kind. 

I crave to be lonely now. I want my attempt to no longer be a failure, but a successful soul-icide. I no longer live in a home, both literally and metaphorically, I am just a body that manages to go to class, meetings, and practices, eat food, and have superficial interactions. I will be happy feeling left alone knowing that I have Loneliness. At first, he made my chest hurt, feeling painfully full and empty at the same time. He made my bed cold and empty, but the smell of him still lingers on one pillowcase I refuse to wash. Now, those chest pains are the same as the pangs you feel when you are in love. My bed is warm and full of his overwhelming presence. I never want to leave his dark embrace. 

He may have been my first love, but Loneliness is my newest obsession. I will give anything to him in order for him to never leave me. I want to feel the chest pains and the ache it takes to get out of bed. I want this feeling to last forever.