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this is my letter to an uncomfortable friend

dear you,

i know you, but i don't. You know that.

i really don't know anything about you. and you know what? i don't want to learn it through your diary. because that would mess things up, mess up the evolution, if there was to be one. we are friends on that jokey-bitchy-happy level and there has been little serious exchange, probably only on my manic part - "Hey you wanna see my scars from the last time i tried to kill myself? yeah! cool! *giddy giggle* woo-hoo!"*

*sigh* i apologize.

i didn't want you to find this, either, but i gave up. and when i did find you yesterday, i was glad that i had told you how to find me. because i wouldn't want to be the only one that knew. because i might have turned into that troll (though it's mostly reserved for the people i love, isn't that nice of me).

but i think i know you a little better - and not through the diary. i know that you're a person who doesn't open up very easily. it takes an awful lot and when you do, you do it "hard."

i formulated a theory yesterday, walking around in the snow, stoned with the realization of what i had done. it went something like this:

dog people are introverts, and their way of being extroverted is by taking their dogs to dog parks or just regular parks, and letting their dogs meet other dogs, and this is how they interact with other people - through their dogs. they are inherently not social people, but need that outlet. on the other hand, cat people are extroverts, and having a cat brings out their introspective, solitary side. there is not much extroversion you can do pinned to a couch by an "idling tractor" of a cat....they are forced to be alone, inside, hidden from the social world.

i feel like i'm in a dog park with no dog.

maybe one of those "invisible dog" thingies, the stiff leash and collar....

this is your dog park, isn't it? the nice layout, the cute colours and font, the even cuter little drawing. look at me here, i'm *definitely* the wacko with the invisible dog. david hasselhoff and skater font? no, i'm in the wrong park. i should be in the park on queen st...right next to a certain hospital with certain crazy people.

guess what? you don't know me either (not in a sally-sending-girls-to-bootcamp-shouting-"you don't know me! shut up!"-kinda-way). you've heard all this stuff about me, but it's not me. i don't even think you want to know me. and that's ok.

so here's the deal. write away, little one. don't let me stop you. don't let me knowing you in real life censor your thoughts (but it does, you argue) - because i won't read you. maybe when you're ready, when we're ready, or when we don't know each other at all...but that's your call. i've decided that i won't ask you to do the same, perhaps to give back that edge that you had yesterday morning, but not yesterday night. it's my apology to you, and i can only give you my word that i wouldn't do it.

and if you knew me at all, you'd know that i mean it.
and that i will do it if i say it.

lots of respect,
me.

*note, i never attempted suicide. years of therapists saying so at me has convinced me of this.