Letters from Lockdown 34: Issy Steventon

Dear You,

You needn’t know who You are, because it’s meant for You, and only You, and You won’t even know it’s for You. It could be just one You, but it could be more. I haven’t decided yet, maybe my brain will decide as I write. 

You have no right to call me ‘fat’, or ‘attention seeking’, or ‘childish’ or anything of the sort. You have no right to break me again and again and get away with it. You have no right to make me cry and shatter into masses and masses of shards of glass. 

I will die standing, not on my knees. 

You say I should ‘pick my battles’, and make me feel so crazy I don’t know what is normal anymore, and your words have become so twisted now that I can’t separate a truth from a lie when You speak to me.

I’m not going to say who You are. Because I know, I’ve fucked up at times, I’ve said bad stuff, I’ve said stuff I wish I could catch and return back to my lungs, I’ve said stuff that bring so much guilt that I am a prisoner weighed down by mistakes. 

But You, You have unintentionally become so poisoned. I don’t know who You are anymore. You tell me that You love me, yet I am an ‘embarrassment’, a ‘bitch’, a ‘brat’.

So, I use my voice, to tell You, that You have hurt me. I don’t know how to say it, how to express that I hurt because of You, that all I’ve done is tried and tried to be what You have expected of me, yet I am a disappointment in your eyes. That as soon as I try and do something for me, it’s not okay. But I love You. And I feel so torn, I cannot cut You off, but if it were anyone else, You would tell me I should. 

You have made me feel so crazy that I blame myself, that I am the cause of everything that has gone wrong, that I am the problem, and I should disappear. 

But what You fail to see, is that each time I am ruined, the fire grows. Each time I am put down by You, that you are a form of mithridatism. The last time You will try and shame me, I will be immune, and I will stand my ground with everything I have. 

I hope You have enjoyed, perhaps You might even recognise yourself amongst this letter. But You have made me use my voice, a voice of anger and revolution, one the is unsatisfied.

From Me. 

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