Dear me,
As per your own current rule —
you had seven days to think about that hanging question
your sister so bravely threw at you.
Maybe not expecting you to answer.
Maybe only expecting you to support her.
Time is up.
And the letters on the laptop are waiting to be put into action.
—
"I don't understand. Is there something wrong with me?
Why does it always happen to me?"
A question like that coming from someone you love
is like Russian roulette with an old revolver.
You have to pull the trigger.
Even though you know the bullet may kill both of you in one shot.
So here lies the dilemma.
Because there is always at least one, isn't there?
The bullet is aimed at two fears.
Tell her the truth and watch her bleed.
Or comfort her and watch her lose herself.
Hurt and alone.
Either way, there will be consequences.—
I refuse to serve the world's victimhood agenda anymore.
Before my sister.
Before my parents.
Before all.
Is that an honest life —
or just a way to push my own agenda?
The one that got me here loving myself?
Aren't we all loving ourselves differently?
And can I at least present mine
in a well-wrapped shotgun
aimed directly at my sister's heart,
doubts and insecurities?
—
Dear sister,
As I came to understand love —
not just the love for another, but the love for myself —
love is a threesome between the mind, the body and the soul.
If you're going to be fucking up sheets,
you better make sure all three parties are included.
Because if you exclude even one of them,
it's just sex.
—
To accept yourself is not the same thing as to love yourself.Your mind may say:
I love you just the way you are.
But then your body never receives the treatment of love,
delivered through care.
And the soul suffers because she feels excluded from the conversation.
It is kind of like the guy who constantly says:
I love you. I swear.
But deliberately keeps acting against his own claim
and never shows it in any form but words.
Imagine that guy is your brain.
Telling your body: I love you.
While your actions refuse to justify it.
Because every time you decide to postpone looking after it —
feeding it well, nourishing it, showing up for it —
the body starts questioning your love.
And the soul feels the betrayal.
It is all connected.
Your own love has to be earned as well.
Earned through the small choices.
Love has always lived in the small things.
—
The fucked-up truth is that it is not only you
who can see when you are not choosing yourself.
Everyone around you can see it too.
And people who do not choose themselves
often do so because somewhere along the way
they stopped believing they were worth the effort.So eventually you are only understood
by people operating from the same place.
A place from which you are not greatly impressed yourself.
This is just who I am.
I've accepted it.
That's not really me.
Maybe.
But you don't have to.
—
The body is evidence.
Evidence of the relationship you have with yourself.
It doesn't need to be perfect.
But it needs care. It needs maintenance.
Because the body starts fact-checking
the claims the mind keeps making.
And when you deny that care to yourself,
you deny others the chance to see it too.
The energy that follows your choices
eventually reaches the rest of the world as:
This is my lifestyle.
Or:
This is not.
And people respond accordingly.
—
Long ago I loved someone so deeply.At the lowest emotional state of my life.
And I thought to myself:
I am not worthy of him.
But was it really love —
if instead of becoming better for him,
I chose to push him away?
Life is not complicated.
Only the explanations are.
And when there is action towards your best self,
there are fewer and fewer questions like:
Am I the problem?
—
I refuse to comfort you with lies.
Because if I saw no potential in you,
comfort would be enough.
Your younger, smarter and funnier sister.