Hey there. I’d say, “long time, no see” but I think we both know that’s not the truth. I hesitated for a long time even calling you by your name.
It felt, well, it felt wrong.
Because you see, I didn’t want to acknowledge you. I was trying to ignore you, actually. I thought that if I averted my eyes when I saw you, walked on the opposite side of the street, or ducked into a crowded room that maybe you’d go away or just give up.
But you are very persistent.
You’ve followed me through the years like a silent shadow; through traumatic heartbreaks, medical mishaps, and even just plain old everyday shit.
Sometimes you linger at times that are appropriate, others not so much. I’m not entirely sure anyone noticed you either. I was pretty good at shoving you neatly under a rug or tucking you in the back of a dresser.
At one point I tried to ward you off with medication but ended up with more dangerous side-effects than actual progress. I paid a lady with a couch to talk about you for a while, too. I’ve spent hours reflecting, trying to pinpoint what your fucking deal is and why you won’t get off my case.
You’re elusive, too.
Which is also why I didn’t like naming you because I wasn’t really sure it was you.
You morph and change all the time.
Sometimes you leave me dry heaving for oxygen as tears burst from my eyes like little flames.
Other times, well, other times you just make me feel fucking empty.
Like I’m missing something, but I can’t put my finger on it. Like walking into a room and then forgetting why you went there in the first place.
You’ve made me feel tired.
The kind of tired that can only be described as an unwillingness for my bones and spirit to move at a normal pace. I can fake it. But only for a little while until you remind me that I ain’t shit and my bed is the safest place for me to be.
I don’t feel comfortable telling my friends and family about you.
Sometimes I’m not sure if they’d believe you're real, tell me to just “get over you already,” or show genuine concern for your obsession with my body and mind.
I don’t want to talk about you because then I’ll feel weak.
Like I haven’t matured properly or like I’m some kind of failure of a person for having to deal with you. I don’t want people to misunderstand. I don’t want people to feel sorry or try to fix. I just want you out of my face, so I can move on with my life.
I haven’t even written jokes about you because I can’t find any possible scenario where you’re funny. And I certainly don’t want you to be funnier than me.
And you know what they say, tons of comedians talk about how sad they are on stage.
“It’s just what we do.”
Well, I want no part in it.
I don’t want to give you a single bit of my stage time or recognition. Even writing this letter is probably a waste of my time.
You haven’t whispered dark and terrible ideas in my head for a while now. You know, like the ones about killing myself. It’s been probably six years since you tried to feed me that shit and I never believed you.
I don’t want to die, you sick fuck. I want to live.
And that’s also what’s so frustrating about you. Every time I live and do something awesome, you still can’t be happy for me. You can’t pull your head out of your ass and tell me your proud or honored to know me.
A lot of cool shit has happened to me recently and you can’t even be bothered to notice.
I moved to New York City. I am doing all the comedy I ever wanted to do. I fell in love for a while. I am inches away from getting my book published.
And you’re too busy trying to convince me the world is on fire and that all the fire extinguishers in the world couldn’t keep everything I know and love from burning to the ground.
You’re such a fucking asshole.
There. I said it. You. Are. An. Asshole.
And not just to me. Shit, you’ve been hurting my friends too. My family. You’ve had your hand in so many of our lives and all you do is take, take, take.
Well, you can take your hand off me, you filthy bastard because I’m through with you.
I’m done hiding from you and pretending.
I refuse to let you rob me of my happiness, past, present, or future.
You get nothing.
You don’t get to push me around anymore or tell me what to do or how to feel.
I hope you had fun because those days are over. Done. I’m arming myself up with everything I can find to make sure I never see your face again.
I’m going to meditate.
I’m going to run.
I’m going to write.
I’m going to speak out.
I’m going to eat.
I’m going to enjoy.
I’m going to do the fucking work.
Because I deserve to be happy.
You’re dead to me.
Nah, you know what? You’re worse than dead. You’re decomposing. Like the rotting banana I see on my way to the subway every day.
You’re so insignificant I can’t even be bothered to notice you anymore.
So goodbye and good riddance. I hope the door hits you on your way out.