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Friday August 11th 2006, 8:07 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

MRB,

I canít say that Iím trying to get better because I donít know the steps to healing this dementia. I want to get better, not to show you my improvement or to prove Iím a healthy person, but because I donít want to die, not yet at least. My brain feels like it is shutting down, even when Iím wide-awake. The immediate space around me feels miles and miles away. Iím drinking coffee to see if I can wake my brain up, but I doubt any amount of caffeine can pull me back to reality. There must be a way to renew my connection with the world around me. What I am feeling is the consequence of an overloaded limbic system. Itís almost as if my brain is fried from too much stimulus. I short-circuited a chip on my motherboard. Maybe this is what a lobotomy feels like? I have nothing in common with the regulars in this coffee shop. How can I make friends when my brain wonít allow me to a) communicate with others b) feel anything c) think of other things than my own sorrow and despair and, most importantly, d) get over the dementia. I coddle myself at night. I tell myself that Iíll be all right, that I made it another day, which is progressive to say the least. Iíve become my own best friend. You have Justin, your fuck buddy, and I have myself. I remember you asked me if I had someone comfortable to go back to, someone to fuck, and I said ďnoĒ. No, I donít have that. I only have my fucked up thoughts and myself. So now whoís the lucky one, the one with people to catch you when you fall? Youíve won. Go revel in it like the little brat youíve become. Iím so lost. I donít know where to go, where to turn to for help. I donít want to take this medication anymore. It makes me feel strange, worse than how Iíd feel without it.

FUCK!

ĖC.D.

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