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4:26 p.m. - 2012-03-26
old letters
Peter e-mailed me that he was going through papers, looking for a drawing he did of Ground Zero from his hotel room about a year later, and found some of my old letters. Did I mind if he read them? Do I want to read them?

I have no right to say no to the first question (and it doesn't bother me, him reading them) but the answer to the second is NO, NO, NO, NO and NO!!

Funny that he asked because last night I was just thinking that when M and I finally bite the bullet and get divorced, I don't want my maiden name back. Most people go back to their maiden names, but my grandmother kept her married name after she got divorced -- to it's possible, right?

Clark -- that is my maiden name -- I hate. I hate how that name made me feel. It's my father's name, of course. My father made me feel worthless and despicable and disgusting every day. He made me ashamed of who I was. I'm not sure whether I was more afraid that he was going to kill me or more afraid that people would find out what happened to me at home.

That name still makes me feel dirty and disgusting. I don't really have much else to say on that subject, but I don't want it back. Sure, Matt's a schmuck, but at least he's a shmuck I chose.

I've know Peter since I was 20 and he was 39 or 40 or so. I was a reporter; he was a governement lawyer; I talked to him a lot. We connected. Or however you want to put it. He was separated but not divorced, and I think I was in love with him, but I don't date married men. I poured my heart out to him instead. And he to me.

I was very unhappy then. I've always been unhappy; I was a cutter in first grade and tried to hang myself the first time when I was 9. The way I think I finally found happiness was deciding to go after the biggest dream I've ever had, working for an organization like doctors without borders. Now that I've set that as a goal and I'm working on it daily, I can't really feel sorry for myself or even hate myself because my energy is needed elsewhere.

Now I counter negative thoughts with "shut the fuck up; your family didn't get chopped up with a machete today." Or when I doubt myself -- "get over yourself; starving Somalian kids don't care if you're lovable."

I don't want to ever been who I was at 20, selfish and narcissistic and scarred and practically revelling in misery. I can't believe I decided to practically starve myself to death and didn't give a fuck about how everyone else around me felt about it. All that mattered to me was what I wanted. That's the problem with psychologists etc-- they lead you to believe that you have some justifiable reason -- or people to blame -- for your problems. Some shrink should have told me, "Your diagnosis is, you're a narcissistic, selfish, self-absorbed bitch. Grow up!"

But then they wouldn't make any money.



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