A Letter I Write While Staring at You Passed Out in a Sitting Position on the Couch (and while I am half-watching Frankie and Johnny)
(Incomplete and Bridged)Written in the early minutes of Sunday, May 27
I want you to know that I am holding you responsible for your own life (and inevitable demise). That if ever something happens to you—death, disability, a chronic, lingering illness—I shall not be held liable to harbor any form of guilt or regret.
I wrote you a long letter a few years ago. I shed many tears on that letter. I humiliated myself in class during my fourth year retreat in high school by being reduced to a sniveling, weepy mess pouring my heart out writing that letter. All that for nothing. Therefore, should any of my forecasts hold true in the future, I can only tell you this: You brought (and are continually bringing) this upon yourself; I therefore exercise my right to extricate myself from any emotional entanglements brought about by your loss.
(This Frankie and Johnny seems like a good film, only I can't enjoy it fully because you have taken up my space in front of the TV. )
Oh, you have no idea how many times the idea of your death has played in my mind. The many scenarios range from you being shot or wounded fatally with a sharp object by one of your soused buddies. Or you suffering fatal injuries from an automobile accident. And worse of all yet: you getting an expensive, lingering illness, like cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes. No, I don't want you to get that, because I always imagine the anguish (financial and otherwise) it will cause Mama. And then the punishment will rest more on Mama and not you. Lord knows she's been through enough already.
I guess this means I want you out of my life. Or that I'm prepared for the possibility of it.
(If you don't mind, I'll cut this letter short. I'm enjoying Frankie and Johnny too much to spend any more time digging up negative energy to fuel this letter. )
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:
Papa has slipped into alcohol dependency again. I don't know what's wrong with him. I don't understand him. *releases an audible sigh* I'm too tired/distressed/bummed-out to write any further.
posted by Adobobo @ 1:15:00 AM
Comments:
5
