Letter to True Self.
Dear Me,
Long time no see. I can’t in fact remember when I really saw you last. Perhaps I saw a glimpse of me as I walked through the doors of the treatment centre. An image distorted by the dimpled windows in which I caught your reflection so, so long ago. And once not so long ago you nearly slipped out of your bag, but I managed to stuff you back in. I check that you’re in there from time to time, but all I can see are your eyes shining in the dark, blinking at me innocently, accusingly. It’s for your own good. I tell myself. And I like to remind you. Because you’re so fragile, naïve, innocent. No. In fact, you’re not innocent. You’ve been very bad. I’m not angry. Just disappointed. You get me into frightful trouble, and I always have to step in in front and take the bullet. Because I can take it, you see. You’re too weak. You don’t have my cred. You can’t handle the real world. You’re not man enough. That’s why nobody likes you. I don’t even like you. And man, as you know. I’m pretty easy-going. You’ve got no ambition, no drive, no grit, as the priest said. And you’re lousy in bed. All fingers and thumbs, fumbling around in the dark, terrified of ejaculating too quickly. What are you? Who are you? That’s the part I hate the most. The pooffy part. You keep showing me up, embarrassing me, and that’s why I keep you hidden. I’m lonely because of you. Women don’t look twice at me because I’m not man enough. Men hate me for the same reason. Anyhow and this is what I wanted to say. I’ve not been feeling myself lately. And now, recently, every time I open the box to look at you, you seem to have grown. I swear, I even thought I caught you smiling at me, and when I went to close the box, I really had to sit on it to keep you inside. Afterwards I felt weak, and I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I know what I need. I need a stiff drink and a good use-up to make me feel real again. But I can’t, you see, and that’s scary. It may come to the point, and I hate to admit this, it may come to a point where I have to let you out and let you take over. Or else, if I keep doing what I’ve been doing, for you, us, for all these years. The way I’ve been doing it; I might just die. And if I die, we both die. So please, please, if I do let you out, and I let you sail this ship, be kind to me. After all, I’ve kept you safe all this time. I got rid of all those meddling friends and tiresome family, and we, or at least I, have had a lot of fun, I think, haven’t we? Just beware. If I let you out, I’ll have to let the feelings out too. Remember them? It was them that made you scared. And people—you’ll have to deal with all those horrible people who’ll demand love, commitment, and all that serious nonsense that I’ve kept you safe from with my cruel, vicious wit and my inappropriate behaviour. So don’t stick those feelings back in the box, because they’ll find a way out. You have to own them and take the power yourself. Take the power out of them and give the power to yourself. Then at least you’ll be free and we’ll be safe and happy. I’ve enclosed the key to the box and a set of simple instructions, such as where the arse is and where the elbow is and how to tell the difference. You’ll have to find the heart yourself. You gave it away once. To someone. Remember? And they broke it. But most of all, most importantly, you’ll have to make your own mind up. Mine failed its MOT. Good luck. God bless. Aidan.
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