Hope
I wish a mother fucker would.
Let me start from the beginning before my crazy peaks. I’ve been thinking about things a lot lately. People from my past. People in my present. People I once called “friend”. People I shared romantic relationships with. And all the other “people” who think they know me, follow me, read my blogs religiously, and dabble in the occasional practice of sabotaging me. It’s a large scope, the amount of other human beings we come into contact with in our lifetime, and sometimes we don’t realize the imprint they make on us.
When it comes to me, I don’t call myself the Bitter Bitch for nothing. I’ve earned my bitter badge the hard way. I fucking hate people. I am suspicious of anyone who wants to befriend me; granting the luxury of my inner circle is a longer process than the Birkin wait list. I find men to be stupid, repugnant creatures, only good for an occasional laugh. I’d rather run them over with my car than fuck one. When I ponder my twilight years, I fondly envision myself in self isolation on a mountainside like Ted Kaczynski, sans the pipe bombs. But in all transparency, I wasn’t always like this. I used to believe in friendship and comraderie. I gave people the benefit of the doubt. I had an inkling of hope that one day my love would be reciprocated. To my surprise, I found that, in the end, the one thing that truly kills us all isn’t betrayal, deception, or disappointment: it’s hope. Hope, that driving factor, that little ripple under your skin and in the back of your mind, that solitary urge to give a mother fucker a chance, is inevitably that thing that wears us all down, makes us weak, and eventually causes our demise. Hope is a four letter word. Like FUCK, but worse, much worse.
So when I think about all the people who have helped me become the bitter bitch I am today, I can’t help but wonder is there really such a thing as forgiveness?
I know that disliking someone takes effort but hating someone is a fucking marathon. When I think of the people that I hate, I’m immediately overcome with emotion: heavy heart, beating chest, sweat palms. I feel the same rage, all these years later, and I’m even more dangerous than I was then. All because of hope. Once I hoped you were going to be a good friend to me, stand by my side, defend me in my absence, cheer on my triumphs, and lend a shoulder during my failures. I had hope. After the tears, disappointment, and heartbreak became realization, I still had hope. I grieved your loss and the loss of our bond, and just when I thought I’d lost hope, a new hope sprung within me. That hope became a spring, and then a river and then an ocean as far as the mind’s eye could see. I still carry that hope with me, everywhere I go. I hope I see you one day, many years from now. I hope I run into you somewhere, after the years have faded the sting. I hope life was unkind to you. I hope you suffered greatly at the hands of the people you chose to surround yourself with. I hope you’ve known great loss and immense disappointment. I hope you’ve felt a shred of the misery you brought me. But most importantly I hope you still have hope, because if nothing else, that will surely be the death of you.
So forgive you? No, I don’t think so. There’s no room in my heart for forgiveness but know there’ll always be a special place in my heart for you filled with hope.