Letters from a Dead Girl

Do you know how many times I have “died” and somehow been resurrected? Really? I don’t even know how many times myself. But apparently if you piss someone off enough you will become “dead” to them. I guess I could be considered a zombie since I don’t feel dead.  In fact, I feel just a bit more alive now that I have accepted my death.

It’s odd though, walking around in this world with knowing that someone out there has declared you dead and yet you are realizing that for the first time in your whole life,  you feel pretty good.  If living meant putting up with bullshit and being used like a dirty rag in a cheap whore’s hotel room, if being dead meant not having to live like you have to keep caring or else you might turn into the “angry mean-spirited shrew who poisoned the lives of anyone who tried to come close to her, and wallowed in her own vile bitterness” then being dead and relieved of that stress is exactly what I want to keep being.

I’ve been dead before. Dead just long enough that I forgot why being dead was a good and quiet thing and let down my defense. Dead long enough to want to believe that people can change and giving them another chance would be good for not only my own heart but to forge a relationship between my children and their relatives.  But then I didn’t realize that I would be stabbed multiple times in the heart before I would be allowed to die again.

Here’s the nice thing about being dead. For the first few days it feels kind of bad. There is this bad taste in your mouth that sours everything and makes you want to lash out at the one who murdered you.  You really want to let them know that it was wrong of them to be so cruel for no damned good reason.  You want very much to scream and let the world know you are still alive and won’t be forgotten. But that doesn’t last, trust me. Because after a while you start to feel as if you understand what your life was supposed to be like and start to put things in order of importance. The next stage is the realization that being dead also meant being relieved of the mortal connections and you are free to move about the cabin.  I started living, and living like I am proud of my life and who I have become.  I don’t need your approval or your guilt.  I don’t have to give you my attention any longer and not giving you my attention drives you mad.

I would rather be dead than be mad.  Dead  feels good, it allows you to let go of the past, let go of the hurt, and best of all you don’t have to be responsible for anyone else’s mistakes.

So take care Murderer of your own Children, you won’t be missed. You won’t be allowed to murder me again. And best of all, everyone is so proud of me for finally seeing that death can be a glorious rebirth.

Love,

The Dead Girl

( Originally published July 24, 2012, after one of the MANY times I was dead to my mother. )

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