Because letting this all out in letter form is therapy
I write this letter addressed to you because I think sometimes you are my only friend. I know you will never receive this and I'm typing this feeling terrified in my bed. I do not know how far the piano will take me. My hands are improving, the therapies are working, but there are places inside me that feel broken. Sometimes it would be nice to throw it out and quit. But what of me then? I fear a life absolutely filled with nothing with no one to call a friend. I have no one to hold. I'm a big guy and it's embarrassing but I want someone to lie next to and just sob. I wish at moments that it was you. I hear my brother in the kitchen, talking to my parents on the phone. They will be arriving soon. I am so tired sometimes, so exhausted at this lie. By God I know they love me but why do I feel as though I simply landed on earth by pure chance? No real mother, no real father, and no family. Would a real mother admit to you openly that she treats you badly because of jealousy? Would she lash out to you and insult you because of a mood and then make you feel as though it were your fault? Would she then become the kindest mother you would ever know? Would a father watch and do nothing to defend you? Would he lie about his identity his whole life? But still remain your biggest inspiration? Would your father pin all of his dreams on you and then watch with guilt as it all crumbles. The same goes for my brother. The poor b****** is just a miniature of them. The cycle goes on. They confuse me. I never know my true feelings. Could someone simply love me and I realize clearly that they do? I don't get mad for no reason when I lash out at you for poking fun at me. When the closest people to you are the ones that cause you the most harm, I doubt you would have acted differently. For some reason you mean a lot to me and even the tiniest jokes at my expense hurt me. I am over sensitive. Call me a p**** for all I care.
And yet for some reason my mind clings to the very notion of life. How is it that despite feeling so empty, there is still a force, a need to carry on. It frightens me. I wish sometimes you and I were close enough to talk like this. I know deep down we understand each other. I think I might love you at times. You always say you are straight but we all know the opposite is obvious. You'd probably stop talking to me if I said that to you. It is all just a blur. Will I be able to play beautifully again without feeling pain? It got to the point where I couldn't take it anymore. I still remember the concert where my playing had moved you and I was so touched that I told you how much I wish I could kiss you. You said nothing. It didn't matter. But that moment made me continue on my path to recovery. The piano is the only place I know where I can express love and to lose that is almost like dying. I wouldn't know where else to turn to and I'm afraid it could come true. It's funny how a profession imposed on me by my father could cause me so much joy and so much desperation. It is as if I move on autopilot between two forces. Please forgive me if these thoughts are scattered. In my 22 years on this earth this has been the way everything works. Somehow thought, whether it's cooking or taking a walk, spending time with you makes me feel like I have a home.