Dear _____

Dear Lover,
Dear One Night Stand,
Dear Friend-of-a-Friend-I-had-sex-with
Dear friend of a friend who is also my friend and i had sex with

Dear _______,

As you can tell, I have no idea how to address you because I haven't the slightest clue for how to understand our 'relationship'. I think we're friends- we've spent far too much time together for you to only be a 'friend-of-a-friend'. And I guess we're more than friends because we've been naked around each other and we both liked it. Even if there was way too much alcohol in our systems for the sex to have been amazing, it was still pretty good...

... and I'm doing this again: saying things out loud that should just stay in my head and not come tumbling out of my mouth. Like that night, I did the same thing: you kissed me and I kissed you back and I couldn't stop talking about how I SHOULD HAVE DONE THIS EARLIER AND HOW STUPID I WAS.

And you were nice: you laughed and agreed with me.

I'm sorry I'm so awkward sometimes. The truth is, I'd fancied you since I first met you. I thought you were clever and funny and I was charmed by your propensity for puns and for the way in which we would both nerd out over obscure post-colonial literature.

The truth is, I think I fell a little bit in love with you over our discussion of Rushdie as we waited for the popcorn. I was talking about the book and about to tell you the name of it when you said it instead, and I know I stared at you in surprise-awe because you'd laughed and chided, 'I am doing a PhD in this'. I held on to you a little too tightly as I hugged you goodbye that night. I think you hugged me back just as tight- I don't know for sure. I remember thinking it then, but I'm not sure because I might be making it up in my head to protect myself.

I like you. I wish I lived near you. I wish I didn't have to leave that day (or you didn't have to go home) and I wish I could've stayed a while- a long. long while- and we could've explored what this was. What had exploded. I wish I'd have kissed you before you left that morning. I didn't because I was afraid of morning breath- and god knows we'd both had a LOT to drink the night before. I still phantom-feel the way you kissed the juncture of my neck and my collarbone to say goodbye. That charmed me too.

And sometimes, I like to daydream about it. The what if, the what could have been, the what I'd like to explore. I feel a little stupid afterwards because while we're kind-of friends, we're kind-of-not and I don't know how to deal with this. This thinking about you and wishing we could run into each other and just see what happens. This constantly thinking about you and the way in which my hand fit exactly into yours and you held it so tightly and it fit so perfectly. The way I can sometimes catch a whiff of something that smells exactly like you and winter in London.

The truth is, this is all stupid. I like you and there's no hope here. I like you and you can never know. I like you and I wish it'd go away. I like you and I want it to stop.

I like you and I want to know if you think of me too and if you remember how I tousled your hair and kissed your cheek and how you once held me too tightly before you let go.

Yours,
xxxxxx

Guest Post: A Letter to My Sister

With the new year comes a chance for us to redefine our relationships, to look back and realise the things that worked and most importantly; the things that didn't. It's a tough thing to do: to look at the people around you and acknowledge that things aren't OK. But what happens when these are the very people who are meant to define you, support you, be the constants in your life? What happens when these people are family?


"this is addressed to you." was conceived as a safe space to speak to those relationships, to ruminate on what it means to say "this isn't healthy" and to be angry, to grieve, to yell, to scream, to hurt if you need to. If you'd like to post on "this is addressed to you." please e-mail addressingyou@gmail.com and let me know if you'd like to stay anonymous or link back to your blog!


Mr. B takes this difficult step of assessing relationships and vocalising his emotions, and shares a letter to his sister. 

Guest Post: A Letter to My Mother

"this is addressed to you." was conceived as a space to say everything you've ever wanted to say but haven't found the time, the words or the energy to convey. The space to say all those things you've deliberately or unconsciously edited or censored. It isn't just a space for me, but for all of you who've never quite managed to say it all. A safe space: no judgements, no recriminations, no anger: just everything finally laid bare.

If you'd like to post on "this is addressed to you." please e-mail addressingyou@gmail.com and please specify if you'd like to stay anonymous or link back to your blog!

The first ever guest post letter is by Alicia Anderson, and the blog couldn't have asked for a better first guest post. Her blog is here.

Alicia addresses her mother, after the jump!

You annoy me.

Hey you,

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

In hatred,

Person X

Why yes, there is some satisfaction gained from repeatedly screaming I hate you whilst imagining the person you're saying it to. 

a letter to christmas

Dear Christmas,

Now, I'm no Scrooge. I'll happily give to the poor, buy people things they don't need, and stick a huge smile on my face when little kids talk about St. Nicholas. But, Christmas, here's the thing: I don't care. I don't care about how Christmas is the time for "family" and "forgiveness" and "mince pies". Damn you, that is stuff that should be an all-year thing, and how the hell do you have a monopoly on it? Christmas, quite frankly, is the time for a holiday...and that is all, so stop pretending to be something you're not.

It's the end of the year, Christmas. I've had a tough year with people breaking bones, people dying, people crying, more work than I can possible handle, incredible stress, markets failing & flailing, debt, my parents being annoying, ending up single, a bad haircut... whatever. It's a been a whole year already and I'm ready for some downtime. Time off. To breathe, to recuperate, to get my shit together for the maelstrom that will be next year. Time for a holiday. And that is what your purpose in life is supposed to be.

I don't want to spend the last of my depleted energy and money and patience on sitting around in parties and being forced to attend Christmas dinners with a hodgepodge of people in uncomfortable shoes and a dress that's tight in all the wrong places. I don't want to validate some stupid idea of Christmas having to be about snow, hot chocolate and Rudolph. I don't want to put up fake trees and decorate the crap out of them and send my electricity bill sky high. Sure, it's pretty...but it's not something I care about. If other people want to do it, good for them. Don't make me suffer through it too.

I'm an atheist. I don't care about Christmas carols. I don't care about Baby Jesus. None of this has anything to do with me. So tell me, Christmas, why do I find myself in the middle of planning a Christmas Dinner for people who apparently do care about Christmas... but haven't any family to spend it with? Why, Christmas, does it fall on my uncaring shoulders?

Christmas, I don't want to go to some stupid Christmas dinner and cook and slave in a hot kitchen for people I don't know all that well. I want to lie in bed and watch stupid TV shows instead. I'm happy to stick presents under a tree and have people squeal with delight over them. Or pretend to. Whatever.

I'm not happy to waste the last few days of 2010 doing more crap I don't want to do so that somebody else is happy. I don't want to laugh at stupid Christmas jokes, or smile politely at suddenly religious people. I don't want to wear a dress and shoes and care about how I look. I don't want to watch Miracle on 34th Street for the millionth time. Or y'know, any other damn Christmas movie- except maybe Land Before Time. But guess what, Christmas, I'm stuck doing all this crap and more.

Next year, you'd better leave me alone. It can be my Christmas present. Also? Pass the mince pie.

Unhappily planning Christmas,
Someone who doesn't care about Christmas