"Every form of addiction is bad." - Carl Jung (Part 3)

I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.

Hi Dad,

I’ve been having trouble sleeping again, but I don’t quite know if it could be classified as insomnia. You see, I’m afraid to sleep because I’ve been having trouble dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Seldomly do I have nightmares. God, it would be so much easier that way. But, no. I dream. I dream of how different things would be if you had never left. Dreaming of being able to cry on your shoulder when I bleed. It only makes the "blade of reality" (as ridiculous as that sounds) cut me so much deeper, because reality has seen the way my tears slide down my face, only to be caught by my own trembling fingertips.

I’ve been having trouble with love again, because I have kept choosing men just like you. Maybe if I can fix them, things will change. Pathetic, right? How much more of a textbook case could I be, right? Obviously, I always come out with a fresh new wound. If only you could see the scars. There are so many scars.

I have always been having trouble with the truth, because I know she will always mean more, and I know that you have a different woman’s legs wrapped around your waist every night in those inebriated frenzies of lust you are addicted to--- a bottle of hard liquor dangling from your lips.

And what's the truth? The truth is that you didn’t even look behind your shoulder to see my face one last time as you walked away. The truth has me on my knees, bending over a toilet with my hand shoved wrist deep inside my throat. The truth is the pain that spreads through this ink every time it’s too much to contain.

This late at night, there is little else to do but sit on this bitter cold tile floor, staring at the blank stretch of whiteness that is the wall. The only sound at this hour is my own shallow breathing, and the sound of my tear drops beating a steady rhythm upon the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I think the hardest thing of all is struggling with, and trying to accept the fact that this is the only way I can tell you how much you’ve hurt me: a badly written letter that I will never send and that you will never have the chance to read. All each night represents to me is a tally, keeping count of how many times one heart can break.