Give Me a Minute

What I said last night, I said after thinking it all through, and I said it right. Every night I take three different kinds of sleeping pills and still barely sleep. Something has happened to me. I'm not asking for your attention now—this isn't about needing attention. There's no need to explain all this. No need to say "go see a doctor." I've gone.

I try so hard to stay alive, driven by myself, driven by my mother. I don't play games with my body anymore—it doesn't suit me. I have to survive. When I think about what will happen to my mother if I'm not well, I get terrified. When you hurt me, ultimately it's my mother who suffers.

Let me be alone, please. Let me live a little with my mother, for my mother, please. I just want my mother beside me right now. I don't want anything else. I just want to be my mother's daughter, nothing more. Please, let me breathe. I won't fight with you about anything anymore, won't chase after anything—I don't even have the strength for that. I want to touch my mother, to hear her voice again and again. Surely my mother won't abandon me. Surely she isn't that busy. Whatever else happens, let my mother not understand that I've destroyed myself.

Give me my life as charity, please. I won't answer anything more—I'm tired of talking so much, of explaining so much. I couldn't say goodbye because I was afraid of loneliness. Now it's not loneliness I fear, it's you.

Don't come to me. I've been sick for a long time. I can't carry illness normally like everyone else. When I'm sick I want to talk a lot, I want to see you. When I'm sick I don't recognize myself, can't bear the weight.

Why do you send photos, tell me? You've already become a photograph to me anyway—you're not a living, breathing person. Please have mercy on a sick person at least. I'm not asking you to give me time. Learn to ignore me completely, not halfway. I'm telling you about the illness because later you'll say again, "You didn't tell me before!"

The job was to inform you, so I've informed you. I know you can't come or won't come. Not this week—I know you won't come any week. No problem.

If you can, will you video call me for one minute on Friday? One minute is bearable, surely. When I said one minute, I mean I'll take only one minute, no more. Can't you endure me for one minute?