A Letter to My Teachers

Please excuse me today, I am not feeling well. I won't participate, won't support anything you try to do that exposes my vulnerability. I am tired - I spent a good part of my night being slapped, hugged, punched, cursed, and humiliated in front of the only people I have learned to love. I spent the evening not bravely, but necessarily. Honestly not knowing if I would survive the chaos that never seemed to replicate itself consistently. Not knowing if the first outburst, the first onslaught would be the end of it, or if the alcohol would buoy or belay the extent of the violence. I threw myself into last evening's hell knowing no matter what would happen, I would lose something in the bargain. I am sore and I am tired. So please just leave me be today, and if you choose not to, understand that whatever reaction emerges from me is not directed at you as a human being, merely the festering frustration of having no peace, no place to retire to safely. Resisting you will break no bones, will shed no blood, will be a war halfway on my own terms, what passes for the semblance of power in my world. I will forget what ever happens when you call me out, won't think of you any differently tomorrow than I did today. You will suffer if you invite yourself into my world today, it will haunt you for years to come I suspect. I will disrupt your consistency, your sense of purpose, your concept of a good person, your lesson plan. Nothing personal is what I have always been told, but the triumvirate of alcoholism, mental illness, and abuse needs to assert itself efficaciously, never bearing any residual malice for its fodder. You will share, even if briefly, that senseless sort of malevolence that cannot be ignored, cannot be shrugged off. For your sake, I pray you just leave me be today, just leave me be.