100. Myth

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

Congratulations, my love. We have officially passed the honeymoon stage in our letter journey together. I am sure that 100 letters show you that I meant what I said when I said I would write to you for as long as it takes. Honestly? By this point, and especially after the week I have been through, I am quite sure that life is a joke and I am here just to fail.

But it does not change my commitment to you, even if I will never meet you. If I fail, I am sure there is an audience for that kind of shit, too, you know, being overpowered by circumstances.

Yesterday I was adjusting the letters and posting them, and posted 14. And then today I just… disappeared. I sat the whole day making tea bag envelopes and other BS, fighting my headache and my impatience. I had falls and successes. But I could not face you. Too many things. Too many things.

I had a long, good think about what this space is for me, and how much better it feels now, out of Medium’s hands. And, honestly, reading my letters to you, I keep circling to this one thing over and over again: safety.

I have never known safety. Not ever. I was born to a father who didn’t allow hesitation or emotion, a mother who never quite got along with my sensitivity and demanded more from me than she was capable of giving, emotionally. My older sister, 7 years older, a typical Earth Horse Gemini, and I had a complicated relationship. I admired her. I competed with her. And to this day, her despondent philosophy of life is killing my soul when we speak.

I wonder what it would be like. You know, that Eldorado, that Mythical place and space where you are actually safe. And, to be honest, I did have a man who gave an hour of safety every week. My therapist, later mentor, the Fire Rooster Sagittarius, was an amazing influence, I admit.

So I do know safety can be summoned, manufactured, and guarded for a full hour or two a week. But true safety? I mean, imagine this fantasy land where I land into your arms after a long day, my cheek on your chest, rubbing back and forth against that patch of hair that is literally my home and safety, and telling you how fucked up and angry I felt when Drago’s school psychologist called and told me she has been asking stupid questions like “What high a window do you need to jump from to die?” and “How many Tylenol one should take to kill themselves?”

No matter how many times I speak to that girl about stopping and resting when her body is screaming for it, so that her mind will not get to these extremes, she does not hear me. When you listen to whispers, the body does not scream. But then, who am I to lecture her about screams and whispers and patience?

Imagine that Sci-fi where your hand runs along my back, tracing it as I talk, without tensing or judging. Without criticizing me or calling me an outright idiot. Or worse, pitying me. Imagine just holding me. Letting me be truly safe to feel the anger, the frustration, the “I don’t need your fucking BS right now, you stupid, stupid teen. I am collapsing while holding the economic tsunami that is about to swallow us with my bare hands, and preparing for surgery. I am scared shitless from the pain, the food insecurity, the mess that is coming upon us, and you fucking pull attention to yourself in this way?!”

The fear of her actually harming herself. The guilt of being the shit mom that screams and diminishes, while I swore as a kid that I would do so much better than my parents. Yes, I am well aware that most days, my kids don’t know safety either.

But I want to believe that sometimes they do. Even just once in a while.

Me? Never.

I cannot see it happen. Not really.
This place does not exist, does it? And if I ever stumble upon it, even if I do, I am not sure I will recognize it. Not to mention that it will take a saint to fight my fears and walls to accept that kind of safety.

And guilt. God, so much guilt.

I could not face you or myself after that call yesterday. I was already very rattled and overextended. This week was a literal nightmare. After dealing with the website problems, the inefficient social worker, and the lack of food in the fridge, we also had 2 graduation ceremonies day after day, and then this phone call.

I took deep breaths. I was determined not to let the voice screaming in my head that I was done, that this shit game is not worth it. That you do not exist. That I am an unworthy mother, and really, giving up is the most logical thing in the world. I was determined.

And by the time I got to the girls’ school, I was breathing evenly. I was managing. Only then, I entered the office and see both girls sitting there. “What is wrong, Piggy? You have a guilty face.” I say as I see her. “She took a snack from the office, but the secretary told her not to.” Wolfy supplied. She is quite a snitch, I must admit.

Piggy turned red and smashed the granola bar she was eating straight into her mouth, choking with tears. I calmed her down and hugged her. “I was so hungry,” she whispered. I turned to the secretary. I hate her with passion. She’s a young woman, not a mother, and though everyone at school knows about our situation, that little bitch is always by the rules.

I said nothing. What can I say? Feed my hungry child? Isn’t that my fucking job? I collected the kids, and we started walking. You’d be proud, because usually, everyone can tell when I am off. But my face was perfectly blank, even as the scream in my head was constant and deafening. Here you go, another badge to my failing motherhood records.

I cannot explain to you the pain, how deep, sharp, biting it was when I saw my baby devouring that fucking bar like that. Admitting she was hungry. What 7-year-old should be hungry?!

Yes. Yesterday was a tough day.
And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It feels heavy and contagious.

You know what’s funny, though? I have been that place for others before. Well, you know, before I became this screaming, pathetic version of myself. I was a safe space for people. All kinds of people, every kind of people. I have a friend I am texting with from South Africa, for god’s sake, whom I met at a game chat of some sort years ago- and even for her, I am a safe haven. Every few months, she sends me an update on her life, and I validate and encourage her.

How is it possible that once again, I am the mythical creature for others, but I myself live in the harsh, cold reality where safety simply does not exist?

I never felt safe a day in my life.
How ironic it will be if I die two weeks from now under the knife, never knowing if this mythical land actually exist.

You know, they say that going to surgery with the state of mind that says “If I die, it would be a blessing” is very bad. It’s like an invitation for whoever is in charge to write me off. All I can say is that I am happy I am not going under the knife today, and hopefully my spirits will rise over the next 2 weeks.

Imagine that. Just being safe in your arms. ha. Ridiculous.

Good night, beloved.
I hope life is kind to you. I hope that all the shitty Karma and mood is staying on my side of the Atlantic.
Eternally yours, even like this.
Oxy.
June 27, 2026

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