To John Doe Dear John, I am fully aware that this may not be your name, but I had nothing else to call you. I don't know your name. In fact, if I think rationally, I'd say I don't know you at all, and it is possible too, that you don't know me as well. So whether you remember it or not, I want to thank you. Three years ago, I dreamed about you for three nights in a row. Your face was always blurred and if you're asking how I came to know that it was you, well, it always feels like you. I know, it doesn't make sense. The people who will read this may think I have gone a bit crazy. But I don't care. See, in those three dreams, I never forgot you. I never forgot that you saved my #life three times. So thank you. But wait, I'm not only thanking you for saving me in my dreams. I am thanking you for making my #life more interesting. Three years ago, my #life is a blank canvas and as much as I try to put color in it, it just remains blank. You don't know this, but, the morning I woke up from my first dream of you, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. You and pretty much, your existence in my mind, made me feel like I had a special secret to keep, like I was someone unique, someone different. The first dream, I was drowning and you saved me. The second dream, I was captured but then you freed me. And the last dream, I was hurt and you took care of me. I will never forget. You wore green most of the times. And I can't see your face or your eyes but I felt their warmth. The moment you were near, there was static. Yes, it seems cliché, but how else would I be able to describe it? Now granted, I am not meaning to portray you as a knight in shining armor, because even though I would love them to still exist, they don't anymore. So it's either you're just someone who has a brave heart or someone who only exists in my mind. It will be very sad for me to know that you live only within the walls of my imagination. My wish every night is that you aren't. I wish you were real, alive, breathing, and of course, human. I wish I could see you, see the color of your eyes, your face. You. I wish you existed. I wish one day, we'd bump into each other, and smile, and soon realize that we seem to have met before, perhaps in a dream. I wish you had the same dream as mine. I wish you were looking for me as well. However, if you did not exist, then maybe, just maybe, in some alternate universe, you'd read this and begin to think of me. You may or may not be John, and you may or may not exist. Still, I thank you. -Jane Doe

Four You bite your finger. You're trying to avoid the temptation of scratching yourself with nails you haven't trimmed for a while. You pretend you have an itch just so you can have an excuse to scratch yourself, to hurt yourself, to experience the punishment you put on yourself for being such a failure. You bite your other finger as you stare into your bruised arm. So many bruises. One for each mistake. You count them to take your mind off of the temptation. One, two, three, four--four bruises equals four mistakes. Four stupid failures. Oh, you hate yourself, alright. You repeatedly call yourself a weakling, a disgrace, a misfortune to your parents. Your parents. No, they don't know about the four bruises. You hide them so well. You fake a smile so often in a day that you wear the smile almost all the time. But right now, you're all alone. You're in your bedroom. The door is closed, locked. Nobody's home. You divert your thoughts back to your arm. You have scratched it, punched it, bit it, and everything possible to punish yourself. All but one thing. You could never muster up the courage to cut yourself. No, no cutting. That is what you say. It is too messy, too bloody. No, mom and dad would find out early if you did. You weren't satisfied with seeing your arm bleed. You'd rather pick the bruises than stitches. Suffer. Suffer hard, that is what you want. Torture yourself with words. But then you hear the front door opening. It's your mom. You can tell by the sound of her footsteps. She calls your name. You quickly hide the bruises, then you release your fingers from your mouth. The teeth marks on them are visibly seen. You clench your hands instead to avoid letting your mom see them. You quickly put on your jacket, covering those four bruises. You dry your eyes. Then you put on the smile. You unlock the door and you re-enter your world of fake smiles as you greet your mother. She doesn't know, nobody knows of the four marks of shame underneath that jacket. Nobody knows of the fake smile. That fake smile.

Just Don't. Don't. Don't frantically check his facebook page time and time again. Don't look to see if he has liked your new profile picture. Don't even fantasize he would. You're that kind of girl who loves to wonder if he ever thinks about you; if he ever misses you; or talks about you. You're the kind of girl who would rather spend time imagining a situation where he'd regret not missing you. When you're alone, you are always in the mood to pretend you were him and blurting out words such as, "I'm in love with you. It just took me a while to realize that". You love to act the part of his girlfriend--a girlfriend he doesn't even know he has. But don't. Don't because he never will. You have probably done all the tricks in the book and it didn't work on him. You tried making him miss you, but how can he when you no longer exist in his present? You tried, but don't anymore. You are a woman, a girl, one of the female species. We are more than hopeless romantics. We do more than long for the company of those who forget about us after six months or a year. You are more than his groupie. You have the strength of a thousand men. Endure. Discipline. Don't. Don't make a fuss because of him. Forget about him. You are beautiful and he is blind if he can't see the Aphrodite that you are. Forget about him. You are smart and funny. You can light up a whole city with your smile. And he will not extinguish your light. Forget about him. You are more. You deserve a man, not a boy. You deserve someone who appreciates your humor; shares your wit; admires your strength; thinks your imperfections are what makes you beautiful; and most of all, never, ever dares to forget you. So don't think about him anymore.

Deep In #depression #depression. When it comes to you, it hits you hard. You start to feel like there will no longer be a tomorrow. You're entering an abyss of darkness. But somehow, that darkness is addicting. You're addicted to seeing black all around you and soon, pessimism covers you from head to toe. Then you start to realize, it is choking you. You push and you pull, but it's no use. You are so steeped in your #depression that it has become you. You forget your dreams, your hopes. What was once so interesting to you feels like a grey canvas. You start to lose yourself. Who are you? What do you want? What do you need? Need. You need help, and you know it. But the #depression, it is addictive for something so destructive. You hate it, but sudden withdrawal is painful. Need. You need someone to understand; someone who will share your pessimism, your darkness, but not be a slave to it like you are. And now you're lonely. You hate yourself. All the thinking made you lose your train of thought. You curse yourself for being so worthless. Yes, lately, that's what you think you are--a worthless piece of garbage. You suck at everything you do while everybody else rises high above you. You suck at what you used to love to do. You suck at even the littlest thing. Worthless. Depressed. It is not a damn joke! You can hear people talking about you, laughing at you, even when a rational part of your mind tells you the opposite. And you don't want to involve your parents but the thought comes to you. You hate yourself all of a sudden again because you tried so hard not to include them in your #depression. Now you have to think of them. And thinking of them makes you so uneasy, not that you despise them but more so because you feel they despise you. Isn't that always the way? You're depressed. You feel paranoid. Your self-esteem decreases by the minute. Your messed-up mind makes up some stupid story how your parents will condemn you for being such a cowering wimp, and probably themselves for the insane child they brought into this world. I swear, #depression is hell. Trust me...because I've pretty much described to you what I feel right now.