I HATE PETER WHO HAS ALL THE FOOTNOES AND SUBNOTES

Hey,

I'd like to pretend that this is easy to write, but it's not.

I hate what you decided to do Peter, more than you could ever possibly know. I hate you for all those little footnotes and sub-footnotes that made me want to care again.I hate that they made me feel I wasn't a lone freak. I hate you for those quirky little lines, that were so similar to my own, that you put into your work, just to make me feel less alone. I hate you for your desperate urge to make everything okay, even when you were dying inside. I hate that you tried to save the world from your own valley of shit. I hate you for managing to break my trust years before I could grant you any. I hate that you cared so much about lobsters and so little about your own life. I hate that I've been branded with the same diagnosis as you even though I've probably gone through much less. I hate that you ended it the way you did, that you couldn't hold on to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I hate that because of this, I don't even know if there's an end to the tunnel, let alone a light. I hate that you worked yourself so hard for something you couldn't allow yourself to experience. I hate that I recognise myself in you. I hate that we've even said the same things, that I too have said "I'm not ok. I' trying really hard to be, but I'm not really ok, and I haven't been in a long time."

What I hate more is that I look up to you, so many people looked up to you. I hate that I've been crying for a week about it, when it happened almost two years ago. I hate that I understand why you did it, why you ended it that way. I hate that I want to be like you, I want to be in the same profession. I hate that I'll probably end up been a "crank-turner" because of my own ambition. I hate that I want to footnote this to fit everything in that I want to say. I hate the feeling that even though I feel so empty and devoid of purpose, you probably felt a whole lot worse. Why else would you have done that stupid thing?

I now hate that I loved every line of your essays. I now hate that I cannot think of something without being reminded of you, without being reminded of a person I never met. A person I never met, a person I will never know, a person who I never knew existed before this year, and a person I would never have had the opportunity to meet. I hate that I'm still going to cry about it for months and perhaps years to come. I hate the feeling I get when I cry about it, because deep down I know its really none of my damn business: what right do I have to cry about it?

And I hate that you won't answer. You won't answer anyone, ever again, because you can't. Because you're dead. You are dead and I just can't accept that.

I hate that you died the way you did. I hate that everything you worked for is now pointless because of the way you chose to die, that every single word you wrote is pointless because of your death. You tried to make us feel less alone, and failed in your final act. I hate that you chose this for yourself, that you were that unhappy, that empty, that you were that numb and in agony that you chose to die. And yet again, I hate that I can understand why. Without even knowing you, I can understand why, even down to how you died. I hate that you'll never get to see another sunrise, or write another awesomely long sentence complete with footnotes and sub-footnotes and outrageously random digressions. I hate that I could answer anyone who asked why you killed yourself.

I hate that you'll never get to read this. I hate the unoriginality of this dead letter. I hate that you would cringe if you could read this, that you'd probably denounce me as a nut (or worse, a bitch) because of it. I hate that, even if you were still alive, that no amount of compassion and mercy and love would ever make you feel okay with yourself. I hate not only that we weren't good enough for you, but that you believed you weren't good enough for yourself. I hate that even if you could read this, it wouldn't change anything. I hate that if you were alive, there'd still be nothing I could do, because I don't know you, Peter. I hate that we would never have known each other if you hadn't have died, and that, somehow, I could have made a difference, I could have been the thing that stopped you killing yourself.


I hate so much about what happened, but I don't hate you. I can't bring myself to even consider it. I don't think I'll ever hate you, and I already feel bad about writing this, and I hate that barely any of it is true hate. I hate that by writing this, I'm only adding to the global shrine that's popped up since your suicide, odd though this dead letter is. I hate that I'm going to have to paint you, that if I don't I will be driven crazy until I do, and I'll hate every moment of painting you, Peter. I'll hate that I'll be able to see every mistake, and that I will actually try and make it perfect. Even though you'll never see it. This is almost what grieves me most.

But the thing I hate most, the thing that really pains me, the one thing that's the biggest cliché I've ever heard or written:

I don't hate you Peter. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.


Yours most sincerely,
The Last Person To Know.