Yes, I'm not dead! Sorry for my absence, but I've moved away from the internet in general to focus on my actual life. Also I've been writing an actual book! I wasn't even going to type this up but I could NOT get this out of my head for months! So here you go, a little explanation I've made for Helga Pataki. It also has a bit of what I imagine her to be like in the future- this is how I imagine her life. I have a "good life", where her family works out her issues, and this one. I like this one better. I love angst and despair!
Oh boy Arnold, I'm really a basketcase, huh? To think, after going to therapy since I was 9, they've just started me on this "helpful medication!" that I'm definitely not going to take. I don't need pills for being sad. I'm not depressed, or whatever term they want to use. Well, not in my mind, I'm not. But who knows, ya know? I've always had a twisted, sadistic little mind. Usually I'm my own victim.
They wanted to get to the "root" of the issue. I'll tell you what my issue is and exactly how it started. It started when drunk Miriam forgot to take her pill. When, after they popped out award-winning Olga Pataki, they just had to keep on celebrating their trophy child with sloppy, champagne-filled sex. And bam, suddenly, nine months later, little Helga was borne unto the world against her wishes. They never wanted me, the stork just left before they could give me back. I watched my entire life as they set Olga on a pedestal, truly like a trophy, the epitome of everything good in the world. Of course, that fucked her up too, but in different ways than I. It wasn't necessarily her that screwed me over from the beginning; it was how they compared me to her. But I guess we're just a couple of loons out on our own, now.
I guess I didn't tell you yet. Well, instead of Miriam planning to turn sober after she left Ol' Blowhard Bob, she just found herself new arm candy. Of course, with the few times I've written to her, she's sober; she's a housewife, and she's the prize now. I suppose she gets a taste of her own medicine after the way she treated Olga.
Medicine…. God, this stuff tastes gross. The therapist all but forced it down my throat.
Anyway… so after Miriam's big departure, Bob just drowned himself in lazy days and bad decisions. Oh you know, anything to alleviate the pain. Instead of expanding his company, he spent the money on hard alcohol (stuff I've only tried- and you know I was fucked up for a while) and drugs. It was pathetic. But, in a way, it was amazing… for me. It opened my eyes- as if Miriam didn't already do that enough- to what I'd become if I didn't straighten myself out. So I quit the booze, and I quit smoking (that was a tough one). So, besides for these issues in my noggin', I'm pretty much fine now. I'm focusing on my goals for right now. Anyway, after Bob overdosed one night (as I knew he would), he wound up in the hospital, and I was whisked away to stay with my darling sister after they had found out my family history. You know, the neglect, the arguing, the yelling, the lies, and the pain.
The pain I had numbed myself to. Although, being numb was a different kind of pain.
So here I am, 2 years later, living with my sister. To be honest with you, it's not as bad as what I thought- I'm treated as a human around here, and dare I say it, with love.
Love. What a funny topic for us, right? Well, for me concerning you, moreso. Yes, you were my heart's desire since I was 3. But, I'm beginning to see that you weren't. You were just the only person to show me love, so I attached my feelings to you, and you became my image of love. I never knew what it was before, and I still don't. So I chalked what I was feeling- and what kindness you had shown me- to being in love. Had I had parents that cared, I doubt I would have fallen for you so. Even as a 3 year old, I was hollow. I didn't know what I was missing, but when I saw you, I knew. And you filled me, you mended every crack and crevice. But shit happens; we don't live in a fairy tale book.
I had never loved myself, and I still don't. I don't know how to. I don't know what love even is, Arnold. But because I didn't love myself, I fell for you, hard. And because I didn't love myself- (I didn't hate myself, no, I was just indifferent. Even then I was numb.) –I thought no one ever could. So why bother showing you my emotions inside out? Bottling it up was a skill I had learned in my nine years with Bob and Miriam- (Patakis just sweep it under the rug!) – and revealing myself was untouched territory. Leaving myself vulnerable, exposed was something I would not permit. Not to anyone. I didn't love myself, but I respected myself enough to not make a fool of myself.
And then, oh boy, was I afraid. If it ever got out, kids would talk, rumors would spread. And that was the center of my primary school life. Fear. My life was motivated by my fear. Fear of never being loved, of being hated, of being forgotten, of being ridiculed. So I locked myself away and I lost the key within myself. I'm still not sure where it is. I treated you terribly, but I didn't mean it. Never, not one word. But, at least I didn't neglect you. That was something I could never do to another human being.
The neglect never stopped and I, as an 18 year old woman, have gone through 9 years of therapy. I was used to picking Miriam up when she passed out drunk. I was used to picking Bob's shit up when he blacked out from all the shit in his body. And I finally realize it's because I'm better than them, not because I'm weak- because I can't stand to see someone else be forced in the background as I had been. I will not sit around if I see someone sitting in the cold, not minding the freezing weather chipping at her exterior, just because it matched what she felt on the inside. Because I had been through that for most of my life. I forgot myself. I never picked up my pieces, whether it's because I was used to it or because I hadn't realized I was crumbling with every breath I drew. And so, I walked the tightrope between falling apart and standing strong for most of my life.
Gee, thanks, mom and dad. Most parents get their kid a kitten, not mental issues.
But I'm getting better. I'm taking a gap between high school and college to figure out who Helga Geraldine really is. I've just decided, in this letter, that I'm dropping the friggin' Pataki family name. Well, that's one thing I've found out.
I don't even know if I like anything outside of writing and baseball. I'll take some time and I'll write to you when I figure it out. Maybe you can tell me who Arnold really is, too- deep, deep inside that football head of yours.
I've refused to neglect myself any further. I guess you could say I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm going to follow in your footsteps as a role model, not an obsession, to be kinder. I'm going to follow my aspirations- (what even are they?) – and really try to warm myself up. I'll try to rid myself of this aching tundra inside of my frostbitten soul. It'll take a lot of work and demolition to take down these walls and reconstruct them, but I'm on my way. And I don't even need these stupid pills. I don't need these stupid psychologists telling me what's wrong with me. I'm Helga Geraldine, I can figure it out on my own. I always have.
I'm being a better person, but hey, I can't completely change!
Anyway, Arnold, I'm writing this letter (the first of which will not end up with tear stains, taped back together and stuck in a drawer) to explain to you why exactly I'm so fucked up. I thought I owed you a response to that question you asked before Olga picked me up to take me away two years ago. It was a simple "why?", but I've grown to read people like books. I knew you were asking me more than simply why I was leaving. So here's your answer.
Sincerely, Helga Geraldine.
I miss you.
P.S.- Feel free to write back soon, and if you want to include what the old gang's been up to, I wouldn't mind that either. Please apologize to them for me for abandoning them when I got mixed up in the wrong crowd.
Always mine,
Helga.