So this is a letter that’s been a long time coming. It’s also a letter that I’m a little nervous about, because whoa shit do I let slip some of how crazy I really am here.
Because Dean, I get you. Which I’m sure you don’t believe, and are probably making some sarcastic-ass remark about it now. And I can’t say I blame you for that. Because on the surface, we couldn’t be more different. I grew up in a stable, loving home, with both my parents and sisters in a normal house with a backyard and dogs and all those apple-pie white picket fence clichés. (Coincidentally, I make a ridiculously awesome apple pie after learning from my grandma. If you ever want to try it just give me a heads up) But anyway, getting to the point-
It’s the monsters inside us that make us similar. I don’t mean literal monsters, though you’ve seen your share of that. I mean us. Our own minds, and the way they twist every thought, every interaction, every memory to turn us into someone we don’t want to be. Because it’s not a voice in your head, not some demon or monster that’s telling you horrible things, it’s you yourself. Tormenting yourself, telling you that nothing you do will ever help in the end anyone in the end, because you yourself are worthless. Living in fear that everyone you love will leave you, and pushing them away because you know they should leave you. Because even though you push down every useless emotion that might get in the way, you still aren’t good enough at the job you assigned yourself- taking care of everyone else.
We spend our lives trying to do good, because our minds tell us we are worthless. We know the best we can do is devote our lives to penance for the sin of existing in the first place- because we feel that the world would have been better off without us being born.
And yeah, it makes zero sense, thinking that way. We know it’s not true, but convincing ourselves that is a whole other thing entirely. We’re fucked up, Dean. I mean, like, clinically fucked up. If you’re curious, the “diagnosis” that fits us is Borderline Personality Disorder. It helps if you’ve got a messed up life to start with, but it can develop in just about anyone. I can cross off most of the checklist of traits that lead to a diagnosis. I’ve checked- you can go ahead call yourself a classic presentation. And holy shit does it hurt. I try to fight the feelings. And I’m getting better, I really am. Sometimes, anyway. I do things for people now because I want to, not because I’m afraid they’ll abandon me if I don’t. But it’s hard.
I guess what I’m trying to say is… watching you and Sam struggle against evil, fighting with all your will, and doing real good in the world, sacrificing so much… well, I suppose if someone who does all that can still hate himself as much as you do… Dean, you’re so wrong about yourself, which means that maybe I’m just as wrong about myself too.
We might be fucked up. Crazy. Completely unhinged at times. But we still matter. We’re still worthwhile. I’m gonna chose to believe that, no matter what my fucked up mind tells me otherwise. I hope you’re able to do the same.
A friend (and pie-maker)