Dear Abby

Dear Abby,

I see him in my dreams. His face appears, brown dreaded hair and soft eyes staring down at me; when I’m in the grocery store, the park and now when I shut my eyes. Every man over 6 feet, every worn leather jacket, every 4runner I see causes my heart to seize. It takes me back to the pure moments - of inexplicable laughter, hours spent cooking, minds read with a single glance. But these hallucinations also take me back to that night - of darkness, verbal ammo fired, the line disconnected. I know what I have to do, but my hands tremble when I pick up the phone, to right my wrongs. I’m confused and afraid and alone. Tell me, what would you do?

-- NOWHERE TO TURN 

Dear NOWHERE TO TURN, 

I can sense you are in distress. Is the pain in the love or the loss? I reckon your words are trapped in your throat but escape through your hands. Try writing a letter to him, and pretend it’s to me. Express your apologies. Healing is the process of accepting all, then choosing best. You have the opportunity to look at all you have thought, said, and done here. Let’s start there, we’ll speak next week. 

-- Sincerely, Abby

Dear Abby,

The problem is he will never get a chance to read my words or hear my voice, ever again. Love permanently lost. Forever floating up above now is a man who knew how to dance, put his loved ones (and cats) before him, and lived according to the stars. Who was my future and my past. The one I woke up in the morning and who put me to bed at night. Forever was secured, the crystal on my finger, promises vowed. I’m so sorry....

A fun night gone horribly wrong. Like everyone else we bickered, but that night we fought. And so we poured our hearts into glasses instead of each other. Heavy on the red. Alcohol transmuted to anger. He was with me one second and gone the next. It’s not fair that I continue to blink and his eyes are permanently shut. 

I never went to church, but should I? Does God punish us for sins, even if they’re accidents? Really, really bad ones? In three days, can you make him rise from the dead? 

The guilt is eating me alive. I’ve picked my flesh raw, pink sores on my chest, my eyelashes plucked, clumps of hair gone. His family believes the car spun on black ice. It was still an accident, but one that could have been avoided...if only I hadn’t called him. If only I didn’t drive him away. I told him to get in the car. I told him to drive as far away from me as possible. Only I know the truth, and it is past the point of simmering in me. The pressure is rising, and it’s going to come out. 

-- NOWHERE TO TURN

Dear NOWHERE TO TURN,

When the sun goes down, does it cease to exist? Of course not, its light simply shines on the other side of the world. So you see, truth is subjective. You said the accident could have been avoided if you hadn’t called him, but that’s not how it works. Accidents happen because they do. Certain elements of the life process have come together in a particular way at a particular time, with particular results -- results which you cast judgment on, for your own particular reasons. Every single moment before he got into the car -  every breath taken, thought thunk, and word spoken inevitably led to this outcome. Disastrous in form and consequence, but that’s not what you’re here to change. What has been done cannot be undone, and the only way forward is with acceptance instead of secrecy. Even if it were your hands on the wheel, you cannot turn back the clock. 

Listen to me, you may believe you know the truth. You’re seeing the past like a movie with your truth, not the Truth. In choosing to write to me, you are coming forward to yourself, to me, to the other readers who can help, to the universal force in which created all of this. 

With repentance, there is no punishment. The only punishment - hell, eternal damnation, a tortured soul - is by continuing to exist in the low vibrational energy that is swirling in vortexes around you. Worry is just about the worst form of mental activity there is - next to hate, which is deeply self destructive. Wasted mental energy, cloaking everything in its shadow. 

If you let it, guilt will beckon you to its side, tempt you with the strong sensation of  frustration, regret, self-loathing. You can choose constantly the lesser thought, the smaller idea, the tiniest concept of yourself and your power. It’s the path of least resistance, a learned response spoon fed to us since the day we were born. Feeling guilty is our way of pointing blame, closing the case, and moving on. But there is another path. It appears this incident woke you up. Some people don’t like to be awakened. Most do not. Most would rather sleep. 

Try to tell more of The Truth here. Wake it up. 

-- Sincerely, Abby 

Dear Abby, 

The evening started as an attempt to repair the heightened tension that had been building throughout the week, an obligatory date night to take us back to the beginning. It started out innocently, with lamb in the crockpot and full glasses of wine being sipped on in between renditions of Joni Mitchell. Sweetness on the tongue, fuzziness in the heart. I thought the feelings were mutual, a quiet agreement that our recent frustrations were set aside for the evening. 

But the wine paired with my naivete let it slip that our home is a battlefield, that I’m clumsy, and occasionally step on a landmine. The first misstep was when I started to ruin the potatoes, because I cut them in wedges instead of slices and they were getting mushy on the pan much to his demise. He was speaking in a low voice, but I could sense the tense breathing, the energetic daggers pointing towards me, ready to take aim. The hair on my arms stood up as I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. We’ve been here before so I put my armor on and used the only weapon I had - my words. The defensiveness and personal attacks were rolling out of my mouth before I could zip them up. The explosion. We couldn’t stop firing at one another. My heart was bleeding out, I was wounded. I couldn’t bear it - the constant criticism, the nagging, the disappointment. I told him to leave. To drive where, I don’t know. The first frost of November...how could I know? I was furiously scrubbing the crusted, ashen potato pan that I ruined. Only about 10 minutes had gone by. He answered on the first ring. I’m sorry, I cried. Over and over again. Then I heard it, the gasp. The crash. The phones beep. 

Me, it was all me. My carelessness, my defensiveness, my sensitivity. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. So I guess that's it, the secrest out. Should I turn myself in, become a nun, or start a new life in a foreign country? 

--- NOWHERE TO TURN