The letter.

My hands shake as I hold onto the ballpoint pen trying to collect my thoughts and actually do what I set out to do. It’s been weeks since I started ‘writing’ this letter to her. There’s this sick feeling in my gut that only shows itself when I think about that night. The feel of the metal against my skin and her telling me to just do it. Pull the trigger and end it. A single tear snakes down my face and I wipe it away as I shove the memory of that night away and take a deep breath and start writing,

Dear Krissy,

………

My hand hovers over the crisp sheet of paper, still unsure of what to say. Sheila my therapist told me, writing this letter is a good way to move on. Heal the rift and finally embrace life. What would Krissy say if she knew I would go onto start therapy. She’d probably laugh at my face and say ‘You’re broken. Do you really think babbling on to a shrink is going to take the guilt away?’ The pen is pressing into the page as I drown out the voices and write,

………. I know we both made mistakes. I didn’t think I would ever be able to forgive myself. After that night, I started therapy. A shocker, I know. You always thought I was self-centered and liked to play the victim…

I didn’t think writing this letter would be this hard. I think back to my first session with Sheila. She asked me what drove me to start therapy. At the start I remember opening and closing my mouth like a gold fish, trying to articulate myself properly. I’ve never been the secretive type. Talking about things has always been my way of dealing with things so that’s exactly what I do. “I want to stop feeling like I ca…can’t breathe every time I think of the things I’ve done”. I had already broken down in tears a minute into the session. Feeling pathetic as could be, I reached out and took the tissue that Sheila held out for me. Wiping my snotty, tear stained face I carried on telling Sheila why I was there.

“My best friend Ari died last year. She had cancer and I didn’t even know. I always considered myself a good person. You know? Like as long as I did the right think in the end of the day when it really mattered, it didn’t matter how much I messed up. Ari and I were best friends since first grade. My mum always said we were like peas in a pod. Whether it was drama practice, watching movies together or doing absolutely nothing together, we were always together. Senior year was different though. Ari started dating this douche bag dealer from school called Dave. She would stay out all night partying and doing all sorts of drugs. I was always meant to be somebody. I wanted to go places and that kind of influence could jepordize that, so I started distancing myself from her. At first Ari didn’t notice but as time went by she started picking fights with me. The summer before college was when it got bad. I said I never wanted to see her again and some other terrible things I wish I could take back. She kept making promises to break up with Dave but she never did and I was done holding onto false hope so I let go despite her begging me not to. It was 3 years later and I had graduated and I decided it was time to reach out to her. I had matured and achieved what I wanted and I realized it didn’t feel like I imagined it, without my best friend by my side. Little did I know it was one month too late”.

I snap out of the trip down memory lane and get back to writing,

……. Anyway, I should have reached out to Ari sooner. I pushed her away without a second thought. If only she had told me she had cancer. I would have dropped out of college if I had to just to be there for her. When I called the landline and her mom answered and told me she was gone, my world shattered. The only thing I had to hold onto was you. You were my salvation but also my destruction….

I need a breather. I take a sip of red-bull and close my eyes for a second. I’ve come a long way from that night. “I can do this,” I mutter to myself. “just one letter. That’s it”. Sheila’s words run through my head as I hype myself up to finish the letter. People always think therapy solves all your problems. I was delusional enough to think it too. That first session with Sheila was a wake up call. I felt like I was drowning. For months I would question why I was even bothering with therapy. Until one day Sheila helped me pull myself out of the water. It was around 3 months in when I plucked up the courage to talk about that night.

It’s funny how memory works. You could have no recollection of events that took place last week but remember every single minute detail of something that happened years ago.

It was 3am. Mum and dad were asleep as I tiptoed my way past their room to make my way to dad’s study. The silence was deafening. It had been a year since Ari died and I was at rock bottom. I couldn’t take the guilt anymore. Dad’s gun was where it always was, in his desk drawer. Sweat glistened on my neck, from the nerves or the warmth I don’t know. I remember all of it. Holding the gun to my temple, “just do it!” her voice eagerly urging me on, the numbness that enveloped me and most of all the hatred that I felt towards myself.

My alarm beeps me back into reality. “shit I’m late!”. I pack up my things and head out. I was supposed to meet Sheila at 4.30pm and give her my letter. Its 4.40 and I’ve only written a couple of sentences. I end up outside her place ten minutes later. “Thought you wouldn’t show”, Sheila says with a warm smile on her face as she opens the door, “come on in”.

“so can I see the letter today?” she asks me as we take our seats. “Sheila I just need one more week. I promise I’ll have it done by then”, I say giving her my most charming smile hoping she’ll move on.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. Tough luck. She’s definitely not moving on. “look, I know it has been a year of putting up with my weird assignments, and you claim it has helped and that you’re okay now but you’ve been through a lot. Dealing with the guilt of losing Ari isn’t going to disappear just cause you write a letter, but it is going to help you heal a little bit more. Small steps remember? When Ari died you became a shell of yourself. You held onto the angriest most broken part of yourself and you let that define you. In order to move on you need to forgive yourself. Krissy, you need to heal the rift with yourself so you can live the life Ari and yourself would be proud of. Writing this letter to yourself will take you closer to that.

I go home after my session, replaying Sheila’s words in my head. She’s right. It has been five years since the day I told Ari I don’t want to talk to her again and it’s been five years since the guilt started gnawing at me. I would say I’ve grown a lot from that night I tried to get rid of that feeling by taking my life. But there’s always been that part of me that still hates myself. The Krissy that encouraged me to hold that gun to my head. The Krissy that’s constantly reminding me of the mistakes I’ve made. The Krissy that’s been weighing me down to drown me. That Krissy is still there and if I don’t face her, no amount of therapy is going to help. I think of Ari and the all the good times we had. All the times we stayed up at night talking about who we wanted to be when we were older. I’m older now and I’m nowhere near where I wanted to be. I’m ready to start living again. Not for Ari but for myself. I take a deep breath and pick up my pen and start writing…..