I stare at the envelope for so long it blurs in front of me. Then I pick it up. Breaking the seal, I pull out a folded piece of paper.
And the breath is knocked out of me.
My Blue,
I’m sorry for what brought me to write this letter, but I’m not sorry I’m writing it.
I want to talk to you—and I mean really talk. In an honest way. The kind that reveals the parts of me very few have ever seen. The kind I can never bring myself to do in person, when we’re face-to-face.
Every time I’m with you, I think, this is it. Today’s going to be the day I tell her my secret. But then I look at you, at the stars in your eyes, and I can’t do it. I’m so sorry. I’m not brave enough. It’s not even you I’m worried about. I know you can handle it. You can handle anything. But no matter how much my heart keeps begging me to face my demons (that’s what my high school therapist called them once, “demons”), my brain is determined to exhaust me.
I can’t do it anymore.
I can’t keep running—from myself. From everything. Everyone. I ran from a family who loved me, who tried to get me help in a way I never wanted. I ran from the only boy who wanted to love all of me, and although I don’t regret letting him go, I do regret the secrets. He didn’t know. I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise, but you need to hear the truth from me. Your father didn’t know about you until I called him six months ago. Remember when I told you he’s a good soul? I hope you see now just how much I meant it.
Listen to me, Blue. You are not a runner. You’re stronger than me. So strong, in fact, that I’ve been living on borrowed time because of you. Your strength, your heart. You’re the food for my forever-starving soul. Much like a boy I used to know, you’ve helped me stand when I couldn’t otherwise. And therein lies the problem. I’m running in quicksand without legs, in a life too big or too small for me, and without you as my crutch, I sink. For a long time now, even with you holding me up, the quicksand still reaches my lungs.
So, yes, I run from you too.
I never wanted you to see me, Blue. Not like this. So, sometimes, when I feel it bubbling to the surface in a blistering wave, I disappear just long enough to hide from you.
I know I’m not making sense. I’ve shielded you all your life from any slightest bump that might shake your happy place. I couldn’t bear the thought of you experiencing even a fraction of what I do, and I was determined you’d never utter the words “sad” or “hurt,” or, worst of all, compare your differences to others. But you’re not me, and it’s taken too long for me to see that. I’ve raised you in a lifestyle I thought I needed, not you.
But I see clearly now. For the first time in a long while, I’m seeing clearly.
I hope you’ll eventually forgive me, even though it might be impossible. I hope you’ll let your father in, and that you’ll allow yourself to feel in ways I never could. I hope one day you’ll wake up to rays of sunshine warming your skin, and you’ll know it’s me.
If there’s one thing I ask of you, beautiful, it’s to do something I never could: find your own two feet. Once you’ve done that, test them—allow yourself to stumble and fall down. Be braver than me and get angry enough to stomp them, cry so hard your bones tremble, love so deeply your toes curl, and explore yourself until the ground threatens to give out beneath you. The universe is alive inside us; we’re too big to live small.
But most of all, stay you, my Blue. You are enough.
Forever loving you,
Mom
A sob escapes me. Soft at first, like the early signs of an earthquake. But all it takes is one crack, and her words are back to taunt me.
Because I’m not like them.
I don’t need a reason to cry, my tears don’t wait for permission.
They sit behind burning eyes, always lit,
ready to tumble from my lashes
like the flood after a rainstorm.
The earth tilts below me, and the cracks climb, stretching through my limbs. One tear becomes a hundred, and, soon, they’re strangling me.
All my life, I’ve been able to find beauty in things. It’s something my mom taught me years ago: If you can’t change your surroundings, change the way you look at them. It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve managed even when it was hard.
I can’t do it now.
There is no beauty in this.
An arm curls around my shoulders, and Benji pulls me into him. My entire body wracks with sobs as I shamelessly cry against his chest.
I always thought someone suicidal would wear a giant warning sign, at least big enough for their loved ones to see. But that’s not the truth at all. It’s a million little things, and if you aren’t looking closely enough, you won’t ever see them.
